The chestnut tree, which makes fireworks sparkler flower clusters in May, is raining noncomestible chestnuts; these can’t even be fed to livestock. They’re so round and hard and many that it’s difficult to walk under the tree. The hippies on instagram promise you can make soap with them and we concoct a dream for hand-made liquid soap for the guest bathrooms.

I commit to collecting. They are easy to find, and sprayed across half the garden. I start by clearing the paths. Some have already popped out of their shells, shiny chocolate surface, silky in the hand, concave on one side, convex on the other, rather a delight to touch and hold. A tiny landscape of wholistic curves, nature’s genius on my palm.

The kitties like me down low among them, they circle around and try to help. They also realize that I am hurting my fingers on the sharp thorns of the shells as I pry open the ones that haven’t popped out.

Silly Mama, there are so many already out and easy to collect. I promise I’ll stop it, but it’s addictive. I can’t quite control myself. Brotchen comes and licks the tip of the finger most injured. Inky who always knows when I’m doing something painful comes to check on me, jumping across my hand. Stop that. She leaves in frustration. I call after her “I’ll stop.”

I discipline myself to pick up a whole basket of the easy ones already out of their spiky husks. The cats reassured move on to other business. My mind is more relaxed without the pain – and without the careful focus of placing my fingertips between the thorns.

Thus freed, I wonder at the fact that I’m collecting something useless. Well, so is writing useless. Today’s bounty well reminds that tThere can be a lot of pleasure – and compulsion– in things that aren’t productive or valuable.

Collecting up the words, a little rush as they gather, each insight a silky treasure, the wordsmithing heavy and satisfying in the hand, the basketful accomplishment of a completed argument.

I slip back to my habit, eyes drawn to a flash of shiny brown behind the green husk and spines. Again, I’m navigating thorns with delicate fingertips to pry them open. Which also makes sense. There’s treasure-meaning in engaging pain too, in transforming that experience with attention, taking off its shell, making it your own, carrying it in your basket.