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  • Shrines attract me, but I have put off naming my own out of . . . what? Embarrassment? Uncertainty? Lack of faith?

    Last summer, I visited an art show of shrines where a friend was one of five artists exhibiting work. The shrines were spectacularly different from one another, some incorporating original work, some incorporating found objects, some orderly, some chaotic, some with text, some without text, some with all of these qualities.

    My old home waits for me under turkey oaks and cabbage palms. A table inside holds artworks and gifts from friends. The pattern, orderly and geometric, honors those friends and their power. Photographs of ancestors who have passed hang from a wide ribbon over my desk.

    The house I live in most of the time, that is home and not-home, has bookshelf space for the past.

    Table, ribbon, shelf. Shrine.
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