What a Man Carries is his Lot

Leaving the W.I.S.E. islands is going to become quite a transition for me, as I have spent the last eight months there. I’m gradually shedding more possessions like skins, and retaining only the itemaries than remain with deep story, my medicines in allies of animal talismans, wisdom in magic literature and a few tools. It is a purifying process, not so much that these other accumulative things I have acquired are a burden, but rather they still inhibit my wandering. In my mind, I am hardly more than an old man with a cloak, a walking stick, and a wolf pelt hanging on my shoulders, gathering my medicines from the land, and I feel more unattached feelings could be a powerful medicine. I sleep in the trees with my hammock, but even Muir slept on the bare ground, This quote pretty much eludes to how I feel, from sir Thoreau.

I look upon England today as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping, which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk, bandbox, and bundle. Throw away the first three at least. It would surpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk, and I should certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run. When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained his all — looking like an enormous wen which had grown out of the nape of his neck — I have pitied him, not because that was his all, but because he had all that to carry. If I have got to drag my trap, I will take care that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part. But perchance it would be wisest never to put one’s paw into it.

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