Tackle Box

For the fishing fanatic, there is nothing so pleasing as a well organized, and pleasantly parsed, tackle box. Various weights of varying sorts are sorted into neat groupings of similar sizes. Treble hooks, tangled and catching, mass together like a barbed mesh in their own separate bin.

Big bobbers bounce off one another and the specialty tools sleep silently in their own precise pouches.

The well-ordered tackle box is an exercise in harmony. It is simple serenity. It is the last defense against the blood-letting chaos of free-floating hooks and blades.

The genius lie in the compartments, and the fisherman's strict adherence to them. If he keeps the things in the places they belong, then he can focus on bobs when he wants bobs, and he doesn't have to fret over the danger of a stray hooked-lure crossing paths with his thumb.

So too, run the wheels of the mind.

There is a compartment for work, and a compartment for home.
There is a compartment for hunger, and another for sleep.
There is a compartment, padded though it may be, for ailing elders and mournful mothers.
There is a compartment for monkeys and a compartment for mockingbirds.
There can even be a compartment for meaningful meetings that occur in the evenings.

Occasionally, when I'm lucky, the compartments stay sorted and the dividers remain clear; the bits are kept safe from the pieces. It's when the assortment of stuff is sorted by lot, then, then my mind knows no fear.