I place the final blossom down and step back. It is whole. Complete. Symmetrical. I smile, celebrating the art I’ve made. I’ve spent the last hour gathering materials from nature and arranging them on the earth.

I walk away, knowing that a gust of wind will blow leaves away in a few minutes. Or a squirrel will scamper across and disrupt the symmetry of maple leaves. Pedals will scatter. With each passing day, the altar changes form. It comes apart. Flowers shrivel. Blossoms brown.

And yet, isn’t this the practice? With certain friendships? Careers? Identities?

Celebrating what is here, even if just for a moment.

Not grasping and holding on so tightly.

Honoring impermanence.

Letting go.