I went outside to mow my lawn this morning and promptly got my lawnmower stuck in a thick patch of brush. Do not ask me why I was mowing the thick patch of brush. That is not important to my story. What is important is that I felt stuck, in fiftyleven other ways, too. I felt physically bound to things. Of course I could have walked away from that lawnmower, but I did not. I stayed there, stuck, for hours. The skies clouded over, and I thought, oh, well, now my luck has taken a turn for the worse. And I felt a drop or two of rain, and that was all. Slowly, my thinking became, hey, I dodged a bullet there, because as bad as it is to be stuck, it’d be worse to be stuck and wet. Then church let out– I live in the house next door to the church’s long driveway– and people from the church craned their necks to see me stuck in the brush. But none stopped, and none spoke to me. And soon I began thinking, perhaps I am not stuck. Perhaps it’s just the lawnmower. And I left the thick patch of brush. But the lawnmower is still there.