I'm going to delve into Sunday Scribblings. This week's prompt is Fortune Cookie....
You may be hungry soon. Buy some takeout now.
This is unexpected. I'm a voracious consumer of Chinese food, a fortune cookie veteran. I know the drill: I get the inane fortune, the one written in fractured English, the Jack Handy version: Great things awaits you. My partner gets the philosophical one: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. We read them aloud, adding the obligatory in bed, amused. Toss them aside, untouched by the words.
But what to make of this? A tongue-in-cheek advertisement, slipped in by some entrepreneurial soul? A message from the cosmos? A harbinger of famine ahead? In bed doesn't work with this fortune. It is strangely unsettling. I make a joke, cover my unease with laughter - but surreptitiously, I slip the paper into my pocket.
Later on, I take it out. The paper is slightly crumpled and I smooth it with my thumb, the heat from my body fleeing it into the chill air. Plan ahead! Be ready! The voice of this unseen sage contrasts with another in my mind: Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. (Matthew 6:19-20)
Treasures in heaven. So far, so distant, so untouchable. I do plan ahead; my pantry is full. Tinned beans, batteries, extra toilet paper. You never know when the wolf will be at the door. So how can I not store up treasures on earth? How can I not gather memories and joys, clutching them desperately close, building them up in the larder of my heart?