This seaweed has been removed from its life-sustaining element and will shortly die. These barnacles cling precariously to a dead piece of driftwood, temporarily washed ashore. Whether they will be returned to the sea is a crapshoot, dependent on the forces of wind and wave and moon. The picture is deceiving, and so are the false impressions of security and wellness I project to others and myself. To what illusions do I cling, in the hopes that they will bring me a richer, fuller life? What are the risks of letting go? And what are the forces outside myself with which I would do well to cooperate?