Ten years ago, I was at a three week long buddhist retreat with my mom in the south of France. While exploring the area, i found an empty man-made pond, intended as a micro reservoir I found out later, a little ways over from the tents surrounded by a smattering of thistle bushes which lined the path. Being a bored 11-year-old in a country I didn't speak the language of, I and a adults filled the reservoir with a hose to go swimming in. After a week of fun, we were informed of our pool's intended usage and were asked to stop swimming in it at the end of the day, much to our disappointment.

On my way to our temporary diversion from the path to enlightenment, I had wandered a bit too close to the thistles and was stung on my legs arms and fingers. As on each previous stinging, my skin reacted heavily and little bubbles appeared. This time however, one lone bubble refused to heal. And to this day there is a little bubble on the end of my left 21-year-old pointer finger as a reminder of the lameness of southern french thistle bushes and the awesomeness of making due what you have and enjoying things while we can before we are reminded of the impermanence of all things.