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     In our village, the custom was to float all problems down the river. An elder would etch your worries on sal bark and cast them into the water at dawn. Then fisherwomen by the ocean would look for aloft bark and scoop it in their nets. If your problem made it downstream by evening, it was worth further effort or arbitration. If it caught on a branch or rock and vanished, or swept out to sea through the fisherwomens’ grasp, it was time to move on.
     Over time, we caught fewer and fewer problems. The rains coming over the pass grew stronger and the river faster with them. A road connected our village to a market and soon we had scarcely any fisherwomen left. Even our problems grew weaker—the sal were cut down for timber, leaving only younger trees with bark that crumbled in our elders’ hands. Day by day, it became harder to hang onto our worries. And we learned to let them go.