“His meat did that, and your meat made the picture in the potato barn,” she said. “Sounds right,” I said. “My soul didn’t know what kind of picture to paint, but my meat sure did.” She cleared her throat. “Well, then,” she said, “isn’t it time for your soul, which has been ashamed of your meat for so long, to thank your meat for finally doing something wonderful?” I thought that over. “That sounds right, too,” I said. “You have to actually do it,” she said. “How?” I said. “Hold your hand in front of your eye,” she said, “and look at those strange and clever animals with love and gratitude, and
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