The Threshing Floor: On What We Do With What the Mind Brings Us
I. Dusk, and the Old Woman Who Throws Grain Into Air In the village where I was a boy, there was a woman named Mbah Sri who threshed her rice at the hour when the sky turns the color of a bruise healing. She did not use a machine. She filled a winnowing tray, lifted it above her head, and let the evening wind decide what stayed and what left. I asked her once why she did not simply pick out the…












