Five deer graze the meadow in the dim predawn. Dog-pal Henry, noticing me noticing, erupts into rage. Open the door instanter, his manly bark insists – and off he races, rigid with affront. The deer look up from their quiet collation (they recall friars somehow), then scatter, alarmed, their white tails bobbing. That this hurtling fur-ball’s a fifth their size doesn’t occur to them; speed, not size, makes a bullet deadly. I watch from the window, amazed little Henry could run so fast. Objective achieved, he proudly prances the field’s perimeter, like a gunslinger puffing the smoke from his pistol. Weren’t grazing rights guaranteed in perpetuity by the field’s human proprietors, the deer might have wondered? Indeed! Jane and I prize our deer, as long as they avoid the garden. Henry’s of a different mind. This is his field, his dominion, which he patrols with patriotic zeal. Deer are forbidden, except with proper papers, which will not be issued. Let those intruders nosh elsewhere!

The vignette sets me wondering what it means to own. Do Jane and I own this patch of earth? By law, yes: we pay taxes, accept responsibility, our names are fixed to mailbox and gate. After twenty years here – twenty! – we feel these premises ours. But what establishes our right? Why aren’t these trees and grass and stones as much the deer’s – or Henry’s – or their aboriginal occupants’?

Etymology helps us from this labyrinth of speculation, as it often does. A word, like any life, begins with a microscopic seed, which germinates, taking heft from its environs and insensibly swelling. Most dictionaries report meanings as if they were facts, not approximations in incessant flux. “Own”, in old German, is cognate with our verb owe. We own because we owe – allegiance, diligence, respect. Law translates allegiance into money: each dollar is dried sweat. Jane and I own these acres because we purchased them – from others, who purchased them from others – but more, because we invested ourselves here – our minds and emotions – as do Henry and the deer and our predecessors.

Ownership is imaginary. Mind, not a document, makes a thing ours. No one will dispute Henry’s possession of this field because he does not doubt it. Here is home – trespassers will be prosecuted! Owning it, he owes it his all, devoting his little entirety to its protection.

Passion possesses. The more deeply we feel, the more we cling. Superfluity is among the curses of the rich: having more, they possess less. Love takes time – patience – repetition. A paradox of our opulent age is our discontent. A cynic, said Oscar Wilde, “knows the price of everything and value of nothing.” We imagine if we had more we’d feel better, but it is loving, not having, that delights – and love takes time.

I learned this late. In this regard, I’m a true blue American. I was too busy getting to feel, too busy craving to thank. I criticized the contented as deficient in zeal. The only way to win my race, it turned out, was to quit running it.

Luckily, I lived long enough to discover my error. I own where I am because I no longer want it to be elsewhere. Henry teaches me – to invest myself in now – for it is the only time we have. In return for the fathomless gift of being, I owe it all my little might – to know it better – and bless my possession – and keep it sure. I rush angrily at invaders of my peace. Here and now are more than enough – so scram with your dreams that aren’t mine.