If the nihil fits . . .

It was Parmenides whispering in my ear as I looked over at the schefflera Arthur had whacked off back in early December.

Sure enough, the little green umbrellas were proving the species' resilience, and I was wrong to write the stump off.

Ex nihilo nihil fit, the old Eleatic said, "Nothing comes from nothing," and the stump was not nothing.

And as I wandered down the presocratic maze, my toes started tapping: It was the cosmogeny of William Everett Preston, bopping that same message with the joy of fresh green leaves.