it is not easy to keep the heart open. not when there is so much darkness around. and so much grief. walking in the woods, all the leaves fallen now, so i see: the tree that grew all bent, right from the start, from the roots up, so that another tree could grow straight. the mother birch, her severed arm a sore stump, from which dangles her dead branch daughter. the skull hiding in the heart of the fruit. so much heartache everywhere. and the task to not harden, to not turn away from it, not even (particularly not) into the grin-and-bear it mode, the 'look on the bright side', the 'here too there is beauty', the 'this too shall pass'. instead to allow it to come in, in all its wretchedness, and to cry and cry and cry some more, washing the paper cuts, and the deeper wounds, washing them clean so they can stay open a little longer.
i want to read the Snow Queen. there is something in there that i need. who knows a nice version?
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