Anaïs Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom”
Winter is still clinging tightly to the pasture. The icy wind threatens, and despite the sun there are still patches of snow. Yet, almost imperceptibly, spring is being born. There is mud where the snow has been. The grass is subtly greener, spring onions rise in dainty clumps, and tiny weeds don miniscule purple flowers ornaments. The horses are shedding. Even a last-chance snow storm can’t stop the tide of life and awakening that has begun.
I’m a cantankerous old woman; I’m not mean-spirited, just crotchety. I resist things. I like routine. I’ve had enough trauma and upheaval in my life that there’s a soothing quality to sameness. Well, that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
There’s something I’ve been thinking about for years, something I need to do. …
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