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28 December 2016


A rare day of nothing on the calendar, nowhere to be meant a day fully at home, and much neglected tasks suffer no more. Blinds pulled open, dust flying, papers disposed, vacuum fired up. Linens clean, sheets changed, laundry through the cycles.

And yet, partly cloudy skies are an apt description of my own condition this day, forcing myself through chores in the foggy overcast.

This morning I nodded when I read,
It seems natural enough to protect our hearts from grief—to grimly endure or anesthetize with busyness or distraction or exhaustion. But to protect our hearts from grief is to protect our hearts from love. And that’s no way to live.
I had forgotten. I had forgotten that the opposite of joy is not sadness, but fear. I had forgotten (again) that joy and sorrow are twin eggs of the same nest. I had forgotten that love is always worth the pain—always.
I had forgotten that battered hearts are the most beautiful in the end.

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