Even
on the most radiant days, there is a sorrow at the heart of life. When
we deny it, the day becomes a desperate quest for happiness, and the
night is long. But when we absorb the trough into our rhythm, like the
shadow of a breath, that benign negation infuses all things with
spaciousness, tinges creation with golden poignancy, like Autumn itself.
What is heavy is not sadness, but the denial of sadness. A cricket in
the alder taught me this.
Photo by l1993.deviantArt
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