The Heron and the Snake

the first stirrings of spring are awakening. the birds have been welcoming it, and finally the warmth is discernible in the otherwise cutting chill of the sea breeze in the southern Nordics.

deaths pristine cold grip just slipped, slightly.

I don't have a practice, but if I did, I would have gone into the low coastal pine wood just over there to bear witness to the changes happening today. so I did.

maybe my usual spot could do with a little bench. why not bring along some of those planks someone had discarded. it needs a few more nails, but another time.

the Oolong green tea brewed on the fancy feast stove brought back memories of being outside, just like this. a tin with holes, both rubbish and sacred. the white sage incense only reached me sporadically as I sat.

warm hands on chest, sun above. the herons head starts to raise. just like about 0:54 in when Benedettas voice ascends the worldly. and the herons neck basked in it, stretching towards the sky, baring itself for the sun.

the bliss gave way, as it must.

head feeling heavy, focus needed below, down here. earth. the snake is severed. head from tail. fear, uncertainty and doubt.

how can highs and lows be back to back? it is almost cruel how they switch from one another.