Trees spend all day looking up at God.
Carving out an identity for yourself is important so I’m trying to do that as well.
Why, observe the thing; turn it over; hold it up to the window; count the beads, long, oval, like some seaweed bulbs, each an amulet. See the tint; it’s very old; like clots of sunshine, aren’t they? Now bring it near; see the carving, here corrugated, there faceted, now sculptured into hideous, tiny, heathen gods....
She wept a river of tears holy water, sent to soften the sharp edges of sorrow a gentle hollowing out, carving new chambers in her hearta hallowed vessel for holding sacred, the tears of others…