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dimanche 30 mars 2014

Letters form the Northern Lands


My Love

The harshness of nature is more apparent now, after the initial wonder has somewhat subsided. When the sun hides behind the clouds, the temperature drops drastically, and even with our warm clothes, the cold creeps into our limbs. The rain dampens our spirits. Our bodies long for the warmth of the fireplace. And for yours, my Love. But when we see the herds of reindeer walk past, when the never-setting sun rains its sweet rays on us, when a startled snow-hen runs from its hiding place clucking madly, we know we shall have no regrets.
That which is easy has no merits. Only when we feel pain can we feel pleasure. Only through hardships can we shed the cold shell of sophistry and find ourselves. Once everything has been taken from us, and even the simplest things are no longer granted, once we realize our own weakness, our own helplessness, and accept it, we can start to feel the warmth that dwells in all of us.
Only the weak seek strength. Only the strong dare to be weak. Those who close themselves to the world, fearing to be hurt, shall spend their life in pain. But those who open their hearts, those who invite in everything, the pain and the pleasure, the joy and the sadness, without judgement, those can never be hurt. Without shadows, there can be no light.
Out here, in the high mountains and the low valleys, nothing is bad. Pain is but a prelude to relief. The mundane squabbles of civilized society loose their meaning. Only life remains.


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