Sorrow is a beautiful thing when it arrives.  But it hurts, like an arrow.

It asks to be seen, embraced by the aching heart and washed by the fall of courageous tears. Sorrow will sit on the window sill until you are ready, and with  help from the small sparrow, will guide you back into your own beloved heart.



The story

There’s no need to be defined by your story, because if closely looked at, it can be someone else’s story.

Someone else’s thoughts, beliefs, opinions of you. Or themselves but in your head. Years old.

So hand them back. Now it’s your story.