Soil

A strange sense of peace descends on her. She struggles to get comfortable with it, and then realises that struggle is what she has eliminated from life.

She’d forgiven everyone and emptied her home.

Of all that gave it meaning, seemingly happy moments destroyed by sarcasm, creative efforts downgraded by derision and a denial of the good in her were the easiest to discard.

What did she need to carry with her?

A sense of being whole, unbroken by expectations and criticism would suffice. It is the only soil needed for everything else to grow.

Peace, art, literature and Nirvana…

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RXC #284