There are certain stories so full of beauty that they wring all the unexercised joy out of my heart into the wind such that all I can do is dance and quite forget that I don’t know how to. So haunting that they bring to life a primordial exultation embedded in the very marrows of being. So throbbing with the unadorned energy of existence, bursting at the seams with such a sense of wonder, that they make me regret that I am neither the nightingale nor the rose.
I am deeply humbled on being invited into a few of these tales as if I was one of their own – for being permitted to hide in the grandfather clock, share crumpets, hew logs and be tamed by the boy from B-612 with the laugh like tinkling bells. And I am grateful for being allowed to sneak a few hours of these stories’ lives into mine.
And hence, for today, I was Betty Foy:
for today, I was a believer.
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