the dandelions, the shore, the rocks, the shells, the low tide, the night. none of these solve the world. none of them redeem history. none of them end extraction. yet they call forth a response, and the response is not infinite. it is finite. you gather the buds, you make the capers, you grind the pigment, you walk, you pay attention, you receive, you give something back. perhaps that is why the sorrow becomes bearable there – because it is no longer asking you to hold the entire world. the voice in the sorrow may not be saying "save everything". it may be saying something quieter, more demanding: "stay".

bleu myosotis bleu

Folio from a Dispersed Nuzhatnama, Early 15th Century