My tightly wound pinecones–those closed cones open to no one–have opened beautifully. Once, on the cold and wet forest floor, these little pine cones kept everything inside a secret. Any seed they might offer the world, they held tight to the heart.
But once inside my home, after I washed and scented them with cinnamon and clove and set them near the warm heater, they open up. The dry conditions force a certain vulnerability, it seems, a readiness to surrender.
I consider those times when you feel a dryness in the soul, a heat you can’t explain. I remember how such conditions invite an opening, a vulnerability, and offering.