Beate Sigriddaughter

The Hermit

Finding justifications is easy. She has already lived most of her life like an excuse. She wants to avoid the center of the cyclone of hatred. In her troubled shelter, she shivers just a little from neglect, but she has blankets and otherwise no cause for complaint. Always an unrequited mind, she knows that fear is older than love, though love is surely the future. In the morning she wakes up to the words Take violence by the hand and tame her. Sounds like a good assignment, though she doesn’t know how to begin. So many wild roses around her shelter, and not one of them has the answer. She feels forlorn in the Rumpelstiltskin corner of her beautiful world. So much straw. So much gold. She knows sadness will not be over until the end of war. Who will stop it, though? The other guy? It is hard to be human under the circumstances. She is grateful for a day without poison. Partly she moves deep into solitude because she is always so sad and doesn’t want to burden everyone with her sadness. She longs for exuberance without pretense, like a minuet of sincerity.