And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn- you sometimes lose track of the beginning.

East of the sun and west of the moon.' As unfathomable as the words were, I realized I must figure them out, reason it through. For I would go to this impossible land that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. From the moment the sleigh had vanished from sight and I could no longer hear the silver bells I knew that I would go after the stranger that had been the white bear to make right the terrible wrong I had done him.... All that mattered was to make things right. And I would do whatever it took, journey to wherever I must, to reach that goal.

A pine needle fell in the forest. The hawk saw it. The deer heard it. The white bear smelled it

The joy I feel is immense; it burns inside me as though I have swallowed a piece of the sun.

And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn- you sometimes lose track of the beginning.

It is odd, the twists that life will sometimes take. The ewe that you think will give birth with ease dies bringing forth a two-headed lamb. Or the ski trail that you have been told is treacherous, you navigate easily.

It was the difference between walking with a stranger and walking with your heartmate. It was the difference between working for duty and working for love.