It’s a little late in the year for this post, but I’m afraid I wasn’t writing yet when the sap started to flow in the birches. So I’m about to take you back in time. It’s easy to do, after all, since time, like words, exist in our imagination.
So imagine a grove of calm white birch trees: bright, open, and inviting. A friend of mine who grew up in East Germany during the cold war once told me that, in the Russian fairy tales she heard as a child, birch groves were always good and full of magic.