Moaning 

The other day she went to the mountains with beloved D.

In the woods there was a sound. 

A big, deep moaning.

Constantly, frequently, like the groaning of a rocking chair on an old veranda, but much louder and much more decelerated. 

It came from a giant tree.

Coming closer she recognized that the tree's trunk was split. 

And she got scared.

It felt as if the tree could fall every minute and one wouldn't know where it might hit the ground. 

Do we acknowledge we might fall every minute?

Is there enough space for moaning in today's world?

And do we dare to listen?

To our soul's moaning.

To the moaning of the dying.

To the moaning of those alive. 

To the moaning of all the women who give birth to the children of earth and sky and who groan quietly under the burden of bringing them up, however limitless their love for them might be.

"Happiness is everything, or is it?", Carol D. Ryff asked in 1989, just before Positive Psychology became a thing. 

Maybe happiness isn't everything, but joy is.  

The joy of being alive.

Moaning, grieving, losing, gaining.

"Thank you, tree, for reminding me", she thought, and took beloved D.'s hand. "And thank you, D., for having been there for me whenever I've been falling."