If you place the sum-total of who and what you are on the scale of the now and of the eternal, then tissue and veins are meaningless when it comes to what nudges the needle of meaning forward. The wrapping inside of which every human being is locked up is precisely that — wrapping. Not the cleverest cleverness can fasten the intrinsic inner awarenesses of joy or of sorrow so close to the artery of that which makes our emotions bleed and elevates our heart into more than an organ that pumps blood. That is why our heart has no birthday. Because it is timeless. Young in years it can be old in experience, or old in years it can be young in innocence. And only that which lives in our hearts escapes death.

In the end, it is the shell that falls away when we die, the shell that frees the spirit from dependence and from everything contaminated with the temporary — the spirit that, blind, must grope open a path for our heart. A route full of pauses, where some moments are so full of oxygen that our heart practically gasps for breath when the chance to draw a deep breath again rises spontaneously. A moment in which reality swallows time and digests it into ingredients for the lessons our soul writes its examination on. Lessons that turn into value and meaning. Meaning that heals blindness. Value that sometimes elevates trifling moments to a masterpiece of time's ability to widen the borders of its own limitation inside our constricted souls to infinity — inside the fragile interplay of spirit and emotion that join hands to reach out towards our longing to belong meaningfully. And because a person can only belong meaningfully inside a relationship, you first had to come safely home inside your relationship with yourself. Then the pauses sown through your day become points of connection with yourself, where you can marvel at the impact of friction. Sometimes the friction of our own spirit against the ear of our heart, sometimes the friction of our past, of our choices, of our dreams, of our irritations, of our duties, of our fears, of our hurriedness. To irritations we would rather not react at all, and fears, along with hurriedness, we would like to banish.

Because nothing can be accurately interpreted without distance or without perspective, a moment within which the borders of our heart are enlarged opens the possibility of a purer perception. Within such a moment of wholesome awareness, a lifetime of meaning can be unlocked. Time and eternity can embrace each other in seconds as pace-setters for a new rhythm for our hearts. Within such a moment we gather treasures we can exchange for our feeling of not-belonging, or for our despair, in days of need.

We exist inside our body, but we experience inside our heart.

After fifteen years of labour near the heart of the Wamakersvallei, my task as editress of Val du Charron has long stopped being a duty and become, instead, a spontaneous, willing outflow of loving and of being loved. If love does for a heart what weight does for a stone — namely, set it in its place — then the love-affair Val du Charron has had with its readers has, likewise, been an exchange of love for weight, on both sides.

In its truest sense, the community of Wellington is an extended family where compassion flows thicker than blood. Thank you to everyone for the lovely belonging — for your news, your high points, your joys and your special offerings. The "wagon" has long stopped being driven, and is now guided. A pleasant journey with wonderful soul-mates as fellow-travellers.

Groete Amanda Kreitzer