the grit of u stacks and grows like the coarse nubs on sandpaper might. placed there mechanically after a lifetime of pain, of suffering, of circumstances well beyond yer control. the grit stacks and sticks to the edges of u, where it awaits the next battle in the underworld of yer own hero’s journey. the grit of u, born over eons of Life, where yer mettle is tested and u survive, is an accomplished tool, and only that: a tool. re-member, this grit that rubs the outer edges of u on the surrounding edges of Life, this is not Who You Are. You, darling one, are the soft underbelly: tender, vulnerable, and available to be held in warm, open, loving palms. You, darling one, are more than this werld has created u to be.