Sometimes our heart meets heart sharpeners just as daily as a pencil meets pencil sharpeners… don’t know what the heart is left after one time, another, again and again times of sharpening. In the sharpening, does it still bleed or is it numb? Is it quite yet murmuring like shaving the pencil? Do we dump the strips into the bin like we dump the pencil strips? After hundreds of sharpening, do our hearts become sharper or more fragile? I have forgotten the shape of my heart in the beginning.
I have a potted plant that looks like two hearts. A heart, as well as a potted plant, requires watering. Some waters carefully with a kettle, some — maybe with a too burning heart of burning attempt to love and care, pours and floods their water like a rain shower head, from somewhere far far in the sky, in the name of love.
The first set of arrangments hopes to create a sense of weirdness that provokes us to stop a moment and think about our relationship with our hearts.