“the wonder of light | coming over us” is a description of spring from Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf that awoke a nostalgia for light such as it is after a Scandinavian winter. Light on the skin, piercing in the eye.
Skäl, a Swedish word that translates as reason as well as crossroads or the gap where the woof weaves through the warp (a bundle of meanings whose relations would deserve untangling) shares a sound with the word själ, soul. This circumstance struck me as no less wonderful than the light that comes.
Thoughts fallen by the wayside 