The earth, like the soul, like the heart, like the universe, renews itself again and again. Like the moon, like the rivers, seas and creatures, new life is always on its way to emerging in its next shape.

My teacher said, "What happens in nature happens in us." And so we, too, are on the way to being new, or are emerging into newness again and again. What has been frozen does release its grip. Why? Because the unstoppable song of newness sings the cold away and sings the ice off of us. 

The Celtic shamanic tradition tells us that right now the old woman of winter, who has a job to do, is getting sleepy after working hard all winter to clean the land of what needs to be taken to the other world. The exuberant maiden of spring, who has a job to do, is singing her song of newness, singing the flowers up out of the ground, singing with green breath the love of life into the land and creatures. 

So the old woman and the young woman are dancing now. The swaying back and forth between ice and melt, between cold and warm air, sunshine and clouds - this is their dance. On it goes until the old woman gets sleepy and trudges up the hill to the well, takes a drink, and falls asleep. Perhaps the maiden escorts her and helps her lay gently down to sleep. 

Some people say it's less a dance and more like an argument between mother and daughter. The daughter is saying, "Set me free from your old ways - they are a cruel, cold jail to me!" The old woman is saying (as mothers so often do), "You don't understand how the world is, it's cold and harsh and you'd better open your eyes, naive little snowflake!" And so the daughter has to sneak around and blow green breath on the land while the mother is napping. The old woman wakes from her nap and grudgingly has to set things "right" again, to save the world from all this naivete, grumbling about those who mess up the prevailing order. 

On it goes, this dance, or this argument. The world, like the soul, like the heart, won't be stopped from becoming new again, no matter what. I like to keep this in mind. It helps.

I came across this quote from Thoreau and it set off a cascade of ideas that I hope will be useful for you: "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it." I recommend reading that phrase several more times, slowly, out loud, before reading on.
 
The Thoreau quote made me think of a tidbit from the Persian poet Rumi. This is what the person yearning for connection with Spirit says, and Spirit's response: 
I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.
 
(Or less poetically stated: The price of kissing Spirit is letting go of your current identity.) And that Rumi tidbit made think of something one of my teachers is so fond of saying: "The price for spiritual power is discomfort."
 
Like all decent wisdom tidbits, these phrases are loaded with power, mystery and the opportunity for misinterpretation. So it goes.
 
Most the time we think that emotions sweep over us and overwhelm us, and they do. But we also often live in lingering states: a constant state of fear, or of emotional flatness, or anger or resentment or grieving or cynicism. At that point we have crossed over from being overtaken by a wave of emotion and into agreeing to live in a state of emotion. That's when we enter into an agreement to pay the cost.
 
When I live in the ongoing state of fear or anger or cynicism, I am agreeing to pay a price in energy. The shamanic term for energy is power. In order to live inside the power of fear, I give up another kind of power as payment.
 
The price of fear is intimacy.
The price of certainty is wonder.
The price of greed is patience, and since beauty relies on patience, the price of greed is beauty.
The price of arrogance is surprise.
The price of cynicism is open-armed love. Since open-armed love includes grieving, because grief is a form of love, the price of cynicism is stifled grief, and since grief is one of the main lubricants on the hinges of the doors to Spirit, the price of cynicism is connection to Spirit.
On it goes.