The tiny hand of the fearless child can slip through the bars of the prison of egoism. He is the one who can open the lock and set free. And God hides himself in the child. Jean Vanier
she stands in quiet solitude with a silent shudder in the midst of an unexpected coolness her leaves begin to fall slowly at first then in a bit of a rush laying out a blanket of poured out life gnarled and grey she stands in a new nakedness freshly vulnerable one by one she drops her branches incapable of bearing their weight aching in the open wound of great loss she stands no longer able to offer shade or nourishment she stands facing an uncertain horizon she stands while entering a sacramental season of waiting in acceptance of her approaching winter