A garden, a garden is my mother's bodyof English rose, wisteria, and grapetwisting the trellis. Not quite of this ruggedtidal pool island, no longe...

Look, I am bursting with it: seed-knowledge and something to say! Before I was, I resided in the winter crust, here where sugar crystallizes in the green apple; yes, I was the prescience of myself before ever being it...

My mother is a garden, is a universe unto herself in the eternal backyard of Baker Street. In polka-dot halter and flannel shorts, she bends down to tend the runner beans, she bends down to tend to me. A silhouette as large as any sun, and I, small and green as a caterpillar among the rows of strawberries...

Be kind to yourself, dear soul, for you don’t know the trauma that brought you here, dragging its hidden weight at your heels. Perhaps a kinder word toward yourself will be the knife that cuts the rope you hold yet, unknowingly.

You did well today, be proud of yourself. What you see as no big event, no special occasion, I see as the steadfast victory of another foot forward, another mile taken, no matter how slow or plodding the pace.

It’s OK to rest by the side of the road. This too is from Me. I move and I sit with you in stillness, where the greater work is done, deeper, Spirit to spirit. It’s OK to be still, do nothing, wait on Me. Speak no words, not even pray. There are times when even the disciplines are quieted to nothing, when it is OK to just be.