It has been a long year. Can I REALLY be well again? "Thank You for another day," I whisper each morning. The sheets on my bed feel good. The light coming through the window is a gift. How do I want to live out this day? I look at the African violet on my windowsill. If I don't water it, it will die. I see that my spirit is no different. I am beginning to listen a lot. The silence is my water.
The canary began to sing again. The sun had struck it, and its throat and tiny breast had filled with son. Francis gazed at it for a long time, not speaking, his eyes dimmed with tears.
"The canary is like our soul. It sees bars around it, but instead of despairing it sings, and see: one day its song shall break the bars."