No matter what the weather looks like outside the window, life is warming up. Something in nature knows what it is doing; even if from time to time winter icily touches the napes of our necks with its cold fingers. . . . Woods will fill with black-birds and grackles, and swollen buds will cling like small birds to wet branches. . . . Old oaks sleep as long as they can, while the rest of creation exhibits an aching restlessness to move on. As everything begins to move, an almost forgotten song plays in our chests, the music of beginning again. The early small birds flit here and there on the rising winds; a lone, red-winged blackbird sits unmoving in the empty cherry tree . . . waiting . . . To live is to change, to move through one transition after another, to reinvent one's life, as needed. . . .
No sooner had I fallen asleep than I saw standing a maiden dressed in a long white gown and modestly girded. On her head, in hooded fashion, was a white scarf which was so thin and transparent that through it I could see her face, which shone with heavenly beauty. She stood before me, tender, affectionate and loving, and although with downcast eyes, she would at times humbly and kindly look at me. With such a vision, I awoke.
My attraction to her was not sensuous, but somehow pure, devoted and unutterably comforting, since my soul sensed that this was not an earthly maiden, but some heavenly being, the very embodiment of purity and charity.