The rains were plentiful this season—for weeks now acorns have been dropping. They pelt the roof like hail even in the absence of storm winds. It is startling. All hours of the day and night they fall.
This morning, a single seed rested in the crevice of a rotting tree stump. The acorn had balanced there in the moist, dark air until warmed and stirring, it wound a curl of root into the bark, more soil than wood.
Gathered in a circle last evening, a group of women expressed, each in turn, a strength they possessed. There was giving, intuitiveness, humor, friendship, parenting, listening, music, and singing. Their gifts were simple, their field of influence small. Likely none of their achievements would ever be grand or noted by many. Yet it did not matter. For they were joined in purpose, connected in spirit to continue offering the graces they possessed. And it was good. And thus, linked together, they were also linked to other women in other parts of the world persisting to be what the God they loved had made them to be.
