Brick by stone by mud and stick they closed her in, these cares. Square blocks of paperwork yet undone, a gray cold stone the aging father. Fruit flies hovered over the moldering harvest in baskets on the floor. The mending raised the lid of the chest in which it lay. Each thing cramped her, each thing walled her in.
But a window remained--an airy bright clean square in the pile. Through it she could breathe and gather sunshine, while the rivulet of her thoughts ran fresh beneath it all. A few minutes on the porch at dawn, a nourishing page of a book--or from her pen, a hymn at the piano, a tomato with basil and warm from the garden--
The window was more true and strong than all the misshapen stones around it, but they formed the substance through which the window let her soul take flight.