Time was when I ran from spot to spot. Now I walk, headwinds at every step. I must place my feet with care lest I slip.
Moving so slowly, Lord, I can see so much. What a gift born of struggle.
A gust may topple the shed, yet a constant slow wind carves mountains.
My steps, you make them inexorable.
Movement and sight, Lord, you bestow such subtle gifts.
(Letter #2,244)
