A tree is alive, and thus it is always more than you can see. Roots to leaves, yes-those you can, in part, see. But it is more-it is the lichens and moss and ferns that grow on its bark, the life too small to see that lives among its roots, a community we know of, but do not think on. It is every fly and bee and beetle that uses it for shelter or food, every bird that nests in its branches. Every one an individual, and yet every one part of the tree, and the tree part of every one.

I like it that order exists somewhere even if it shatters near me.

There is simple ignorance, not knowing, and willful ignorance that refuses to know, that covers the light of knowledge with the dark blanket of bias.

Everything in my life that I value has been gained at the cost of not saying what I really think and saying what they want me to say.

Having to struggle gave me the chance to demonstrate strength of character.

People are people, messy and mutable, combining differently with one another from day to day - even hour to hour.

What it boils down to is that parenting a child with autism is a difficult job; writing about it is far easier.