Happy is the person who can keep a quiet heart, in the chaos and tumult of this modern world.

The trees change their voices in autumn as well as their shapes. No longer do they whisper to one another in muffled tones as they did in summer; they talk in a different leaf-language now. The wind moves through the boughs like fingers drawn across the strings of a harp filling the air with the harsh dry sound of sapless leaves. It is the main theme of the autumn music, this murmuring counterpoint of dead leaves.

Happy is the person who can keep a quiet heart, in the chaos and tumult of this modern world.

While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch.

Life is like a field, where we must gather what we grow, weed or wheat... this is the law, we reap the crop we sow.

in February there is everything to hope for and nothing to regret.

In looking back we remember only the triumphant consummations of each season. Failures and frustrations are forgotten; garden-memories are as perfect as garden-hopes.