Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and numbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me – I am happy.
To any artist, worthy of the name, all in nature is beautiful, because his eyes, fearlessly accepting all exterior truth, read there, as in an open book, all the inner truth.
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of nature.
Parents of recovered children, and I’ve met hundreds, all share the same experience of doubters and deniers telling us our child must have never even had autism or that the recovery was simply nature’s course. We all know better, and frankly we’re too busy helping other parents to really care.