Early on a midwinter morning... The chapel is hushed and utterly still, without even a sister there for morning prayers. Even so, the sunlight slanting through the stained glass was warm, tinged with pale color, and it eased somewhat the guilt I carried for slipping into the chapel. I stand before the statue of Maria and slowly begin to sing, as though to make sure of my own voice. When I send it straight up toward the high ceiling, I can see my voice melt into the air filling the chapel, turn to light, and pierce on and on through all the darkness. Yes—I have a voice. A voice to convey my feelings, to spin out that person's words free of any falsehood. Tomorrow I will cut my hair. To part ways with the self who only ever watches...