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As we near the year’s end, the day’s shorten and the night’s lengthen. I have slowed my pace.  Early this morning, as I walked these Brooklyn streets, I noticed that only a few trees still have leaves clinging to their branches.  These last leaves cling desperately.  In fact, they have already withered.  It seemed an analogy for the need to let go, to let what has been done be done, to lay still and quiet for awhile in preparation for another year.

I don’t think it is time to yet to plan for the next year, for that would misuse the season of quiet, the season of waiting.  And these moments come too infrequently in our world.

So, as I wait and think about Warm Hearth, the past year, and this season of quiet ahead of us, I pause to give thanks for all that has come to be this year.

We were able, after long suffering, to bring Anna home from the clinic.  We were able to open our doors to another resident, Davit, who had been on the streets.  Our residents started university classes.  We lost a beloved staff member who made a change in her career, but gained another.

On this side of the globe, we were able (many of us) to meet together, to strive for a better life for our residents, to problem solve, to celebrate, to gather, to give.

Our home is now full.  Each bed is taken.  And our hearts are taken as well, by these dear residents and one another.  It is beautiful to me the way that we become bonded together, we, who work toward a common goal.

I wait, along with you, for the next chapter in the life of Warm Hearth.  I hope for further healing for our residents, greater independence, better care for Sassoon, deeper societal changes toward those with disabilities.  But I pause, with you, and know that we will go the way that opens, as the Quakers say, in the coming year.  And for now, we can breathe and give thanks.  ‘Tis the season for this anyhow.

With Gratitude,
Natalie (for us all)