Surrender is the last thing, often the only thing, available. And so we give ourselves to it. We fear it is our end. Sometimes—with grace or luck—we find it is our liberation.

Who are the angry birds in my life? What are the sticks I carry in my heart so as not to be hurt again?

Speak, flowers, speak! Why do you say nothing? The flowers have the gift of language. In the meadow they speak of freedom, Creating patterns wild and free as no gardener could match. In the forest they nestle, snug carpets under the roof of Leaf and branch, making a rug of such softness....

The journeys of our lives are never fully charted. There come to each of us deserts to cross—barren stretches—where the green edge on the horizon may be our destination, or an oasis on our way, or a mirage that beckons only to leave us lost. When fear grips the heart, or despair bows the head,...