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In the hallway to the dining room hangs the famous Julian of Norwich quotation: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Nearby, in a little alcove, hangs something elseΒ β a boxed collection of pinned dead butterflies, orange and black, apparently a gift from some old priest of the area, long dead. I pass these two frames every day, but it happens sometimes here that one is suddenly struck anew by familiar things. During Vigils I am filled with mourning for those butterflies, for all the extinctions and threats, flooded once again with the knowledge that nothing outside these abbey walls is well, and no manner of things shall be well. And I know that inside these walls, Helen Parry is the only one who will face that truth. And I donβt know what my duty is to that knowledge, except to hold it.
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