The box could not hold it all, so I brought a box of my own: a Hercules Gunpowder Box, a fitting repository for my spirit. The plants are from my garden, my solace, my center, my place to connect to the bounty and wonder of the Universe. I filled my box with old wounds, many half-healed. Even as I stand under the lights, my back aches from the car crash. I question myself and my right to be here. I question my creative fire. But on top of it all is a small wooden box, carved by my brother out of a single chunk of cedar. He carved it for me when I was young and full of boundless rage � some of it directed at him. He carved it with love, as an act of contrition that I did not come to fully understand until years after he had died. It is the most precious thing I own, this box. It represents hope and compassion for the wounded parts of me. ~Stephen R.