Come, my sister, the time for waiting is over. We can no longer sit silently wasting away in our little boxes on the hillsides waiting for someone else to open the door, for someone to show us the way, to pull us up, to save us from ourselves. All the while the earth withers and shakes from its wounding and its raping. All the while the wars rage and the people die. Our children contemplate constructing a box of their own. The question marks multiplying above their tiny heads as they ponder how to be more like mama.