“But they beckoned; leaves were alive; trees were alive. And the leaves being connected by millions of fibres with his own body, there on the seat, fanned it up and down; when the branch stretched he, too, made that statement. The sparrows fluttering, rising, and falling in jagged fountains were part of the pattern; the white and blue, barred with black branches. Sounds made harmonies with premeditation; the spaces between them were as significant as the sounds. A child cried. Rightly far away a horn sounded. All taken together meant the birth of a new religion —”
Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. New York: Harcourt, 1925. Print.
There is beauty in healing, a rare and simplistic beauty that is usually taken advantage of, and when it is regained it is almost a rebirth.