In which Lin is printing a small paragraph of original work for criticism

When I was a little girl, i used to steal out of the house as quietly as I could in my long white nightdress, taking care to skip the squeaky fourth step and the sticking front door. There was a large wood encroaching on our back garden, sneaking up on us year by year. It was to this wood that I sought refuge in the middle of the night. I had discovered a beautiful clearing in the middle of the wood, years before, when I had still been young enough to allow mum to pigtail my hair every single day. If I lay in the middle of the clearing and didn't turn my head at all, all I could see was a sky of deep indigo blue, little sparkling lights nestled into it; like fairy lights on a christmas tree, full of miracles and wonder. When i looked up at that sky I felt so small, the world felt so indifferent to my presence. And yet, somehow I was comforted, I didn't feel dwarfed or defeated, like the books said i should. I felt like I was a part of something. There was order and beauty and reason,, and I was a part of that. That stability balanced the rest of the chaos.