My attention on the present is so fragile. Anything can crack it, and indeed I demolish it myself, roaming from my cushion into yesterday’s frustration and tomorrow’s calamity.

Where has my body gone? A moment ago, I felt it fully. Now I have left it, disembodied thought.

O dear Lord, let me feel my belly rise and fall, the breath slip coolly through my throat. Let me come back to my cushion pressing against my thighs, this notebook and pen solid in my hands.

Let not tomorrow visit me here.

(Letter #1,716)

Grey morning, empty belly, empty hands. No immediate obligation.

Lord, later I will be hungry, later I will be filled, later I will have plans and chores.

I am an empty cup, an unset table, needing nothing, having nothing.

Clear glass. Shine through me, dear Lord.

(Letter #1,715)

My worries and woes are minor, my troubles but light and temporary. I am desperate to see the future, yet you hide it from me.

Lord, let me see this blindness as the gift it is. Tether me to the present, that I may see how rich it is, and how inconsequential my difficulties.

Let me move through this day as a river, flowing over these stones and pebbles, wearing them smooth, enjoying even the cascades when they meet me. What is around the bend, cataract or pool? I will flow equally through each.

(Letter #1,714)

Here in the morning quiet, I am safe. Yet I look into the day and I am a frightened child. What do I fear? The judgment of others.

Lord, cure me of this defective thinking. Let me improve my ability to rely upon you. Let me expand the scope of this reliance.

If my fellows judge me wanting, expel me, set me into the wilderness – then let me laugh with joy that this is your will for me.

Knowing that you will supply all, worry, is my own choice. Let me choose better.

(Letter #1,713)