Sunday, February 2, 2020

What good are these woes I drag with me through the day, this bag of stones? They slow my walk and tire my back. And yet I grip them so tightly.

O how I try to drop them, and no sooner have I let go than the bag reappears. What is in it? Illusion. The rocks are dry leaves, easily borne.

Each rock, which I thought was its own calamity, is but mist.

Lord, let me truly look at what I carry.

(Letter #1,849)