Thursday, November 4, 2021

I cross the meadow in the same way that I cross the bridge strung high over a deep rivervalley. Footfall after footfall, balancing, a miracle of forward falling.

I am content in the meadow, anxious on the catwalk, yet are not my movements on each the same?

Lord, I kneel with head down in the maelstrom. The wind carries my voice away, my prayers make no sound. You hear nonetheless.

I know what I am to do, Lord. Let me do it, even high up, in the wind.

(Letter #2,490)