Thursday, December 23, 2021

The river runs. It wears smooth the rocks, it straightens its own course, it deepens its channel. Never does it weary.

I watch it rush by, the water neither comes nor goes but, simply, is. There am I, aloof on the bank, trying to learn the shape of water.

There, too, am I, in my room, watching them work and play across the green. In my contemplation I am absent from the world.

Of old, were they baptized or were they simply swimming? Lord, let me bestir myself to enter the river.

(Letter #2,539)