Tuesday, December 28, 2021

Sitting still, in tranquil air, storms rage through me. Fear, elation, despondency, joy, frustration, eagerness. Not a leaf has stirred to cause it.

I wrack myself with disorder. Lord, grant me equanimity in the face of this tumult.

The storm will pass, and my neighbor will have seen nothing.

Here, while we sit: soothe me, dear Lord.

(Letter #2,544)