Saturday, November 26, 2022

Exquisite dawn — you made it. Gentle forest creatures — you made them.

Consuming fire, destructive storms — these, too, you made.

Let me see the beauty in the comely and the misshapen, all made by you. Let my sight become its own form of devotion.

Penury, woe — are these, after all, also made by you? If I bring sorrow upon myself, is it a divine act?

I have stumbled; let me rise from the mud and walk on, surrounded by the lovely. Grant me eyes to see it.

(Letter #2,727)