Shall we drop down into our very selves, leap into the mad abyss that waits there, will we find what lively impulse calls us forward to the farthest shore, or answers that define our place our truth? These nameless things are mystery enough to humble us and hard enough to carry all alone. Even more than to determine what the root of justice is, or to discover mercy for ourselves or for another; we find with surprise that to be loved could even be a thing considered. What terror to be crushed beneath such dignity; what weigh to bear in hope that we are not our own, but may perhaps belong to something greater than the sum of what we know?
We are not merely made of stars and breath—but a Word emerging from beyond the limits of our reach. We surrender to the hush within that gathers, this silence bubbling up from deeper wells, while love pours out as water from a fountain, gathering in pools where we may wash our tired feet.
What will we pray, surrendering ourselves?
Into that fair eternity, beneath our waiting breath, where love’s command is now no longer parsed, far from the hush of evening while we listen, we hope for voices, still and small, drawing love from streams and pools and springs, to gather these fair waters into one place.
Now, while hearts grow plaintive, we wander as a flock of birds to find the strand on which these starlit lives emerged:
O shore of teeming shadows, boundary of making, our solace in the primal deep; be eternal promise for these new-born spirits, roaming, whose muck climbed out upon the earth to see a mocking sky.
Drink deeply from this cup, you ancient ones, be satisfied for ever and until your labor’s done.