So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote.
I had last week off, so I seized the opportunity to have one long emotional and spiritual crisis. (One terrific advantage of identifying oneself as a religious person is that you get to call what anyone else would call a tantrum a spiritual crisis.)
Coming into calmer waters, I hope, but dead tired.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Much love to you all.