Winter mysteries whispered into invisible doorways
to holy blackness,
They silently fled over white landscapes
Like a dancing child cloud drifting with music.
Poetry awakened while snowflakes played in the
fearful twilight,
White notes striking the deepening silence graced all,
Yet dead ears forgot the path to song.
Now, light and dark embrace in our homeland
Where sacred silence sings ...
To live a contemplative life is to be open enough to see, free enough to hear, real enough to respond. It is a life, and so has its own rhythms of darkness, dying-rising. Simply enough, it is a life of grateful receptivity, or wordless awe, of silent simplicity.