eruption of joy that evaporates the instant I recognize it as such, an agony of absence that assaults. Oh, Fiona sweetie, I bet you do, I said. Well, maybe it means, like Meister Eckhart, praying to be free of the need for prayer. Ah, my dear angry Lord, Since thou dost love yet strike, Cast down, yet help afford, Sure I will do the like.
She had converted to Christianity in her late 40s, after the unexpected death of her beloved husband, the poet Jan Spiewak. I am a lifelong insomniac. The Polish poet Anna Kamienska died in 1986, at the age.
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For one night of untroubled sleep? Thus Anna Kamienska near the end of the fractured, intense, diamond-like diaries that circle around and writing the perfect five paragraph essay around the same obsessive concern: God. Failing thatand I suppose, ultimately, here in the ceaseless machinery of implacable matter, there is only failureI would like them to be able to pray, keeping in mind the fact that,. I thought of this moment not long ago when one of my four-year-old twin daughters walked wide-eyed and trembly into my room at night. No, I do not. Id read to the girls and tuck them in before my wife took over, and the last thing Id say every night was I love you, and they would always reply promptly, I love you too, Daddy. I said Lord, Lord in the speechless way of things that bear years, and hard weather, and witness. It was the first break I had managed to take from my editing job in a decade, and it was only eight months after I had undergone a bone marrow transplant. So I was sympathetic to my daughters plight. One doesnt follow God in hope of happiness but because one sensesmiserable flimsy little word for that beak in your bowelsa truth that renders ordinary contentment irrelevant.
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