If You Stay Still, Earth

At A Certain Point, You Say To The Woods, To The Sea, To The Mountains, The World, Now I Am Ready. Now I Will Stop And Be Wholly Attentive. You Empty Yourself And Wait, Listening.

The Silence Is All There Is. It Is The Alpha And The Omega, It Is God's Brooding Over The Face Of The Waters; It Is The Blinded Note Of The Ten Thousand Things, The Whine Of Wings. You Take A Step In The Right Direction To Pray To This Silence, And Even To Address The Prayer To "world." Distinctions Blur. Quit Your Tents. Pray Without Ceasing.

Novels Written With Film Contracts In Mind Have A Faint But Unmistakable, And Ruinous, Odor.

There Is No Shortage Of Good Days. It Is Good Lives That Are Hard To Come By.

I Think The Dying Pray At The Last Not "please," But "thank You," As A Guest Thanks His Host At The Door.