It is not uncommon that the one to whom you most ache to write is the one who remains formidably inaccessible. The one who may or may not read the searing flowers of your secret heart. Who may or may not care — and who does or dares not reply.

Is this not unlike the mysterious absence from our experience of the holy? When the inner beacon of understanding, that star whose light is love and meaning, disappears — the resulting darkness somehow compels our songs and supplications. We sing then. Even the silence within us sings.

There is a ceaseless flow of transformation that the apparent impossibility of reunion so naturally evokes in us. And so we address the silent darkness, with our deepest dreams and wonder. With our vulnerability. Our soul dances for what is missing, and in that dance the resulting intimacies cleanse us of artifice … we are made innocent and new again.