 I'd like to read a poem by Rainier Maria Rilke, translated by Joanna Macy, who has been a dear teacher to Bronte and I. It's entitled, Go to the Limits of Your Longing. God speaks to each of us as they make us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear. You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing, embody me.