Blessed are the men and women who are planted on Your earth in Your garden, Who grow as Your trees and flowers grow, who transform their darkness to light. Their roots plunge into darkness; their faces turn toward the light. All those who love You are beautiful; they overflow with Your presence so that they can do nothing but good. There is infinite space in Your garden; all men, all women are welcome here; all they need do is enter.
LISTEN is such a little, ordinary word that it is easily passed over. Yet we all know the pain of not being listened to, of not being heard. In a way, not to be heard is not to exist. This can be the plight of the very young and the very old, the very sick, the "confused", and all too frequently, the dying -- literally no one in their lives has time or patience to listen. Or perhaps we lack courage to hear them.
We forget how intimate listening is, alive and fluid in its mutuality. It involves interaction even if no one moves a muscle and even if the listener says nothing. Vulnerability is shared when silence is shared.
