To be a contemplative we must become converted to the consciousness that makes us one with the universe, in time with the cosmic voice of God. We must become aware of the sacred in every element of life. We must bring beauty to birth in a poor and plastic world. We must grow in concert with the God who is within. We must restore the human community. We must be healers in a harsh society.
God is absorbed in work, and hears the spacious hum of bees, not the din, and hears far-off our screams. Perhaps God listens for prayers in that wild solitude. And hurries on with weaving: till it's done, the garment woven, our voices, clear under the familiar blocked-out clamor of the task, can't stop their terrible beseeching. God imagines it sifting through, at last, to music in the astounded quietness, the loom idle, the weaver at rest.
