A
t any moment I can become a monk. I can hold the world at bay, and send myself to the desert; I can let the colors of reality run, and see the creation the Lord has wrought. I can stand in the presence of His angels and saint, and make obeisance with them. If ever I worry that the poetry has drained from life and left it brittle, His blood can soak it once again, and it springs back to life. When the world seems to come to us pre-packaged and ergonomic, He can make it wild again, and laugh scorn at the devices of mankind. I want to have an interior life, undisturbed by the wailing insouciance of modern folly. Spirit, teach me to pray.