T.S. Eliot wrote in his Four Quartets, "Let the darkness come upon you/ It shall be the darkness of God." These days and weeks I could rephrase his words to read "Let the silence come upon you. It shall be the silence of God." My lack of communication here bears testimony of a period in my life of more than usual privacy. It is now almost two years since John died. Sometimes I've felt whipped around like a leaf in the wind. Now, though, everything has fallen into stillness.
As when I was a young girl and John left me for the air force, and I left him for the convent, I feel a similar urging in my soul—a turning towards that Mystery of Being that cannot be described but only loved as universal, infinite, eternal and divine Person.
This morning more birds had arrived from their winter lands and filled the back yard with intricate tangles of song. In the valley the forsythia blooms, as do the wild cherry, apple, and pear trees. I picked violet shooting stars and put them in a vase by John's picture.