How I miss forests and fir trees, the moss and murmur of gentle breeze. The loving rocks and boulders with various hues of Creator’s stones; paths in wilderness, walking and breathing pure winter air.

But now comes the melancholic muse whispering in my ear, getting louder in my soul – to move my fingers and write the spoken words.

Oh God of David’s Psalms, who became also mine. Was this really Your will, to let people read what this heart of mine wonders, people unknown to me, but not to You? Oh Light of the world, hold my hand and give me strength.

Now hear Brother Lawrence’s prayer as mine.