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For years he had thought that God belonged to a secret society one he could never be part of. Notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic, carried his soul around as the child of Rumi. In the prime of life, as sometimes happens, rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes, he began to drift away from his true self. At last, at his wits end, he made a promise, he vowed to be a maker of words, words that if weaved into poetry would be proof of God’s life in him. Words came. Words not wise nor holy, but ordinary and every day. His work was to be this enactment upon a Scrabble board a stage where symbols are wrought from letters and words. If he were speaking now he would tell you that though he picks the letters, though he arranges those words, he is certain sure that God will always be the supplier of all meanings.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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