XLVI.
Lord, goes the prayer, increase my bewilderment,
which really means allow me to question
everything, but not to be lost within that
stance to the small flowers of common sense
in season. Increase, Lord, my discontent.
L.
And may my love and language lead me into
that perplexity, and that simplicity,
altering what I might otherwise be.
But let it happen through speech's clarity -
as normal magic, which certain words renew.
These stanzas stood out to me, not least, because they read as a gloss on the wonderful Pip Wilson's blog (Pip speaks against becoming too comfortable - Increase, Lord, my discontent) and on the also wonderful David Dark's thought (the sacredness of questioning everything and what we mean by what we say). I also like this.
Emmanuel Guibert's illustration in the latest New Yorker.
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