Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Bina and Family, you are in my prayers. Coming Home You are coming home at night: you pass from light to light, walking around the block, and your shadow swings to the right the way a second hand goes round a modern clock, and other shadows, bound to your footsteps, climb the walls, or jerk along the pavement, and some contrast and darken, others lengthen and fade. The lights are various loves by whom you find your way, by whom you see and move: they lend you guidance, they enable you to find not only house and door, and wall and window-blind, but something less and more, your image, multiplied, cast for your gaze, and thrown distorted, but your own. And what you need the most, O walker in the night, is to continue, sure the self is always right, and neither caricature, nor unavailing ghost. And if a light is broken, if one of them goes out, as well they may, of course, and substance takes from shadow its absolute divorce, be reassured, in darkness, the self is never lost.
