“…love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance…”

“Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet


Some say
and its quietude
is a nightmare of isolation,
the opposite of love,
that an empty room
is not filled by their own body
only by others.
Some hide under crowd-cover
or run from themselves to another.

Solitude might be cherished
even more than a lover.

What else but solitude
nourishes your poems like rain on wildflowers,
grows your songs, flows your art?

What else
opens to the vista beyond your confines,
returns you to yourself,
honors your silence,
makes space for your tears,
and a place to rest.

What else
leaves room for your questions
is the dawn for your answers
reminds you of the warp and weave
connecting the universe,
the unconditional oneness.

What invites you to meditation,
brings you to your spirit,
leads you to prayer?