Ritual

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I can only anticipate the past. I can only expect the repetition of an old story. All I can plan is the safety of bygone images, not the Presence that animates them. That is why, to live in faith, I renounce hope.

No instance of creativity, no shock of ecstasy, no awakening of love, was ever planned. The living breath that floods my flesh comes from eternity, not from time. I learned this by watching the patient perennial explosion of apple buds, none of them ever one moment old, in the ancient ritual of inexorable surprise.

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