Category Archives: Uncategorized

On the Hill of Tara…part two

Last week, I began sharing my own journey with the Sophia presence. I took you to Tara Hill, County Meath, Ireland, promising you would meet someone within a Holy Well on Tara. Now we are ready to enter that well.  

There is a ritual to follow. First, we remove our shoes. This is both a sign of respect for the sacred presence we are approaching, and a practical consideration. Shoes are heavy and can make our return to the surface more difficult. We’ll also need the agility of our toes for the downward climb and the ascent afterwards.

The mouth of the well is encircled by stones, each laid in its place with such care that they seem always to have been together, like a community of friends, melded into a solid surround.
Now, get a good grasp on the stones at the top of the well. Feel for finger-holds until your hands are securely rooted, then let your body drop into the well so that, still hanging by your hands, you are immersed waist deep in the clear dark water. Next, scrabble with your toes along the stones nearest your feet until their grip feels as secure as your fingers feel above them.

Don’t be afraid. I’m right here beside you, both of us clinging frog-like to the inner wall of the well.

Now breathe deeply. Fill your lungs.
The plunge will be sudden and deep.
Let go.
Fingers. Toes. Anxiety. Fear. Even, and especially, expectation.
Drop down.

Darkness enfolds us. Silence, deeper that any we have ever known. Water holds us as it did before our birth. We are safe.
The descent is slower now, our body’s weight balanced by the weight of the water. No longer plunging, we are now drifting downwards. Down. Down. Still further down.

Our hands brush against the stone walls of the well. Suddenly, the stones on one side vanish and we flow with the water into an open channel, a birth canal. With a rush, we are carried forward, dropped into a pool. Just beyond the pool, we see a dusty red rock cavern, lit by the faintest sliver of light from somewhere high on the walls.

Swim across the pool. Pull yourself up and out onto the rocky ledge. Notice that we are both immediately dry, neither skin, nor clothing nor hair show signs of our watery descent. We feel refreshed, as though we have just wakened from a sweet afternoon nap.

And we are not alone.

She is already here, sitting just a short distance from us, resting against a large, smooth rock. She gestures towards a place where we too may sit, a smooth area of stone with secure back rest. We settle in.

She is wrapped in a wool cloak of midnight blue, faintly patterned with stars. The cloak’s hood partially hides her face, giving a sense of a shadowy, not-quite-real presence. She appears to be tall, slender, neither young nor old. Strength, compassion, wisdom emanate from her, glow from her eyes.

I have brought you here to meet her. She will have questions to ask you. She will want to know what you are seeking. Be clear. She does not like vagueness, as I have learned to my cost. Nor will she spare you any of her time if you lack passion. Only a deep desire will win you her attention and her assistance. If you are blessed (as I was) she will offer you her companionship, her love, her support and her guidance for all the days of your life. If that is your deep desire.
But do not bother to ask her name, who she is. She will not tell you.

For now, just sit here beside me. Listen to my conversation with her. When you feel ready, speak to her. Don’t worry about how you’ll know when the time is right. She’ll know. She’ll ask you why you have come.

Relax. Listen. She is speaking to me.
Welcome to the well of presence. I’ve been expecting you. I see that you have not come alone.

You told me that I would recognize when the time came for me to share with others what you have been teaching me. The time is now. I am sure of it.”

Good. How do you wish to begin?

“I’ve thought about this for a while. As I remember it, each of your deep teachings came to me through an ancient tale. I want to retrace with you the journey you and I have made together along the road of ancient story. I’ve created an opening so that those who are ready may travel the way with us. I hope you will be the Storyteller.”

Would you like to choose the first story?

“It must be a story of desire and longing. Every journey, as you have taught me, begins with longing. Will you tell us the story of The Stolen Bairn and the Sidh?”

( to be continued)

Photo shows Tara Hill at Dusk

tara-at-dusk-95486_207x136

On the Hill of Tara

For four months now, I have been dancing with you around the theme of the rise of Sophia, the sacred feminine presence. I have shared poetry and reflections, ancient stories and contemporary writing about her awakening.

Today, I share with you something of my own experience of Sophia, tracing the story backwards, seeking to know how and where I began to awaken to her presence. I must do this by way of story, though in its heart it is profoundly true.

This is where it begins. On the Hill of Tara, County Meath, Ireland, August 9, 2003, anniversary of my commitment as a vowed woman religious, a Grey Sister.

tara-overhead-86682_207x136

The mist is heavy as evening drains all colour from what I can see. Sheep, light grey against a deeper grey, startle me as they come suddenly into view. The fog, both disorienting and exciting, holds energy, a power that has long been asleep. I sense its presence, feel my courage waver.

Yet, there is a readiness within me. I have come seeking an encounter, knowing the danger, knowing the risk. But I also know the time has come, and I must follow my desire. Now. On this night. Here. In this place.

I want to experience the Old Ones. I open myself to their coming. I am wearied, beyond words, with the Religion that swept like a Pentecostal wind over Ireland two millennia ago, turning shamrocks into theological treatises on the Trinity, blowing away all but the memory of the Old Ones, the Magic Ones, the Holy Ones… I want them back in my life, in my blood and my bones, my cells and my atoms, my heart, my soul, my spirit.

I stand here in the mist of Tara. I open my being and call out to them.

There is no response. I remain still, scarcely breathing. The darkness deepens.

Still I wait. No one comes. I feel only a vast inner emptiness. I am bereft.

My companion, an Irish priest who’d brought me here to Tara Hill, gestures that it’s time to leave. If we stay longer, the full darkness could make our return along the winding road hazardous.

Today, I hold the thread of the story that began for me that night. I follow the thread back to its beginning and, in my imagination, once more climb the sacred hill. I feel the same needle pricks of mist against my face, see again the grey shroud of fog that conceals everything except what lies immediately before me: this stone, this sheep, this tussock, this tree. Each arises, disappears, as on that night. I feel once more the quiet power of presence.

That night, when I called out to the Old Ones, no one answered.

Now I know the One I seek. I have found the hidden well where she awaits me, and this knowing has transformed my desert into an oasis.

This time, I shall call out and be heard. I shall be answered.

Come with me. It is time for us to begin.

I invite you to experience with me something that is more powerful than memory, more passionate than imagining. The presence we seek allures us with a flow of energy, but to meet her we must first come to stillness. Focus is important. A strong desire for the encounter is our best assurance of being met by the One we seek. She responds to our longing.

Come now along the dirt path winding upwards towards Tara’s height. Push open the wooden gate, built to keep the sheep inside. Like the ancient circular ditch, gouged four metres deep into solid rock, surrounded by great wooden palisades, the protective fencing of Tara is meant to hold the good spirits within as much as to prevent the bad spirits from entering.

Inside the gate, we choose a direction that is south and east, turning to the left. Just beyond that hedge, on the eastern slope, is one of Tara’s wells, so old that when it was documented in the Tenth Century AD, it was already ancient in oral tradition. Over the millennia, it has borne many names. At one time, it was called the Healer, later the Dark Eye. One of its names, Well of the White Cow, associated it with the Fertility Goddess. More recently, it has been known as Cormac’s Well and Saint Patrick’s Well.

This is the well we enter now.
( to be continued….)

Brigid Emerging in Poetry

In the last posting, we looked at stories of Brigid that reflect her central place in the Celtic spiritual tradition. For the Irish, Brigid is the face of the Sacred Feminine.

On February 1st, Brigid’s Day, a frigid morning (-31 degrees celsius with wind chill)  some ninety women gathered in Sudbury Ontario to spend a day celebrating Brigid with story, song, dance and poetry. A gigantic Brigid created of coloured cloth and papier mache oversaw the event from the stage.

Was it our hunger as women for a powerful and radiant, compassionate and focused role model that drew us there? Or was it Brigid herself, and through her the Sacred Feminine presence, longing to enfold and embrace us? Surely it was a sacred presence that stirred the embers of joy and hope among us. Surely something sacred fanned the embers into a  fiery passion to transform our planet and all that lives in and upon her sacred body.

Jean Houston, one of the great women/ spiritual teachers alive today,speaks of the Rise of Women to full partnership with men as one of the most compelling historical happenings of our time, even of the last 5000 years. See the website: Rising Women, Rising World  (www.risingwomenrisingworld.org)

Within this rising there is a powerful spiritual energy which we may name Sophia.

This is her time, and we are her partners.

Out of the mists of history, out of the fragments of ancient stories, out of the almost- but- never- quite- lost memories of a sacred feminine, a new-old presence is coming into our awareness.

The Irish poet Anne Frances O’Reilly writes of that emergence in the form of Brigid.

Brigid

These words will never carve

your image out of bog oak

but that is what they want to do

to dig down into the moist wetness

to touch the layers of centuries

that have made you

woman, goddess, saint

to see your shape emerge intact

from the dark earth.

My instruments are crude for such a work

the bog resistant to intruders

as an ancient tribal memory

in its dark and secret places.

But I must search out these roots

this memory as vital as breath.

I must drag this ancient oak

from the centre of the bog.

I will wait as I must

until I can see

the shape of what you were

and what you are.

The fine coat of resin will preserve your beautiful shape intact

and I will call on you great woman

to grace me with a golden branch and tinkling bells.

And I will polish you then with images of

sun and moon, cows, sheep, serpents, vultures,

bags, bells, baths and sacred fires

so that you become a fiery arrow

and breathe life into the mouth of dead winter

O beautiful vessel still intact

where we have unearthed you,

remind us of your many manifestations

and let us smile again in memory

of when doddering Mel pronounced you bishop

or your cloak spread over the green fields of Kildare.

You who turned back the streams of war

whose name invoked stilled monsters in the seas

whose cross remains a resplendent, sparkling flame

come again from the dark bog and forge us anew.

Anne F. O’Reilly

For the added joy of hearing this poem read by the author, visit her website: http://www.bluehorsemusings.com

There you may listen to other tracks and find out how to order the CD of her spoken poetry: Breathsong

Mother Moon

I have been reflecting on my journey into knowing the Sophia, the sacred feminine presence to whom these writings are dedicated. Over many years, I caught glimpses of a sacred holy presence for whom I had no name, about whom I knew nothing.

I first learned of her indirectly, in an English folktale called “Dead Moon”.In Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ retelling, “Stolen Mother Moon”, the moon passionately loves her people in a small English village. Mother Moon learns that some of them are being destroyed by the evil creatures who dwell in a muddy moat that surrounds the village. She determines to come to earth to find out what is happening, and one night, wrapping her brilliance in a dark cloak, she sets out to cross the bog. The evil creatures trap her, beat her to death, bury her deep in the bog, rolling a great stone over the place.

Bereft at the loss of her guiding light, especially on nights when they must cross the dark swamp, the villagers set out to find Mother Moon. After long seeking, guided by a tiny light seeping around it, they find the stone that marks the place where she is buried. They manage to roll the stone away, then watch in wonder as a radiant woman looks upon them with great love before rising into the night sky.

I came upon this story at a time in my life when I felt very much alone, without guidance. I longed for someone to mother my adult years with love, to show me the way through the uncertain pathways that were opening before me. The Moon became a symbol for me of the love and the guidance for which I longed. Slowly, as I worked with the story, guided by the Jungian teachings of Clarissa Pinkola Estes, I learned to look for Mother Moon within myself, to begin to grow an inner mother. This I could do by being a kind mother to myself.

How radical that advice seemed to me, schooled as I was in ignoring my needs and desires, in distrusting the lure of what I longed for, in believing discomfort and suffering must be born heroically. Schooled as I was, in fact, in the masculine way of endurance, of striving after perfection. To be invited, even advised, to grow an inner mother, to be taught that the way was through kindness and caring towards oneself, seemed revolutionary to me. But so great was my need that I began in earnest to practise self-care, kindness. Slowly, slowly, slowly over time a compassionate inner voice began to replace my harsh inner critic. Slowly, over time, I began to feel loved. I began to experience the wise guidance of an inner mother.

But not always. And this is the deep wisdom of the story of Mother Moon. Though we may invite a sacred mother, a holy feminine presence, to make her home within us, there will be times when she will seem to be absent, when we are left in the dark, feeling alone.

We muddle through at such times as best we can. We remember how we are, without her presence. And we do not risk dangerous journeys into the muddy depths of our own souls without her.

Her light within us is a great gift. A treasure. Of all that I have heard or read of this inner presence, I like best the words of Etty Hillesum, the young Jewish woman who wrote so compellingly of her faith journey. She was just twenty-nine years old when she died in Auswitch in 1943.

Here are words Etty Hillesum wrote shortly before her death:
I shall try to help you, God, to stop my strength ebbing away, though I cannot vouch for it in advance. But one thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: that you cannot help us, that we must help you to help ourselves. And that is all we can manage these days, also all that really matters: that we safeguard that little piece of you, God, in ourselves. And in others as well. Alas, there doesn’t seem to be much you yourself can do about our circumstances, about our lives. Neither do I hold you responsible. You cannot help us but we must help you and defend your dwelling place inside us to the end.

Did you recognize in the tale of Mother Moon one of the great life/death/life stories? The loving Moon, drawn to her people’s suffering, walks into the dark bog where they are being attacked and devoured.  Over the years since I first heard this story, it has become clear to me that the Moon must have known the danger she faced in coming to earth, must have taken the risk willingly, out of love.

She was beaten, murdered, buried. A great stone was rolled across her grave.
And then she rose, radiant, loving.

There is still more for us to consider. Can you imagine how perplexed the villagers were when they first determined to seek out the Moon? They had no idea where to begin.

As you yourself must have observed, when the Holy One who loves you is nowhere to be found, when you cannot possibly climb upwards to the sacred sky to seek her, you must instead look deep within yourself. Look into the dark, unpleasant, noisome, hidden recesses of your soul, the very place you are most reluctant to look. For that is where she may be waiting.

I am beginning to understand that the story of Mother Moon tells of the way the feminine aspect of God has been buried deep over the millennia, hidden, with a great stone of masculine power firmly placed on top to prevent her rising. But the stone has at last been rolled away.

The Moon is rising in the hearts and souls and spirits of you and me, in all the women and men who long for her return.

Sophia in Greece

Her presence can guide us in darkness, embrace us fill us. Yet our experience of the Sacred Feminine Presence is fragmentary at best. In these reflections on the Sophia I offer glimpses: hints of her loving presence in ancient stories, rituals and prayers, in the Old and New Testaments of the Bible, as well as in the gnostic gospels. There are sacred sites throughout the planet that honour her. In earlier writings, I have encountered this presence in Ireland and in Egypt. Today I share with you a visit to the sacred site of Eleusis in Greece during a study tour led by Jean Houston in May of this past year.

Try to take this in. We are standing on stones that predate the Christian era, in an open theatre-like space in EleusisGreece Eleusis ipod 119is, twenty kilometers beyond Athens. Our Greek guide, Calliope, tells us that this is where the initiates, who came here to take part in the annual religious rites known as the Eleusinian mysteries, would have gathered. Unlike us, they would have undergone a ritual cleansing in Athens before beginning the walk to Eleusis. Along the route, known as the Sacred Way, they would have paused to place offerings in tiny cavern-like openings in the rocky outcrops beside the road. Crowds would have gathered to watch their progress.

At Eleusis, there would have been a welcome, some explanation of the ritual that would follow, a telling, perhaps even a re-enactment, of the ancient Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone.

Demeter, corn goddess, giver of the earth’s abundance, weeps for her daughter, Persephone, who has been seized by Hades, god of the underworld. Her grief and rage at this loss are so terrible that she tells Zeus she will wither the earth’s food crops until he forces his brother god Hades to send Persephone back to her. Only when the earth’s plants wither, threatening starvation, does Zeus give in. A truce is agreed upon: Hades will release Persephone for half of each year, but she must return again to the underworld. It is the myth of the seasons, of the maiden who returns after each barren winter bringing spring’s abundance.

Though the story has survived, the details of the ritual have never been discovered. The initiates who took part in what we know as the Eleusinian Mysteries were bound to secrecy under pain of death. The Mysteries began in Greece around the first millennium before Christ and continued, spreading into the Roman Empire, until the 4th Century of the Christian Era.

It is believed that the ritual, based on the Demeter /Persephone story, had a three-part theme: the descent (loss), the search and the ascent. Following their arrival in Eleusis, the initiates would have rested, then had a day of fasting to honour the grief of Demeter. The ritual would follow. Calliope points to the earth beneath our feet, telling us that the initiates would descend underground for the ritual. Its focus was the overcoming of any fear of death, though how this was enacted is unknown. But as the ritual was drawing to a close, light would have begun to seep upwards from the underground. Soon after that, the initiates would emerge, radiant with their experience.

The day before our journey to Eleusis, Jean Houston had prepared us for the experience by speaking of the Greek understanding of the need to “die before you die”. As we travelled by bus, Jean led us in a visualization/meditation. We were invited to imagine ourselves entering the underworld, being clothed in earth, masked by earth, resting in death….then asking, “What are the aspects of ourselves that no longer serve us, serve life?” These we name and allow to die…. We remove the mask of earth that covers face and body. We emerge, freed to live more fully, more joyously, set free from the burden of those behaviours, those needs, those fears, that have kept us captive. We rise: quiet, composed, centred, unafraid, ready to love.

Now Calliope directs our gaze upward. High above us sits a small Christian/ Greek Orthodox church. Calliope tells us that a Church dedicated to Mary often hints at a pagan temple to the goddess beneath it. Our guide goes on to say that Christianity in Greece has blended many of the older pagan rituals into itself. On the Feast of the Presentation of Mary, November 21st, there are rites celebrated in that little church dedicated to Mary that contain some aspects of the more ancient Mystery rites.

After Calliope’s introduction, we move further into the site to an ancient cave, its dark mouth appearing to us like an opening to the underworld. Here members of our group have been invited to enact the story of Demeter and Persephone. Peg Rubin, an actor of immense power, co-leading this journey with Jean Houston, plays Demeter. As she pours out her grief for lost Persephone, I am suddenly weeping. Not for Demeter, but for the woman whom I heard interviewed on CBC Radio shortly before l left for Greece. The mother of one of the school girls abducted in Nigeria, she was speaking through a translator of her unbearable grief. Demeter’s words are a cavern taking me into the grief that shrivels the planet today, all the lost daughters, all the grieving mothers living on this earth.

There is a thread, a ribbon of blood-red, that runs through the ancient myth of Demeter and Persephone, through the Eleusinian mysteries, through Mary mother of the Christian era, into our time when our planet’s need for mothering is greater than ever. By whatever name we know her, however we cry out to her, this presence awaits us, runs towards us, arms outstretched.

Mary’s Call, Our Call

What we know of Mary’s life is fragmentary, and yet her story holds the power to illumine and grace our lives.

When we first meet Mary in the Gospels, she is being offered an invitation. Here is how the Irish poet John O’Donohue imagines the scene:
Cast from afar before the stones were born
And rain had rinsed the darkness for colour,
The words have waited for the hunger in her
To become the silence where they could form.

The day’s last light frames her by the window,
A young woman with distance in her gaze,
She could never imagine the surprise
That is hovering over her life now.

The sentence awakens like a raven,
Fluttering and dark, opening her heart
To nest the voice that first whispered the earth
From dream into wind, stone, sky and ocean.

She offers to mother the shadow’s child;
Her untouched life becoming wild inside.
Where does our story touch Mary’s? Where are the meeting points? What are the words waiting for the hunger in us “to become the silence where they could form”. This might be a question to ask in our daily contemplative time… when our hearts open, will they also become a nest for a new birthing of the Holy?

From Jean Houston, I have learned that now there is no time for us to modestly refuse any call that smacks of greatness. The urgent needs of our time require a “yes” to the conception, followed by the birthing, of newness.
Here are Jean’s words, reflecting upon the call of Mary, the call of each of us:
Just think of the promise, the potential, the divinity in you,
which you have probably disowned over and over again
because it wasn’t logical, because it didn’t jibe,
because it was terribly inconvenient (it always is),
because it didn’t fit conventional reality,
because… because… because….

What could be more embarrassing than finding yourself pregnant with the Holy Spirit?
It’s a very eccentric, inconvenient thing to have happen.
(Jean Houston in Godseed p. 38)

Eccentric. Inconvenient. Perhaps. But nonetheless it is our call. Mary’s story gives us the courage to say “yes” without knowing where that “yes” may lead. It is enough to know that certainly our own life will become, like Mary’s, “wild inside”.

Like Mary, we are called to birth newness for our time. The beautiful image from Christine Lore Weber, to be “a cup to catch the sacred rain” is like Mary’s call. We respond, as Mary did, with a commitment to be actively engaged in this “catching”. Each day we make a time, choose a space, and open ourselves to be recipients of the sacred rain. Rain which will be drawn into the earth of our being where it might bring about miracles of new growth.
We hold ourselves in readiness for the more that will be asked when the time is right. That “more” is compellingly described in the teachings of Jean Houston:
“We are godseeds planted in a space/time vehicle….always yearning, and questing, and drawn by the lure of becoming until we reach the destiny that has been guiding us all along.”

This requires us “to present the availability of an unobstructed universe both within and without”.

And Jean promises: “When you do this, you become a beacon, an evocateur of new patterns, new relationships, new discoveries, bringing new mind and new matter to an old world and serving as a catalyst of change, a pathfinder of deeper realities.” (Jean Houston in “The Holographic Butterfly Retreat” December 2012)

Mary Waited

As we approach the Feast of Christmas, Mary, of whom the Gospels say so very little, is herself a silent figure. She who said “yes” to the call to bear a Son whose coming would alter history, is given no lines in the First Christmas play. Luke writes of angels singing, urging shepherds to go to seek the newborn Child. He adds,” As for Mary, she treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart.” (Gospel of Luke 2:19)

How was it for Mary in the months, weeks, days as she awaited the birth of her Son?

It is not possible for me to imagine myself into this time in her life, nor to summon up any experience in my own life that might help me to understand what was in Mary’s heart as she waited.

Frustrated, I put on high boots and a warm jacket. I go outdoors on this snow-melting day to walk along the Nature Trail that winds between stands of evergreens to the ruined railway bridge above the Bonnechere River.

What I notice first is utter stillness. Not only the trees, their limbs, branches, twigs and needles, but even the left-over tall weeds of autumn are motionless.
Waiting, I think. They are waiting. But for what? for whom? and why?

As my boots sink deep into wet snow, creating a fresh pattern beside the marks left by animals, I continue to wonder about the trees. There is a quality of presence in these woods that speaks of quietly-held strength, invisible energy.

A memory returns from late last winter, when there was still no visible sign of spring. I was standing beside a delicate silver maple that hovers just at the river’s edge. I had placed my palm on the strong slim trunk that erupted above me into a rack of apparently dead branches. I wondered how the tree felt knowing she appeared to be so lifeless. As though she were responding to my question, I suddenly knew that the tree’s sense of herself came not from this barren outer form but from her inner life, her sap already rising, preparing for the new life of spring. She knew herself by her energy, by the movement of life within, only barely contained, ready to push beyond this apparent death out into fullness of life.

That evening, I came across a poem from Hafiz, a promise to the tree, to me:
Light
Will someday split you open
Even if your life is now a cage,
For a divine seed, the crown of destiny,
Is hidden and sown in an ancient fertile plain
You hold the title to.
Love will surely bust you wide open
Into an unfettered, blooming new galaxy…
A life–giving radiance will come,
The Friend’s gratuity will come…..
(Daniel Ladinsky trans. in “The Subject Tonight Is Love”)

Today as I begin the walk home, the early darkness already rising around me, I feel I have begun to understand something about waiting: the trees’ waiting, Mary’s waiting and my own. Expectant waiting is an active experience. It is rich with joyous anticipation, strengthened with deep trust in the promises given, and busily engaged in the work of nurturing the “divine seed” that Hafiz speaks about.
For “Love will surely bust (us) wide open into an unfettered blooming new galaxy” bringing “a life–giving radiance”, bringing “the Friend’s gratuity”.

This time of waiting in Mary’s life invites us to wait with her, companioned by her barely-contained anticipation. But there is more.

For, if we can begin to know that Mary has become for us in our time, when our need is so great, an expression, a manifestation, a presence of the One in whom ancient peoples lived and moved and had their being, our waiting is turned inside out! Then we might glimpse that the winter trees, the snow-covered earth, the entire aching planet, and we ourselves are held within a womb, nurtured from the life, the body, of the Great Mother. And that what we are each awaiting is our own birth into the fullness of life to which we are called.

The mystic-poet Jessica Powers expresses this beautifully:
I live my Advent in the womb of Mary.
And on one night when a great star swings free
from its high mooring and walks down the sky
to be the dot above the Christus i,
I shall be born of her by blessed grace.

I wait in Mary-darkness, faith’s walled place,
with hope’s expectance of nativity.
I knew for long she carried me and fed me,
guarded and loved me, though I could not see.
But only now, with inward jubilee,
I come upon earth’s most amazing knowledge:
someone is hidden in this dark with me.
(Jessica Powers 1948)

We. Wait.