For several months a poem I memorized years ago has been popping up in my head now and again:
Now Let No Charitable HopeI was convinced it was by Dorothy Parker (famous for "Men don't make passes/ at girls who wear glasses") but it turns out to be by Elinor Wylie.
Now let no charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am by nature none of these.
I was, being human, born alone;
I am, being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing from a stone
What little nourishment I get.
In masks outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But none has merited my fear,
And none has quite escaped my smile.
But what struck me this week is that I am trying to learn to really believe something different: that I was, being human, born in intimate relationship with God.