My soul is a slow-flowing river, deep, and the depth of it is unseen, hidden in the darkness, beneath the light as it flows and moves along its course, eventually to the infinite sea beyond. The nature of my soul, the quality of the water as it flows, the beauty it contains, is made up of words: the parables of Jesus, verses from Lao Tzu, the voices of loved-ones, the fragments of admonishments, exhortations from grandparents, loving words in memory, phrases, poetry, even words I have spoken myself. These words have fallen like leaves in autumn onto the surface of the river and have dissolved, have become the water; words have sweetened its taste and calmed its rage; words have made the water clear, right to the bottom of my soul.