by John O' Donohue (just in time for lent...)

Light cannot see inside things. That is what the dark is for: Minding the interior, nurturing the draw of growth through places where death in its own way turns into life.

In the glare of neon times, let our eyes not be worn by surfaces that shine with hunger made attractive. That our thoughts may be true light, finding their way into words which have the weight of shadow to hold the layers of truth. That we never place our trust in minds claimed by empty light, where one-sided certainties are driven by false desire.

When we look into the heart, may our eyes have the kindness and reverence of candlelight. That the searching of our minds be equal to the oblique crevices and corners where the Mystery continues to dwell, glimmering in figurative light.

When we are confined inside the dark house of suffering, that moonlight might find a window. When we become false and lost, that the severe noon-light would cast our shadows clear. When we love, that dawn-light would lighten our feet upon the waters. As we grow old, that twilight would illuminate treasure in the fields of memory.

And when we come to search for God, let us first be robed in night, put on the mind of morning, to feel the rush of light spread slowly inside the color and stillness of a found world.