There are times when I don’t have the words. They stay hidden underneath the floorboard, the one where the crack used to be. I don’t always see through them in the same way. The light covered as though the block is permanent. Yet I know truth. I lean toward the voice of truth echoing skies where the fog rolls through before clearing to shine. I wait. I can only wait for the return, keep steady my intention to hear them calling me with a message of strength. This is the way of my going, and I want to go there even when the light dims and the clouds release a rain so heavy it storms. I stand in the midst of the storm waiting. At times I fall to my knees that the prayer be heard. The prostrations of my soul overtake me taking me there into the mystery of the hidden that it might be revealed. There is always a path. There is always a way. Even when the eyes feel blind to seeing are things made clear. In time. All things in the timelessness of time. Clocks ticking forward while the standing is still. This is the way of movement. This is how the showing shows. So, I trust. And when the trusting feels thin, I trust again renewing my faith that it might keep me a bit longer, and again longer still. Even when the words fall away, and I’ve traveled beyond reach, there is the call of my soul in prayer.