And I wake up in the middle of the night, longing for you, and sending you my soul to wake you up… ~ Abdel Halim Hafez (Photo by Annie Leibovitz)

The air here is mottled with all these dreams. Above me the swifts write a random history of the soul. Against them, I put these words for you, a kind of prayer themselves, a way to redeem the silences these bones announce, something about the way we live our loves, forever on the verge of believing… ~ Richard Jackson

There are things we take on faith, without physical proof and even sometimes without any methodology for proof. We cannot clearly show why the ending of a particular novel haunts us. We cannot prove under what conditions we would sacrifice our own life in order to save the life of our child. We cannot prove whether it is right or wrong to steal in order to feed our family, or even agree on a definition of "right" and "wrong". We cannot prove the meaning of our life, or whether life has any meaning at all. For these questions, we can gather evidence and debate, but in the end we cannot arrive at any system of analysis akin to the way in which a physicist decides how many seconds it will take a one-foot-long pendulum to make a complete swing. The previous questions are questions of aesthetics, morality, philosophy. These are questions for the arts and the humanities. These are also questions aligned with some of the intangible concerns of traditional religion. Faith, in its broadest sense, is about far more than belief in the existence of God or the disregard of scientific evidence. Faith is the willingness to give ourselves over, at times, to things we do not fully understand. Faith is the belief in things larger than ourselves. Faith is the ability to honor stillness at some moments and at others to ride the passion and exuberance that is the artistic impulse, the flight of the imagination,
the full engagement with this strange and shimmering world.
~
Alan Lightman

An eye is meant to see things. The soul is here for its own joy. A head has one use: For loving a true love. Feet: To chase after. Love is for vanishing into the sky. The mind, for learning what men have done and tried to do. Mysteries are not to be solved: The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why… But when he finds his love, whatever was lost in the looking comes back completely changed. ~ Rumi (Photo by Kayt Jones)

Sculpture by Rodin

When the sun enters the room, he wakes and watches her. Her hair lies loose, strewn across the pillow as if it has been washed up, her lips are blubbed, from the kissing, her profile is fierce, like that of a figurehead seeing over the rim of the world. She wakes. They do not get up yet. It’s not easy to straighten out bodies that have been lying all night in the same curve, like two paintbrushes wintering in a coffee can of evaporated turpentine. They hear the clangs of a clock. Why only nine? When they have been lying on this bed since before the earth began.
~
Galway Kinnell

He knew her, he believed. He would teach her that she was not his possession, he would show her she was free, he would see her flash her wings. ~ A.S. Byatt (Photo by Zena Holloway)

Photo by Arthur Elgort

Today a hawk flew next to the car before darting out across the fields. I thought it was you. Each word, each gesture, is a feather for our wings. Later, I ran down that mountain and landed in your name.
~
Richard Jackson

Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett

There are times when I feel you might be searching for me, when I can read what is written on the far sides of stars. I’m nearly out of time. My heart is a dragonfly. I’ll have to settle for this, standing under a waterfall of words you never said. There are times like this when no ending appears, times when I am so inconsolably happy… ~ Richard Jackson

The dawn arrives… everything becomes silent. The world breathes. The angels disappear into the images of Fra Angelico. Da Vinci sleeps. Boticcelli opens his eyes. The world begins under a pale blue sky. Rather bluish. Until we see each other again… ~ Henry Miller (Photo by Anne Menke)