sense of distance and the seed of the sands blew on the wind which
carried me. It taught me how to walk softly through life, and coming
home I had the sand in my hair. I know now what clouds are, softer
than the breasts of doves. God's flying sorrows are the sandals of the
soul. They make us His angels, Mercuries of Light. The sun has not
bled for many a night, but has slowly descended in silver splendor,
always a second dawn with its fresh, keen, cool surprises. Today was
the grace of last night's desire. The wonder of it this morning was my
complete surrender, the assurance with which I moved on the singing
skies as my native element. I know that only the appearances remained,
as in the Eucharist after the Consecration we seem to see the bread
and wine. Life was the poise of infinity, and I knew of no horizon,
for I could look down upon the dawn. It came two weeks ago Sunday in
my heart. I see the mystery of the Resurrection in its beauty, and why
white lilies are its deepest symbol. How can there be a prison or a
cage? Every twilight is a white horizon. The gulls know that and the
sea tonight has lost its sorrow.


August 21.

By sailboat to P---- and G---- with the silent man, returning with the
stars. Their hosting was like the flocking of wild geese, and they
followed St. Francis of Assisi as a leader, the captain of the morning
stars. In the silence I heard the operation of the divine mathematics.

I loved those Chaldean seers to whom God talked directly and wrote His
message upon the stars. I lay prone on the deck looking upwards and
fell into the Divine Ocean slowly. The moon rode serenely to the
southwest, and humanity was with me in the boat. Navigators are now