Only this: That I am thinking of each of us as God's poems, that I am speaking of a spirit that must make, must touch, must express.
That I will try to do a better job of simply listening to the dream rather than thinking I have the breath to lift it. That is His place, pneuma.
And I am reliving: that when someone says, "I don't like it," we put it away and find something else to do, trying once again to please. Hating the gift. Doubting that we can make do.
SO: I am not going to find something else to do. (I was the one. I was the one whispering in the corner, "I don't like it." The voice of the liar. And, listen here, liar: I resist you.)
I don't just like it, I love it. Completely. Because it is a part of the poem that has only just been written in me by Him. And what I love of myself is all that He has made. The rest: vanity, fear, doubt. Such lies.
This is a person making something, and this is a person resisting. I stand there.
"Do not go gentle into that good night..."