"I said to my soul be still..."

I've chosen to begin with a sombre poem.  The Wasteland is a sombre place.  Recognising the reflection of my own state in someone else's words was a comfort: I was not alone after all, and there were words for it.  Here they are:
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
For the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again?  In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.
This extract is from Part Three of T.S. Eliot's poem, "East Coker". 

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The Wasteland ~ a geography

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