So there's a section for writers.
That meaning molecule is in that section,
and I'm going to read a poem that
was in The New Yorker called "Winter Song for One Who
Suffers."
Bob and I attend an Episcopal church in Inverness sometimes,
and I actually wrote this in church.
I'm sure that our priest--
I told our priest that I had done that.
And I told him early, I identify as an Episcopagan,
so he knows I'm already irreverent.
But the good thing about being able to just sort of hear
the message and then channeling the other stuff is--
I think that's how spirituality works best.
"Winter Song for One Who Suffers."
And the reason I wanted to read this is the place that is
referred to in here is Masada.
And I've been thinking a lot of--
I worked on a kibbutz in Israel.
And I spent time in Masada and sort of crouching there,
and so it came up.
"Winter Song for One Who Suffers."
The stars stand up behind the day.
Unknown dove balances on its claw at the window.
A cosmic incident of darkness has begun,
and a mild excess of beauty will be offered to the dead, which
they will eat.
On a hill, the wise man serves the people.
Your thoughts splits in half when
he speaks of the old revolts, the return of apocalypse,
motive, and advancement.
A soul can crouch a long time while the heart expands
to reach its edges.
What is missing past the glitter of the harvest?
Friend, you chose to live.
How?
You did.
So many choices, not just to encrypt it
behind the mystery of the sun.
Then the hurt was set aside, indeterminate chaos
called in by love.
That poem was in The New Yorker.
And when The New Yorker publishes things,
you know your dentist will read it.
[LAUGHTER]
And so my dentist commented on that poem.
Like, I don't understand your poem,
but I got that it was about somebody feeling bad.
And--
[LAUGHTER]
It was written for a person who survived a suicide encounter.