You Are Morwenna
Y
ou are Morwenna. You live in a handmade hut at the top of an English cliff. The air tastes of salt spray and seaweed. The cries of choughs and kestrels wake you at dawn and soothe you at dusk. The wind billows and whistles around you, catching your breath and tossing it into your face. A wild sea batters the foot of your cliff, but you pray and seek peace in your hut, and you are not afraid. The land behind you is lush and green but full of poverty and suffering. You are often there, breaking your solitude to visit the farmers and villagers. Their huts are small and handmade, just like yours, but their burdens are heavy, and they find no peace. Their children are hungry. Their clothes are threadbare. Their hearts are weary, seeking blindly for God. You feel their sorrows crowding around you. You tend the sick and try to find food for the hungry. They thank you for your kindness, but you know that a full belly does not ease an anxious heart. In your quiet hut you find a comfort that you are not able to share with them. One morning, you wake early with your face and hands pressed against the stone floor of your hut. You begin praying, as always, but the texture of the stone against your face and hands distracts
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