Being away for nine months of the year is enough to make one forget, to sharpen the senses, to put an edge on wonder. I step onto the terrace and that old Monet, the Sun, daubs and spatters. Brushstrokes of pure thermonuclear fire.
I hope I never become oblivious, jaded, deaf and blind. I think of a few lines from a poem of Grace Schulman, in a different context, describing a different kind of theatrical experience:
My father said: "It helps us bear God's silences,"
and I knew watching was a kind of prayer,
a make-believe you play by looking hard.