Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest,

Breathing like the ones in the old stories,

Who could cross a shimmering bed of leaves with out a sound,

You come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests,

conceived out of nowhere but in this place lead everywhere.

Requests to stop what you are doing right now, and to stop what you are becoming while you do it.

Questions that can make or unmake a life,

Questions that have patiently waited for you,

Questions that have no right to go away.

By David Whyte