Poem from Rilke

Only in our doing can we grasp you,
Only with our hands can we illumine you.
The mind is but a visitor:
it thinks us out of our world.

Each mind fabricates itself.
We sense its limits, for we have made them.
And just when we would flee them, you come
and make of yourself an offering.

I don't want to think a place for you.
Speak to me from everywhere.
Your Gospel can be comprehended
without looking for its source.

When I go toward you
it is with my whole life.

I, 51

(From Rilke's Book of Hours: Letters to a Young Poet, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

I am awaiting someone from the moving company to inspect my belongings so they know how to pack it up. In the meantime, I picked up the above book and found the above poem. Every stanza says something profound. "I don't want to think a place for you/Speak to me from everywhere." How often do we compartmentalize the Sacred? Is it found only in church, or in heaven? I do find God speaking to me from everywhere--if I listen for God's voice. All of God's creation speaks to me, if I will hear it. I'm not the only one.