Dick grew up on the outskirts of a small farming town in Kansas, surrounded by amber waves of grain and beautiful spacious skies. Though it's been a long time since he lived in Kansas, the natural beauty and solitude of its vast, open fields and skies still inform his poetic sensibility. He has loved poetry since he first discovered the poetry section of his hometown's public library when he was nine years old.

In reading and writing poems, Dick attends to the inner voices he hears, taking heart from what they have to say. For him, he says, composing a poem is more of a listening than a writing activity. A poem begins when he hears a few words from what strikes him as an authoritative inner voice. Then he joins in, singing along with it and listening for further developments and refinements of that original impulse. Over the years, he says, his poetry writing practice has meant a variety of things to him, from opportunities for personal and psychological growth to vehicles for gratitude and spiritual surrender.

Since coming to Meher Baba in 2001, Dick has increasingly come to acknowledge Baba as his source of inspiration and his aim in writing poems. He takes the words in Baba's "You Alone Exist" prayer, "You are pen and ink and You are the gifted writer" both as an expression of the ultimate truth that God is the Sole Authority and as an invitation from Baba to participate with Him in the practice of using words to help bring the listener to the heartful Silence of His Love.

In June 2006, Dick will be publishing a book of poems dedicated to Meher Baba entitled Recipes for Gratitude,several of which appear below.

BIRTHDAY PARTY AT MEHER CENTER

All weekend long,
however long that is.
Stretching out
like the endless vista
of an Indian plain.
Rain, a steady drizzle,
drop upon drop.
Sunny, not a cloud
in the sky, blue
the bluest ever, wind
swaying the trees
and you. There's a
spring in your step,
in the air, Christmas
and Easter rolled into
One. The Ancient One,
His birthday. Rain:
Someone is getting
married to God
now, to the music
of raindrops plopping
and the peeping
of tree frogs. Wine:
The Wineshop
is wide open,
and the Keeper is
serving cup after cup,
a swallow per inbreath,
a refill per outbreath,
heartbeat after heartbeat;
not the kind that
gets you drunk on
yourself but that gets you
laughing with the Sun
behind the sun, gives you
a taste of His
Infinite Bliss.
Sun: He lights up
everything
in His wondrous Love.

YOU MEET ALL KINDS

You meet all kinds,
says someone at the party,
and suddenly you get
the necessity of that,
since you ARE all kinds.

POETRY IS SOMETHING

Poetry is something we
all have in common,
though many might
think they have no
inkling of what it is,
nor experience of it
except in heavy books
they had to read in school―
quite ironic, really, since
poetry can be said to
BE the having no inkling,
no school to experience
but one's own. It can be
in print or not, spoken
or unspoken, in gesture
or stillness
or whatever grace
the moment presents.
It's like presence there
is no being absent from,
attended to or not.
And attending to it
is so very much fun.

THE DANCE OF IT ALL

You don't have to take dance classes
or see the Bolshoi to enjoy dancing.
You just have to feel the move
you're making, in mind and body,
as one flowing from point to point,
coordinated, timed―and then
you're dancing, and it's all a dance
in a dance hall by the name of Now.

AN EYE AND A SYSTEM

You hand some love
to those around you
and beam home
through the big window,
which is an eye
and a system.
When you're not only a shoe
but a trumpet
and give your tears blue
in the green light moment,
you go with the pianissimo
and cruise on.

NOTHING YOU CAN DO

There's nothing you can do
to slow or quicken events.

Time passes as time passes.
Space, too, as it will,

curls up before the fire
and dreams away the day.

This whole wide world
is a dream of lonely longing.

But isn't that the Friend
you hear calling from the door?

IN THE WHOLE

The beauty of the negative
is that it carries itself out
with such effortless precision
and no need of the attention
of others. It always
wins because the game
it plays by itself is loss.

The beauty of the positive
is that it invites others
to play the game together
with it and give it
effort and attention
toward gaining the victory
of freedom from loss.

The beauty of beauty
is that it accepts both
negative and positive
as valuable players in the
dynamic, win-win whole.
With beauty, the game
is over before it begins.

EMPTY NETS

At a certain point
during twilight,
you see, hauling in
the empty nets
of the day's waking
dreams, that the slow
fading of the light
abruptly picks up speed
and drops into
dusk. The Source,
you remember for the
umpteenth time―
what was I in the
beginning, before
embarking on this
quest? Am I not
on my way home?

A KEY MADE OF SONG

Can words free one
from the tyranny
of words?

There´s no lock
on a cage made of words,
but to fly off

into the silence of freedom
a key made of song
can come in handy.

TWO ORANGES

It´s true, I can personally testify:
Anything is possible.
And when the so-called impossible
finds its way into being
it abandons its impossibility
with the effortlessness of a butterfly
flying off from its cocoon.

For years I´d been cranking out one obscure poem
after the next when practically overnight
one of my works launched me into a limelight
so bright I could barely see what was happening.

If someone had predicted that
my modest, self-published, book-length poem
"To Be AND Not to Be"
would eventually reach millions of readers
and threaten to turn my unknown existence
into the superstar life
of a Michael Jordan or Tom Cruise,
I would´ve been the first to laugh
at such an absurd notion.
But somehow―with its positive transformation
of an old, familiar riddle, I suppose,
its radical way out of dualism's despair―
the poem struck a chord,
was reissued by a big publisher,
hit the bestseller list,
broke sales records,
became an indispensable coffee table item,
was read and discussed in schools across the land,
was translated into several languages,
got critics hailing a new era in which
poetry would reclaim its ancient prominence,
and got me checking out various
disguise options in costume stores.

The resulting bizarre stardom
that blazed up around me was staggering.
I managed to survive the readings
and book-signing appearances promoting my book,
even the interviews and talk shows,
but eventually I had to draw the line.
I became more and more reclusive.
"No, thank you" became my constant mantra.
No, I didn´t want to do a commercial
for Levi's blue jeans that had me reciting lines
from my book as I got out of bed with a sexy blonde
and pulled on a pair of Levi´s.
No, I didn't want to recite a few lines
as I slipped off my Hanes and got into bed
with a sexy blonde admiring my shorts.
No, I didn't want to recite a line or two
as I tore open a Gold Circle Coin condom package
with a sexy blonde draped around me.

My publisher told me that I was crazy
to turn down millions of easy endorsement bucks
and all the additional fame
that sort of hype would bring―to me
and to his company.

I told him that products
should be promoted by their producers,
not by celebrities casting spells on consumers.

He said I was incredibly naive about the reciprocity
business entailed. Poetry might grow on trees,
he said angrily, but money doesn't.
It flows from one node in the system to other nodes
and back. Consider your book on its deathbed.
To be AND not to be, I said.

He was right about the deathbed thing.
It wasn't long before my book didn't warrant
another printing. Sales slowed almost to a halt.

And so it was I became one of those "Whatever
happened to . . .?" overnight sensations.
Hold your tears, though, poetry fans.
I couldn´t be happier now,
strolling freely down the street
from my neighborhood grocery once again,
juggling a couple of beautiful, bright oranges,
rising and falling in the fresh, blue sky.

SPRING BEAUTY

Not catching
a single petal,
the little girl
in the light
pink dress,
arms and hands
outstretched,
still smiles,
looking up at
the cherry tree.

BLOOMING

Twilight:
a blooming
redbud
along the road
tinges the woods
behind it
violet.

A FORTUNE COOKIE FORTUNE

Gratitude is the key to happiness,
says my fortune cookie.

Okay, but what's the key to gratitude?
I ask.

Acceptance is the key to gratitude,
I hear.

Okay, but what's the key to acceptance?
I ask.

Grace is the key to acceptance,
I hear.

Okay, but what's the key to grace?
I ask.

. . . Long pause . . . There's no key
to that door, silence intimates.

And no door, either.
Grace is everywhere.

BEHIND THESE VEILS

We words have been searching
for a long, long time.
We can´t put a number
on the years; it's been
longer than numbers or years―
longer and shorter;
all of history, in fact,
is really one big zero.
And though we're more like
shifting sands or dusty tents
than timeless beauty,
we CAN say this:
Behind these veils we are,
made of all the knowing
and not knowing,
the remembering and forgetting
and remembering again,
is Pure, Eternal Radiance.

YOU THINK OF SOMETHING

you think of something
and there it is

you take a walk
and trees wave

you sit in the grass
and remember it all

you look up
and birds are flying through

you feel it happening
and mountains move

BEST ACTOR

Funny how we
differentiate and evaluate
performance in this
movie of a life. Acting
performance awards such as
Oscars and Golden Globes
are presented only to those
in the movie-within-a-movie
business. Indeed, yes,
that celebrated kind of best
actor deserves an award
for his or her work,
but perhaps even
more deserving is one
not trained to pretend
on stage or screen―
that is, any one of us
unwittingly pretending to be
bored, unhappy,
unkind, complacent,
ungrateful, hateful.
At one time or another
in our dramatic lives,
we should all get
Golden Globes for our
stellar performances
in those demanding roles.

YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING

You wake up in the morning and remember
who you are― well, who you have

decided you are, that is. You still haven't
experienced who you REALLY are,

though you would like to think you have
some idea about what that would be like.

You wake up in the morning and right away,
still lying in bed, start

talking to yourself in your head,
in the same language you spoke

to yourself the last time
this happened, the day before.

You wake up in the morning and sense that
only a moment before you were somewhere

else in some other time
or nowhere in no time, and

this happens over and over again as God
the Awakener draws you to Himself.

LONG TO LONG

Cheer up, dry-hearted lover of God!

If you sink too low into the blue
to the exclusion of life's other colors,
you´ll miss the rainbow
and you might not be able to hear Him
when He arrives at your door to take you out.

If even your longing for Him has hidden from you,
take that as the form your longing has taken
and return your gaze to His image in your heart.

If you´re tied to your chair and holding yourself up,
do you think you´ll suddenly be
able to jump up happily at the sight of Him,
like your dog when he sees you coming home?

Cheer up, dear desolate heart!
With all the frequent flyer miles
your flights to desert mirages have accumulated,
your trip to the Pearl in the Ocean of Love
is just around the corner.

FROM OM TO HOME

Why not joyfully
take this road of loss,
of passing beauty?
It is, after all,
the way Home.

AN OPEN BOOK

Meher Baba―
God-man―
lived every moment
knowing that
it would be
an open book to all
who would be
drawn to His Love,
the far-reaching
significance
of each of those
moments telling
its story in
everyone's
moments,ever
revealing its
tailor-made,
love-affirming
essence with
perfect timing.
A wholly
unique book, its
pages made not of
paper or electronic
transmission
but of God
in person!

NO MATCH

Every day, it becomes
clearer and clearer to me,

one of the many self-inflated specks
in this vast, illusory universe,

that I'm no match for the hardened
thoughts that keep shaping me

to ego-driven order.
I´m soft stone, and what a mad sculptor

chisels away
at my imaginary form.

Divine Beloved,
loosen my grip on the tools

of self-serving attachment
so that I may hold on

to the hem of Your garment
and simply be myself in You.

A LIFE

To be a knife
carefully
honed
at the grindstone
of suffering,
to cut and
cut away,
to be thrown,
in the end,
into the sea
of liberation―
oh, what a life!

SHINE ON

Wall in the middle of nowhere,
you must fall and you will.

Veil, take time if you so love to
dance, but unveil.

Outside, are you out there
to hide?

Inside, come out and play.
No one's died.

Moon, gone again?
Come back soon.

Sun, shine on,
shadow of the Eternal One.

NOW

Where am I going
now?

It´s Love
I have

to get to
from Love.

AS THIS AS THAT

As wind I am one with breath and trees

As a road I am beginning, middle, and end
all at once

As the wayside I welcome seeds of any kind

As a mountain I know my way to the sky

As a river I wind through the woods,
fall from ledge to ledge

As a stone I plumb the depths of tranquillity

As a thought I appear and disappear, a yellow
butterfly flitting through yellow leaves

As starlight I wend my way through time

As wine I age and grow in worth

As song I play bird, tuba, cello

As spring I melt into the tears of rebirth

As summer I roar with cicadas

As fall I anticipate the moment of release

As winter I suddenly crystallize

As form I pose imaginary edges on things

As emptiness I delight in fullness

As an answer I ponder the question

As a day I drop into the quiet pool of eternity

As life I make peace with death

As bread I find my life in others´ life

As a poem I live in the heart and flow
throughout

WITH GRATITUDE

The poetry within
the prose of your life
weighs lightly on you,
like an invisible
balloon that lifts you
just above the trees.
From there, looking
up into the blue
becomes your chosen
occupation. At the
same time,
it´s the inspiring
earthy prose
of landscapes and people
that buoys
your lyrical lift,
and with gratitude
you find your feet
happy to be
on the ground.

METER MEHER

Beloved Lord Meher,
humorous Master of life
as a jest, the subtle, everyday
ways You package a Love message
continue to amaze and delight.
How many times, for example,
had the spelling tool suggested
that I replace Your Name
with the word Meter
and I just skipped through
without getting that?
Thanks for still another
timed-release laugh, dear Baba,
and for being my constant Meter―
my Cadence, my Measure,
my Beat. How Perfect it is
that only the Immeasurable
One can be the Meter of all!

IN AND OUT OF FRAME

Closer and closer, the departing arrival.
As the scene nears your opening heart,
it moves in and out of frame, colorful
particles dancing to a subtle music you let in
like the love you don't want to turn away again.
Light that was there is there is one
truth you draw from the moment,
walking down the hill from sunset into dusk.
Then the darkness that takes you
face to face with the demons you've kept
around yourself as bodyguards
but never really looked in the eye
softens into that warm face coming to you
like the widening evening star.

THE BIG CLUB

The big club that you've never
really had anything to do with
but that's always hung over
your head like a falling net
is thread by thread
losing its power over you.
It's still there, but it isn´t.
You still hear the incessant chatter
of its Doomsday prophecy, but you´re
listening to something else
now, the Silence of One
nearer to you than yourself,
the One unraveling the net
and canceling your membership
in that overrated, phantom club.

APPROACHING BEAUTY

You try hard, dear,
thinking there's so
much you need to do
to approach beauty,
and that´s good,
but remember:
it´s not the trying
that makes a beauty
like you
beautiful; it´s
the shine in your eyes,
the sigh of awe
in facing the beauty
of nothing but all.

THE GREATEST GIFT

―for Darwin Shaw,
in memoriam

Let Today´s Light be
the marker
of yesterday´s grave,
Almighty Giver
and Taker Away.
And at the end of the day,
let the epitaph read,
"The greatest gift is to be
taken away to You, Dear Love,
in Radiant Eternity."

WHEN I TALK WITH YOU

When I talk with You
Beloved God
it's about Nothing
because Everything
comes from Your Nothing
and returns to It
when I talk with You
it´s about Everything
all at once
in the single moment
Nothing is
without things
and metaphors for things
the beauty
when I talk with You
it´s about light
sifting through leaves
never really
there in the first place
in this empty
shining talk with You

THE ROAD TO REALITY

On and on,
the road to Reality
gets pulled out from
under the wheels
of imagination.

So much is
taken for granted,
especially that which
really matters:
Being Itself,
Love Divine.

Silence, so deep
and unassuming,
is pure poetry,
consciousness
its timeless voice.

We´re like little trees,
walking about
on our roots,
with birds calling out
to each other
from our branches.

We´re tiny roadside
houses here and there,
coming to life
under the vanishing stars
of fragrant dawn.

Dear scattered,
aimless mind,
dissolve now
in the radiant colors
sifting through your
faded curtains.

WARP AND WOOF

Inside
the particle

the
wave,

and inside
the wave

the
particle.

It´s
quite a

game
they play,

not
knowing

what's going
to happen

as they
tailor-make

God´s
wardrobe.

HERE HE IS AGAIN

Here he is again
at the front door― Pain,
uninvited, frightening.
And at the back door, too!

"Sorry to disturb you
again," he says, "but I'm
just here to remind you
that your options are
not closed, as you tend to
think. In fact, they´re
actually quite
open, this ever
being an open mystery
of possibility,
and I encourage you
to look into them
immediately.
You keep forgetting:
Your limits are
self-imposed. It's that
closed-door self
of yours, really,
that's the uninvited
guest you fear.
If you let me in for awhile
and treat me well,
I´ll soon be on my way
and you'll find that I´m
not fearsome at all
but your dear friend."

IMPERATIVES

Forget the last sentence.
Take away your fingers

and just listen for a while.
Pray for Love's liberating

Grace. Wait for a wall
to lean against you

and dissolve as it whispers
sweet nothings in your ear.

Look up and welcome the moon
as your long lost sister.

WORD AND SILENCE

Word and Silence aren't opponents
shooting at different goals

on opposite sides of the field;
they play for the same team.

The screaming old king of reason's constant,
insane command, "Off with their heads!"

works only to drown him in the heart´s
blood of the so-called infidels and heretics.

Meanwhile, Word in the Silence
of humble intuition scores the victory.

BUT SING

Sometimes I get tired even of writing poems,
though they always make me happy to be with them.

The sun comes up and with it come the words.
The sun goes down and the words follow.

Words are like sheep in a lot of ways;
they like to have a shepherd take care of them.

In these forlorn hills of song and dance,
there's not much else to do but sing.

Okay, then, little lamb words, I give in again,
I'll hold you and sing you to sleep.

THAT LITTLE SHOP
DOWN AN ALLEY SOMEWHERE

Again and again You´ve pointed out that
ideas, words, and deeds
are mere window dressing to lure us inside,
but once You've drawn us to Your shop
with such glimmerings how are we to get in
if the door's locked and You don't post
Your hours of operation?

Some people say that Your shop doesn't actually
exist, others that it does but that You're never there,
and still others that they've occasionally seen
a light on or heard things going on inside but that
when they've reached for the door handle
it's suddenly vanished.

"Knock and it will be opened to you,"
You've been quoted as saying,
but how can we know that we're knocking on the
right door when our tendency is to get lost
and make all kinds of mistakes, especially about
the most important matters of all?

And then when we feel sure that we've found
the right door, there´s the question of
how to knock. Loudly? Gently? Three times?
In some secret sacred code that we´ll know
only if You've already revealed it to us?

And once we finally somehow find ourselves
inside Your dazzling shop,
how about the kind of currency we'll need
to purchase the Priceless Pearl we´ve been
longing for, consciously and unconsciously,
for such a very long time?

O Divine Master Jeweler, I sincerely believe
that You are personally open to all,
that the snobbish exclusiveness of other kinds
of high-end shops has nothing to do
with the Perfect Exquisiteness
of Your shop and its resplendent goods.

Radiant Beloved, I believe You when You say that
the Pearl is at the bottom of the Ocean of Love
You are and must be dived and died for,
but sometimes such exalted metaphors make my head
spin and I get confused by the beauty of Your words.

O All-Generous Giver of Life, now that I sing this,
I have a vague memory of your having already
answered all my questions and handed me the key
to your glorious shop. How could I have been
so dream-driven to have then forgotten
where I put the key for safekeeping?
Why did I stash it away at all?
Why didn´t I use it at once?

I trust that one day I'll find that key in my hand
again, Dearest Jewel of my heart.
Now the tumbler will turn, and
the door to Your shop will open to me.
Stepping inside at last, I'll find myself deep
underwater, walking buoyantly toward the Shining
Pearl of Your Infinitely Patient Grace.

POETRY´S THIS

Poetry´s this abandoned highway,
weeds flowering in the cracks,
an old hearse that rides great.

WINGS OF LOVE

Wings of love
have flown me
closer and closer
to You. Now
one moment I am
a delicate butterfly
alighting, the next
a drunken bumblebee.

A CUP OF TEARS

I´m still giddy
from the intoxicating
tears You poured
into my cup,
and I hardly care
if I ever steady
myself again. If there´s
work to be done,
I'll use those tears
as fuel. When it´s time
to play, they'll reappear
with hearty laughter.

BELOVED AVATAR MEHER BABA!

Thank You for this beautiful life,
this wondrous consciousness,
this holy charge to manifest
Your Divine Glory.

In the abundance of Your Grace,
move us beyond mere words
to the Loving Silence
of Your Living Presence.

And for Your Dear Sake,
All-Suffering, Compassionate Lord,
awaken us to our True Self
You are, the One and Only One.

CONTINUOUSLY

The Divine Lovefest
is a gift that
comes wrapped
in so many different
ways―and
not just on birthdays
and other anniversaries
but continuously,
moment to moment.
Though we may
sleep and dream,
the wedding is always
about to begin,
the festive music and
dancing never end,
and the present
keeps pouring in
from everyone
and everything
everywhere,
just waiting to
be opened, to offer
itself here at this
Eternal Lovefest.

STRINGS

You never know what´s
really going on.
What you take to be
this or that, what
seems to be happening
or not happening
according to your
perception and purposes,
may actually be a mere
sideshow in the
bigger picture.
Perception, after all, is not
omniscient consciousness.
Perception is just a habit of
looking at things and
interpreting them
from the particular
set of angles you've
come to acknowledge.
Concerning some
distant person or event
you can easily
think and say
"No relation,"
but such a statement
ignores the truth that
it's only in the mind
that the indivisible
is divided in the first place.
The vast strings bringing
everything together
reach far beyond
conventional notions
of time and space. It´s
quite a web God spins
and you find yourself in!
Quite a hammock
He rocks you in!
Quite a large net
full of lively fish He keeps
catching and throwing
back into the sea!
And "coincidence"―that
pseudo-objective concept―
is an outright misconception.

A wealthy American
woman who owns
several businesses, say,
is visiting Seoul, Korea,
mixing business and pleasure.
One day, stepping out of
the shopping mall
adjoining the InterContinental Hotel,
she looks up and sees
a huge sculpture of Maitreya,
the great Awakened One to come,
standing atop a nearby hill.
Though she is
not a Buddhist
nor a practitioner of any
other faith, she feels
drawn to the sculpture
and immediately suspends
her shopping expedition
to get a closer look at it
if possible.
Soon she passes through
a colorful gateway
into the grounds of a large
compound of Buddhist
temples. Making her
way to the Maitreya
through this
lovely garden of a place,
she feels directed to enter one
of the little temples.
Inside are three small
Buddhas and a sturdy
little old Korean woman,
who immediately begins
to tell her something
in Korean. Unfortunately,
the American woman
can speak only English.
No matter―
the resourceful Korean
demonstrates what she
wants of the American:
for her to bow seven times
before each of the three Buddhas.
For some reason
unknown to herself,
the American follows
the Korean´s orders and
begins to bow. When she
performs the bows
incorrectly―not slowly,
not deeply enough―
the Korean sternly
takes hold of her and shows her
again how to bow properly.
Once the American has
completed her twenty-one
full-body bows, she
smiles―genuinely,
thanks the Korean, and
steps back out into the
bright sunlight, wondering
what´s just happened.

Meanwhile, at that
very moment on the
opposite side of the earth,
in Los Angeles, where
the American woman lives,
a beautiful but very sad
sixteen-year-old Korean girl
whose family has
recently immigrated to the U.S.
slowly lowers the knife
she had poised over
her jugular vein a moment
before. She is in her bedroom
with the door locked
and only a flickering candle flame
to keep her company.
She doesn't know
why she lays the knife
down. It isn't that she
lost her nerve or was
suddenly struck by a fear
of death. She´d given
plenty of thought to
what she was going to do
and was quite ready to
turn herself into a hungry ghost
for who knows how long.
The life of a ghost couldn´t be
much different from
the lonely, frustrating life
she was already forced to live
in Buddha-forsaken America,
she´d decided. But now,
for some reason
unknown to herself,
she feels a lightness
within herself and all around,
rays of hope and courage
filling her being.
She looks down at the knife,
shining like an angel's wing
in the candlelight,
and tears well up
in her eyelids. When she
turns to look directly
at the candle flame,
her tears spill over the edge
onto her cheeks
and the flame stands taller
and brighter. Lord Buddha,
dear Buddha, Lord Buddha,
she prays, smiling
through her tears.

Or, less dramatic
but equally compelling,
the situation of a man
on a subway train, beginning
to smile. His work's done
for the day, and now
he´s on his way home
to play with his wife and
one-month-old baby.
The thought of all that
brings his expectant,
happy feeling, which then
brings his smile.

At that same moment,
in the seat directly
in front of the smiling man,
another man,
whose back is to the first,
suddenly comes to
the startling realization
that he is alive. He is here
on Earth and he is alive.
Only a moment before,
he'd been bored to death,
about to nod off.

O the strings,
the mighty strings that join,
the golden strings of pure Oneness!
And O the smiles,
the loving smiles that heal,
the healing smiles that say it all!

TEN THOUSAND CRANES

Overhead, low gray clouds roll in,
and the sun goes into seclusion.
Down here, things come to a quiet standstill.
Even the gentlest breeze has wandered off somewhere.
As still as can be in their longing,
the topmost needles of the tallest pines
taper into the absence. Without a ripple,
the lake mirrors a pure expectancy.
In my head, I hear my heart beat.
How very close, Beloved, You must be!