I have not the eloquence of Rumi, Hafiz, Tagore, mystics and saints. Their gift was to pen the wondrous moments when the Divine’s gaze fell into their eyes. I have only the gift bestowed that turned my head to see. A stick of incense lit to give gratitude for the day. Not for its fragrance — I have never had the sense of smell. No, the incense is lit for the fragrance of hope that fills my heart and requires no other sense. The whisper to look and see the folds, dance, elegance and grace of the smoke. The setting sun’s rays streaming behind its dance. I have not the eloquence of Rumi, Hafiz, Tagore, mystics, and saints. My lack will leave you with a mystery to ponder for your own. I sat and watched this dance as the Whisper spoke so softly, “This is how you pray.”