“How are you?" I call tentatively.

 The room is dark. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I reach my hand out, waving it in the dark till it touches the string; and I pull. The click frightens us both in the silence. I see cobwebs hanging from the rafters. The light is weak against the thick gloom gathered in the corners, but it's there. A small circle of yellow on the dirt floor.

Sometimes when we move toward what our souls are longing for, we get afraid. Afraid of what others will think. Afraid of failing. Afraid that there isn’t really a way to make what we long to do happen.