Abstract

I delight in sharing Cathleen Going’s cloistered imaging, “singer at the heart of the universe,” an image teeming with reachings: who is the singer, the sung, the song, what is the heart of the universe? So I am led to weave into my response a context for such reachings, three poems out of 43 centuries of feminine reaching that divide the reply, that subtly call us to tune into the dark womb of being that is history’s unfinished symphony. There is the scavenging Spirit, there is the Jasmine Lord, there is the Singer axially named the Father, breathing all inward