Undone.

I love the paradoxical nature of humanity. I love the rare find of a man or a woman who--in one life--can represent such excruciatingly conflicting natures of the human race. A soul which has sung with the choirs as well as danced with the covens. A soul which understands the heights--and the depths--to which humanity can aspire.

I recently became reacquainted with one such soul

from seventeenth-century England.

John Donne wrote everything from sex to God. He lived, he loved, he lost, he questioned, he cried, he taught, he lusted, he prayed, he pleaded, he taunted, he crafted, he dove, he climbed.

He felt.

I have the ability to be moved by literature, but rarely do I sob shamelessly at words on a page. Sunday evening was one such rare occasion, courtesy of John Donne.



Some know him as "Doctor"; others prefer the wicked musings of "Jack." To me, it's all John.