Have pity on me, O Lord, for the burden of my solitude is more than I can bear.  Nothing have I to look forward to, and no voice comes to me in this room where I sit alone. Nevertheless, it is no human presence I crave, since I feel myself even more derelict when I plunge into the crowd.  Yet many another woman there is like me, alone in a house like mine, who none the less feels contented with her lot, if those whom she loves are going about their tasks elsewhere in the house.  She can neither hear nor see them.  For the moment she is receiving nothing from them. But in knowing that these others are in the house – unseen, unheard albeit – she find her happiness.

O Lord, I, too, ask for nothing that may be seen or heard.  Thy miracles touch not the senses.  If Thou willst but enlighten my spirit as to this my dwelling, surely I shall be healed of my distress.

The wanderer in the desert, if he belongs to a house that is dwelt in, has joy of it, even though it lies at the world’s’ utmost rim. No distance can prevent him from being sustained by it, and, should he die in the desert, he dies in love.  Therefore, O Lord, I ask not even this, that my dwelling place should be near.

If, walking in a crowd, a man sees all of a sudden a face that thrills him, lo, he is a man transfigured, even though that face be not for him!  Thus it was with the soldier who loved a queen.  He became the soldier of a queen, and all his life was changed. Therefore, O Lord, I ask not even this, that the dwelling place whereof I dream be promised me.

Far out on the high seas rove fervent men who give their lives to seeking an isle existing only in their dreams.  Now and again they hymn, these happy mariners that island of the blest, and their hearts swell with joy.  And it is not the hoped-for landfall that crowns their cup of happiness, but the hymn they sing.  Therefore, O Lord, I ask not even this, that somewhere in the world there should exist the dwelling place I crave…

Loneliness is bred of a mind that has grown earthbound. For the spirit has its homeland, which is the realm of the meaning of things.  Thus it is with the temple, when it bespeaks the meaning of the stones. Only in this boundless empyrean can the mind take wing. Not in things-in-themselves does it rejoice but only in the visage which it reads behind them and which binds them into oneness. Grant me but this, O Lord: that I may learn to read. Then forever will be lifted from my shoulders the burden of my solitude.

Antoine St. Exupery (1900—1944) was a French aristocrat, writer, poet, and pioneering aviator. He became a laureate of several of France’s highest literary awards. During World War II he disappeared while flying a reconnaissance mission; in 2004 some wreckage of his plane were discovered off the coast of Marseilles.

Loneliness … who has not felt that cool, mute touch that freezes the heart. The woman in this prayer wants to be released from this loneliness but has already realized that the ordinary answers do not suffice. She does not pray for companionship or for anything that might be seen or heard. She does not ask for the home she has dreamed of and been promised. Instead, the woman asks that her spirit may take wing and be bound into oneness. Only then can the burden of her solitude be lifted.

Yes, this is the same person who wrote The Little Prince. But in addition to that famous and much-loved children’s story, Saint-Exupery also wrote a number of lyrical books about his experience as a flyer in the early days of aviation including Wind, Sand and Stars and Night Flight. He was truly a man of the air and his descriptions of that life are intimate and profound.

My personal favorite is titled The Wisdom of the Sands, an allegorical tale of a mythical king. Saint-Exupery is one of my desert island authors and I have reread his books several times for the beauty of his expression.