When they ask to see your gods, your book of prayers, show them lines drawn delicately with veins on the underside of a bird's wing. Tell them you believe in giant sycamores mottled and stark against a winter sky and in nights so frozen stars crack open, spilling streams of molten ice to earth, and tell them how you drank the holy wine of honeysuckle on a warm spring day and of the softness of your mother who never taught you death was life's reward but who believed in the earth and the sun and a million, million light years of being.
"There's only one way to become a butterfly, and that is to grow your own wings. You can be a caterpillar with a hang-glider for as long as you like, but you'll only be kidding yourself. And there's only one way to grow wings- and that is through the cocoon... but it can be dark and lonely in there; it takes courage."
-- Owl, from Qzoo.
I searched for the moon and found it all in one piece, still spilling forth with light.
"Listen to what you know instead of what you fear." Richard Bach