More than we like to think, says Whyte, we all find or put ourselves in small, limited stories, barely vignettes really, the "plot" pretty much limited to keeping safe and secure, doing what society's rulebook mandates. Soul doesn't figure largely in these narrow, puny tales. How do you get into the Big Story? If you've curled yourself up into a tight, anxious little ball to squeeze into a narrative that's too small for you, how can you unfold yourself and straighten up so you can breathe, walk, and run?

You must learn one thing.

The world was meant to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds

Except the one to which you belong.

(from "Sweet Darkness")

As a poet, and therefore by long history and ancient custom a soul's physician, Whyte offers the deepest resonance of language and the power of the imagination as guides to the journey of the soul. Through poetry and stories, enhanced by an actor's mastery of tone and tempo, he shows you the far more spacious, bountiful, and mysterious world beyond your bleak cell, and makes you understand that you belong, and have always belonged, to this vast and magnificent world—-you out there in the 10th row from the front, 17th seat in from the left. You are enfolded in the whole of nature, connected to your family, your ancestors, and your ancestors' ancestors, all the way back to the origins of human history and before. You are heir to an endless, fathomless sea of imagination—a word that comes from a Latin verb meaning 'to picture to oneself, to make images', and with them the visions, dreams, ideas, myths, poems, stories, plays, songs, and art that have flowed from it for thousands of years. You receive and can use this heritage in a unique way, unlike any other being in the universe—if only you have the faith and courage to claim it. "The rest of creation is waiting breathless for you to take your place," writes Whyte.

It isn't that he promises to make you the star of your own drama, that tiny, tinny show, which bores even you; besides, too many people already subscribe to the delusional belief that "it's all about me." As a poet, he prefers to shake you by the shoulders, jog you awake, and say "Open your eyes! Watch! Listen! Smell! Pay attention!" or you'll miss this glorious, astonishing, terrifying, tragic creation that's the source of your existence. Give up your foolish attempt to impose order, predictability, and control on existence! It won't work, and it robs you of what's most precious about life. Don't try to know everything in advance, or act only when you're assured it'll all work out all right. You don't have to quit your job (necessarily), abandon your loved ones, change your name, and move to another continent: all you have to do is go to the edge of your old, known world—and then, maybe, take just the tiniest step forward into the dark.

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