She was silent for a minute, then she looked at him in an oddly calculating sort of way, as though she were evaluating him in some fashion. "Did you ever write poetry?"
"Me? Oh, no," he sighed. "I didn’t have a creative bone in my body."
"Good." She seemed a little relieved.
"What?" It was good he wasn't creative?
"That's not your job any more," she explained. "Your purpose is not to do but to be."
"I don't understand."
She smiled and touched his face. "You will. In time."