Simplicity and Closeness to God

From An Interrupted Life: The Diaries of Etty Hillesum, p. 86-87:

Slowly but surely I have been soaking Rilke up these last few months:  the man, his work and his life.  And that is probably the only right way with literature, with study, with people or with anything else:  to let it all soak in, to let it mature slowly inside you until it has become part of yourself.  That, too, is a growing process.  Everything is a growing process.  And in between, emotions and sensations that strike you light lightning.  But still the most important thing is the organic process of growing.

To be very unobtrusive, and very insignificant, always striving for more simplicity.  Yes, to become simple and live simply, not only within yourself but also in your everyday dealings.  Don't make ripples all around you, don't try so hard to be interesting, keep your distance, be honest, fight the desire to be thought fascinating by the outside world.  Instead, reach for true simplicity in your inner life and in your surroundings, and also work.  Yes, work.  It doesn't matter at what, I still haven't found solid ground under my feet, but whether it's Russian essays or reading Dostoevsky and Jung or having a tal, all of these can be work.  And have confidence that it will all come together and everything will turn out all right in the end.  That confidence is something I've had for a long time.

Since God is simple, striving for simplicity is striving to become closer to God.  The way of God is growth in simplicity.  Hillesum describes the result of this growth a few pages later in her diary (p. 89):

Something I have been wanting to write down for days, perhaps for weeks, but which a sort of shyness -- or perhaps false shame? -- has prevented me from putting into words.  A desire to kneel down sometimes pulses through my body, or rather it is as if my body has been meant and made for the act of kneeling.  Sometimes, in moments of deep gratitude, kneeling down becomes an overwhelming urge, head deeply bowed, hands before my face.

It has become a gesture embedded in my body, needing to be expressed from time to time.  And I remember: 'The girl who could not kneel', and the rough coconut matting in the bathroom.  When I write these things down, I still feel a little ashamed, as if I were writing about the most intimate of intimate matters.  Much more bashful than if I had to write about my love-life.  But is there indeed anything as intimate as man's relationship to God?