“’If you are what you ought to be, you will set fire (to the world)’…conform yourself to the divine will, and you can do anything. This is exactly what Leo Tolstoy suggested when he wrote, ‘The meaning of life is to serve the force that sent you into the world…’
No matter what your beliefs or lack thereof, you will benefit from opening your mind to the idea that there just might be a metaphysical dimension to your life that, when developed and nurtured, can give you understanding of your life’s meaning…
Again, this does not necessarily mean full-blown conversion to a religion—it means being open-minded to the possibility of realms unseen.”—Arthur C. Brooks, The Meaning of Your Life
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In steel and umber of dawn’s awaken, crescent moon—upward turned—erasing into new, she walked over silver lawn of dew, her footsteps in the cool and damp leaving shadow-prints upon the silver glow.
Cool of the autumn night touched upon her skin, and, to its sense, she felt skin rise, goosebumps across her smooth of arms; tender-touch of lovely sense that sent a shiver as it graced across her open neck where hair was drawn away, its cover-fall of blanket warmth removed to the cool.
She breathed the air. It filled her lungs, and she felt the Mystic’s way: present and one with transcendent of way and kind she could not explain—but knew, numinous in the knowing.
She stood in grounding to the earth, warmth of her open soles to cool, damp of the dewed lawn. Heaven’s pull to indigo thread separated tie and connect of day and night. Darkness lifted. Day replaced. Lawn’s silver turned to gold.
Unmoving, but witness, she stood in the new day light—warmth in touch where before was cool—grounded still to earth and place: damp of the grass, raise of her skin, sense to open soul.