“…with age her character deepened and grew richer. She used her talent to help other souls, and it helped creased. She studied, too, and found language of great subtlety and beauty in which to express her vision of truth.”—Evelyn Underhill, The Essentials of Mysticism
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From frost beginning, sun rose and warmed into and through transfiguration—silver world becoming gold in melt of frost to do; sunlight’s change and catching of, wonder in moment, and then it was gone. In after-remaining was clear blue sky, still in absence of a wind.
In this world stayed, a frozen warm an arc of sun’s progression. At evening shade, she sat again in porch rest and and rocking chair, soft sound of its rockers to oaken porch in soft-swayings of herself. Upon her lap rested opened journal, black pen in her right hand. Opened, receiving, she resolved to write the stories that were hers: a gift of separate source, but here alone—attuned and aligned—to capture when they showed.
Slowing, stilling, like air in warm-froze sky, she deepened in attention, sensing capture—near. She breathed deep, slowing and stilling further, easing to the presence.
With that, story suddenly was there. She wrote it fast. She wrote it free, catching all she could and when it was over, three pages filled and she rested with a smile, joy of the capture, creation of spirit find.
Near beside, in silent seeing, he witnessed all in live. He smiled back, knowing the way: magic and mystic in the holding open.
Wind restored and the warm-freeze broke, light danced in fall through trees: life restored, time as well, in find and make and capture of story from the still.
Mirth, silent savoring of the joy, they rested in the mystic of evening shade in then.