Love is that flame that once kindled burns everything,
and only the mystery of the journey remains.
This, then, is the extravagant landscape of the world, given, given with pizzazz, given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.
The secret of seeing is, then, the pearl of great price... But although the pearl may be found, it may not be sought... I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.
Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what's going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.
Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.
Our life is a faint racing on the surface of mystery.
The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega. It is God's brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blended note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address the prayer to "World." Distinctions blur. Quiet your tents. Pray without ceasing.