You could miss it if you don't look at exactly the right gap in the trees, from the path.
There's time to reflect, as breath grows louder alongside the pitch of the floor.
The monotony of repetition. How many times must I ask?
The miles of road stretch out before me as far as the eye can see with the thin ribbon of road cutting a tiny way through the golden fields.
Is it here that the sacred comes to dwell, in the ribbon, in the confluence? In the water and the leaves, the rushing and the stillness?
Can I from this vantage point of “high flight” so too “slip the surly bonds of earth?” Can I also reach, way up and “touch the face of God?”
Power and majesty, movement and weightlessness, substance and space. The Sacred within me here in the water even now.
The sky doesn't seem as expansive in this moment, but a blanket with its edges tucked smoothly.
In, out, just like the breath that fills our bodies. Out, in, the sacred returns again and again to touch that space deep within.
The hike was long, and had grown urgent. Would we reach the peak before we lost the sun?
And as I hurtle towards the shore I feel Him here with me, His presence among the wind and the waves, that very particular curl of the tide.
Anger seems a faraway notion on this calm shore, but perhaps the clouds are gathering.