The broiled red peppers inside, the breaking light outside.
Cold.
And God in everything: the feeling of something sacred stalking me.
The sacrality is in the binding: the stitching of the inner and the outer world. Illumination proceeds from a prayer in my heart; it lays like knowing over the earth. The world is pure, the divine Logos being birthed each moment into the fabric of mundane reality. People's faces are open and good, like children's. I feel clear and held and happy.
In other words, the world is a sacrament (corporeality crammed with golden scraps of divinity) and the earth lays itself flat for feasting: come watch the slanting of dusk light as the earth orbits back from the sun; come sketch the colors, eat the light, see other humans and allow them to dance (you would dance too if you knew what this meant, if you knew what a rare thing it is to be alive).
Perhaps I am a mystic because I dance with the unknown without acknowledging it. Because I have entered into a relationship with my own mortality, have smelt my death and kept that aroma close to me, have said well then, something must be said about that light.
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