On the way to Amsterdam, with a feeling of gratitude for Andy being behind the wheel so I can watch the fall color go down with the sun, I sink back into the seat and let the last light of the day lull me into the briefest of naps.
A quick little peek of water provides a glimpse of Sunday afternoon grace, a piece of what it once felt like to be in the hush of church at those moments when faith and spirituality became something tangible, something I could touch and wrap around me. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. It’s how I understand the power of religion – those little brushes with grace.
When the light is just right, or the wind is just so, and you let yourself let go of the cares and concerns of the wickedness of this world, you may find the grace like a sliver of the sublime. It’s a bittersweet thing, because it doesn’t happen all the time – at least, I haven’t been lucky enough to manifest it all the time. That tells me there is more to learn, secrets that might reveal a more regular method of brushing against the sublime.
The sky was unsettled, and the best thing about an unsettled sky, despite the rain it may bring, is that it’s a often a thing of dramatic beauty. It brushes that beauty upon the trees and the water and the land beneath it. One of the best-kept secrets of the universe is how it is the sky that decides what sort of day we are having, not the sun: that sun is shining day and night – it’s the stuff that comes between us that makes all the difference.
