In a world so divorced from our own original mythology, we so easily forget that we are ourselves the inhabitants of an unfolding human narrative. Transcending story, we leave behind not only the worst, but also the very best, of what it means to be alive. We risk losing the wisdom that arises ...
Who is she, you ask? You are asking, aren't you? She is the universal, primal Om, she is shanti, shanti, shanti, she is the sound of life revealing, a mountain, a tree unfurling, an eagle soaring, an elephant roaring, as falseness crumbles at her feet.
She meets me briefly across the carpeted distance, dark eyes nestled in auburn, a wisp of a smile; her satin dress dissolves the light like water, and I am a man overboard, un-anchored in a shifting ocean of teal blue waves, the cross-hatched moquette a net that enmeshes us both like minnows.