Little Altars Everywhere

 

Peace is an odd word for the bubble of all there is

breaking repeatedly on the surface of the heart,

but I know of no other. The Native Americans

come closest; nothing between inner events

and what to call them. I see you and you always

glow. Why not call you One-who-shines-like-a-

sun-upon-first-meeting. Why not call the moment

of doubt and fear: Dark-point-spinning-loose-

that-presses-on-the-throat. Why not call the

moment of certainty, the fleeting moment

when everything that ever lived is right

behind my pounding heart, why not call

that moment: Beat-of-the-thousand-wings-

of-God-inside-my-chest. When I feel love so

deeply that I can’t bear it, when I feel it so much

that it can’t be contained or directed at any one

thing or person, why not call it: The-stone-at-the-

bottom-of-the-river-sings. Why not call you: The-

hand-that-plucks-me-from-the-bottom-of-the-river.

Why not call this miracle of life: The-sound-that-

never-stops-stirring-the-lost-within-the-sound-that-

never-stops-soothing-the-living-within-the-sound-that-

never-stops-sounding-in-the-eyes-of-dead-things-coming-

alive-again-and-again-and-again…

– Mark Nepo, “Utterance-That-Rises-Briefly-From-The-Source”