Who is there among us who can articulate the great mystery of being? Who is there among us whose vocabulary is so advanced and whose insight is so profound and whose oratory is so eloquent that they can delineate the boundaries of sacred consciousness?
And yet that sacred consciousness is all around us. It enfolds the most minute particle, the smallest fragment of matter. It is infinite potentiality that flows seamlessly from the formless to give birth to a myriad of forms.
Living as I do in close proximity to the natural world I am always aware on some level of my consciousness of this indefinable presence. It’s proximity is always lingering on the periphery of my senses. It is felt in the heart beat of all life forms, in the respiration of the trees and in the monotone voice of the wind.
It is present in the vast snowfields of an arctic winter and in the autumn mist. It is in the high alpine meadows carpeted in a Persian carpet of wild flowers in the spring: and it is there in the green verdancy of summer.
It is in us. Its presence is what makes every thing sacred. Without it nothing exists. Its signature can be read in the far away stars. Its image is embossed upon the shifting sands of time.
The great mystery is that which is the fountain of being, the source of all that is, at once transcendent and imminent, the essence of all that is.