As aware as I am of
the Is-ness—the all that Is
that fills me, the trees, the wingéd
and the footed, the dirt and detritus,
everything—Lucie says that all energy,
all spirit embodied in the universe,
is aware of me, too.
That this feeling of being held,
like floating in warm ocean,
is purposeful, she tells me,
Call it God, Lucie says,
the divine, the universe,
whatever you like.
Howard, I tease her,
as in our father, Howard,
She chuckles at that, my
spiritual master beaming in
onscreen from another dimension,
someone I hadn’t known I needed.
The divine, which is love itself,
knows you, loves you—yes,
specifically you, she tells me.
You are of it and it of you.
How could it not return your
admiration during a glorious
afternoon walk, when you pause
to peer closely at the ruffly
red of a fresh camellia? When
you look up and, beholding that
so-blue sky, inhale all that love?
How could all that Is, Lucie asks,
beckoning to you from every
living thing, even the stones,
not know your name?