Windows of Eternity

Hey Readers,
This is my third journal entry for my environmental humanities class. I hope these aren't getting boring for you--I just don't have time at the moment to create new posts, but I want to keep you updated and I figure that publishing my work is a good way to do that. As a disclaimer, I'm aware that many of these sentences are far too long and that this whole piece is very self-indulgent.

Nature is full of profundity. Anyone even basically familiar with biology knows that the amazing intricacy and variety that we see in the plants and animals around us are just the decorative wrappings on a box full of wonder. Vital processes occur every second on scales much larger and much smaller than our mortal minds and especially our naked eyes could ever fully comprehend. Snatches of eternity are everywhere, though by seeking to snatch them, we often cause them to lose their meaning. Just as we can't force God to give us the very answer we want at the very instant we ask for it, we cannot coerce Nature into opening its windows to infinity. By luck, serendipity, or the grace of God (I'd put my faith in the last one), we are blessed every once in a while with an opportunity to gaze through those windows. Sometimes we are allowed to peer through for many minutes, but all too often we are only granted a fleeting glance.

It took me much longer than an introductory paragraph to identify just such an experience, but after sorting through my memories of panoramic mountain vistas, majestic and dizzying cliffs, and picturesque sylvan springs, I settled on a moment I enjoyed a couple of years ago while running. It was a bright twilight. The sun was setting or barely set, but the moon was well-risen. The sky hadn't a single cloud to catch the orange light of the setting sun and the full moon painted the sky a blue that was shockingly bright for that hour of the evening. The temperature could only be described as perfect and a brisk yet gentle breeze cooled my burning muscles. An almost electric energy coursed through the air and the trees and the road, giving spring to my stride and vigour to every breath. Perhaps my brain had released one too many endorphins, but as I ran under an opening in the canopy of roadside oaks, I looked up at the moon and was jolted by a flash of sudden clarity. Without any effort and without any warning, I was overcome with perspective. I saw the moon, not as a pretty painting that moves across the ceiling which I scientifically knew was really a cratered ball of sand and glass orbiting Earth thousands of miles away [side note--this sentence was really weird--I'm not going to change it right now--I tried to speak to the fact that while I know the moon is a real celestial body, it often looks visually two dimensional to me, and because that's how I see it and I'm such a visual person, that's how I conceptualize the moon emotionally--like a two dimensional painting], but as a heavenly orb--a three-dimensional body created by God with its own path and purpose. In gaining a sense of the distance and scale of the moon, I comprehended the size of the Earth beneath my feet and I could feel the joy of my soul and the light and power of Christ extending through and past the stars (though none were visible) and into the vast expanse of endless space. Immediately I understood my own nature and my own spacial insignificance. It was at once humbling and empowering to come to know myself as both an infinitesimal speck and a child of God with divine and infinite potential. I could see my path in front of me, and I don't mean that windy road in the upper hills of Flintridge. Though emotionally and spiritually staggered, I ran on, gazing to heaven-wards when I could and near tears.

Surprisingly, this moment has stayed vividly in my memory. I know I have had many other such experiences, but for a reason unknown to me, the details fade, leaving warm memories of deep emotion and a gap that I physically and spiritually needed to fill. It seems that once we are aware that the veil has thinned, it is too soon and too cruelly drawn back into place. I don' know why this one moment has remained with such tenacity, but I am grateful. It is present enough to save me from discouragement, but mysterious enough to lure me back to nature in hopes that the curtains will be drawn back and I'll find the windows open.

Here is a group I was thinking about today. They are called Amina and they are from Iceland (according to the Clives, who are fairly reliable with their music information) and I love their minimalism:



Love,
Christian