a greater glimpse

With the warm radiance of sunset to the West and the full, white moon rising in the East, I love the mountains and the water, and think of this third globe whose ocean we're riding on in a fiberglass hull with an outboard motor as we bask in her beauty. And I realize that's all I can do. I love her and the sun and the moon and yet I don't really know her, and I can't say that the sun tells me the time of day, or that I live by the cycles of the moon. As I walk over her squishy, life-bearing mud to the shore, on my thick rubber soles, I can't say that I feel herbeat beneath my feet. Maybe I've felt it once or twice, but I can't say that I really know her. I feel harshly in these moments a painful separation from the real force of life, as I witness Gaia's turning as it happens every day. And I think that what I've known as God--in the moments on mountaintops, in treetops, and by riversides when I'm totally lost in life and its mystery--is only a glimpse, a slight, ever-so-generous glimpse, of that force. I hope someday I'll know her, I'll feel her fully and my life will revolve around her and depend upon her. It might start with more of those glimpses, gaining frequency and strength, but someday, the separation will be less and less, and no more. Someday, my life will be her life, and your life too. My place will be rocks and trees and fresh water, not a house or a school or a town, and I will know my place and those who share it, and I will know how my place fits within its place, and how I fit within it.