The announcement of autumn comes in
Silence. Listen!
The atmosphere is muted. Listen!
The yellow, red, gold-brown leaves rustle,
A few green ones peak here and there.
They tell of another season gone
... another season coming.
Another season of blustery cold winds,
snow and ice. A time with only
the peep of the sparrow.
Another turn of the wheel of Time.
Another turn of the wheel of our lives.
Just as we cannot leave contemplation to contemplatives, we cannot leave mysticism to mystics. It would mean cutting off the roots of human life. By putting mystics on a pedestal in our mind, high, out of reach, we don’t do justice to them, nor to ourselves either. Paraphrasing what Ruskin said about being an artist, we could say: A mystic is not a special kind of human being; rather, every human being is a special kind of mystic. I might just as well rise to this challenge and become that unique, irreplaceable mystic that only I can become. There never was and never will be anyone exactly like me. If I fail to experience God in my own unique way, that experience will forever remain in the shadow of possibility. But if I do, I will know life by the divine life within me.