“The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”
– Clarissa Pinkola Estés
Maybe everything is a portal into clearer seeing and deeper knowing. I think that’s part of why photography is so magical: it suspends a moment that would otherwise fade into the lush world of memory and imagination and says, in the most blunt and beautiful way: It was like this.
It’s almost too much to talk about it with words, but what else do we have but words — and music, and touch and art — to convey the ethereal…? When we brush up against the Divine, we know it. How we got there doesn’t matter; we’ve passed through a door into a truer world, and met a truer Self.
I’m foggy from last night, and rambling, maybe. I can’t really talk about it yet. But this morning, I feel the strong hand something reverent and sacred on my back, comforting me and whispering to me through the fog: You’re heading in the right direction.
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