The garden that is this world — the people, the creatures, the trees, the rocks, the stars — once we see that these are all ourselves in another form, and understand that there is no distance between us, we see God — here, in the lamplight, here, in the dust. Once we see that all are sacred or none, and that dream is as solid as bone, we see God — here, in uncharted space, here, in the whale’s spout. Once we see that all is intimacy, and that all is love, the painful questions fall off one by one — should we eat meat, or should we not — which way must we face when we pray — which book shall we believe — what is the meaning of war — and why, oh, why, are we here? Everything is dear. And joy outpaces the explanation, that God is a child, God is the sun, God is the rainbow, that we are God, and that all is God, and the kingdom is here. Or will we choose fear? If we do, that too is well, for it will be shaken from us when our last leaf is down — and what is more beautiful than all of us standing here, naked through winter, and spring invincibly near?