I say there is a second world. More still. But this at least. Near at hand, yet invisible (to our common waking mind). This world is alive with mystery and intelligence. And in »this world, we have our primary existence.

What we experience while awake is, ordinarily, like shadows and … derivations… of this primordial … impossibility.

For it is not a world at all. But endless, myriad worlds, that transform as our original spark both shines upon and is exquisitely magnified or transformed by this infinitely mysterious union…

There is a world where bodies and minds are shared. Where I become an animal and the lightning becomes my heartbeat. Where the stars rise inside me, and I set not merely with our Sun but with a thousand stars on endless worlds. Forever.

Our most precious stories are »one story first. As if there were only a single author… with whom all authors fall into intimate fascination…

The universe we were born for is accessible. What hides it from our common experience … might be understood as our failure to see our own story over the history of our species… in a way that recalls to our awareness the doorways with which our distant ancestors were familiar, and whose memory is hidden within us as the most fundamental urgencies of our hearts and deepest conscience.

I say there is another world, nearer than my own hand, yet almost always invisible. Glimpsed not in statistics, but promise, invention, inspiration… intimacy. I have been animals, and they have been me. I have been stars and worlds. My ancestors dwell beyond the sky, but appear all around me as mice, dragonflies, turtles and flowers. As rivers and mountains.

We come from and are known, have lives we can’t imagine… in our original home… where but a single family dwells.

Far beyond the sky, and right here now, at once…

And more I cannot say.