What is most beautiful cannot be adorned.
Following his most memorable expedition, author/pyschonaut/anglophonic gentleman Aldous Huxley wrote to a friend to express his overwhelming realization that love is the primary and fundamental cosmic fact.
Blue plummets into red, indigo arises. Call that what it is: a miracle.
The mere presence of a single flower—in my case, immediately, a single iris in a squat, narrow-necked vase—changes an entire room. How does one flower do this? By not doing anything.
Home is not a house; it’s the present moment.
If we are not present, we are not at home.
The prodigal son awakened in a pig barn. Stunning, to find oneself at home in a pig barn.