I practice stillness
to know I am not God.
Mornings, as I wait at the end of the train platform,
I face the sun, shut my eyes, and
see the glowing orb through the scrim of my closed lids.
Light inscribes wisdom there for my inner sight:
gleaming lines, thin as spider silk, stretch out
from the center, more, more, more,
till a flaming web is all I see.
Countless points of light,
connected in, through, to
I lift my eyelids, but the web, for a moment, stays in my sight,
overlaying my view of the platform, my neighborhood, the city skyline beyond.
The train rumbles up next to me.
I step in to a car filled with people,
and each one glows.
“From one ancestor[I]he (God) made all nations to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, 27 so that they would search for God[j] and perhaps grope for him and find him—though indeed he is not far from each one of us. 28 For ‘In him we live and move and have our being’; as even some of your own poets have said,
‘For we too are his offspring.’”
from Acts chapter 17, from a speech Paul made in front of the gathered Athenians