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

The Glory.

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,