A Lump in the Throat
I sat last night by an open window, and a cool breeze swept suddenly across my face. I heard the orange leaves rustled in the Maple. The papers on the desk levitated momentarily and the hair on my arms stood up. I felt suddenly as if I were out of doors, but the outside had invaded the inside.
I looked out the window but all was dark. I could hear trees swaying and the call and response of crickets singing the waning song of autumn, but I could see nothing. I was in the presence of something I could feel but not see. I felt a little shiver, a whisper of blessing followed by a bite of nostalgia, a painful longing for something or something more, something I had lost. Then it was gone. The reverie broke and I was in here and the wind and trees and darkness were once again out there.
Poems, said Robert Frost, begin with a lump in the throat. So does spirituality. It is the sense of something more, something greater—and we are caught up in it all. We cannot explain it. It is mystery. This is undoubtedly how all the world’s religions began, with a sense of awe and wonder, a fascination that draws us to the dancing fire at the heart of life–and yet a dread that the fire that enlightens may also burn. Religion began at that gut level, and then it developed belief systems and behavior codes and elaborate architecture and symbolism, rites and rituals to surround the ineffable. That is both unavoidable and necessary.
But it is very good, once in a while, to sit by an open window at night and let a sudden breeze sweep you up, remind you where it all began, what it is all for.
Lovely post.
Perhaps that was a hierophany, David, a manifestation of the sacred. God is always reminding us. You expressed it beautifully!
Thank you–that’s a lovely word for the experience.
David, Between you and Sally you have covered all I can understand! Thanks clark