The regular footsteps on this worn path have revealed the hidden world of roots that tightly lace the poplar forest floor.  Under the tall yellowing grass are tunnels of thriving sap, expanding tendrils and thick braces for towering trees.  That’s the story of faith holding us up beneath the surface.

But faith about what?  Faith that my life is meaningful?  What is the big deal about “meaning”?  I was once taught that life is empty and meaningless, and we are meaning-making machines that build stories.  It’s a useful philosophy, but constantly bumps up against my illusionary human struggle that I am not valuable, not a good enough story (though certainly I’ve made headlines).

I believe I am truly a vessel that is open and filled every moment with the Lady’s Love.  I crave this wine; I dive into Her intoxication; I stumble and babble to everyone around me of Her beauty.  Drunk on the Divine, I am thoroughly in the present moment, twirling and beaming, begging everyone on the street to join me.