What if the most sublime music ever played breathed through the flute of a shepherd a thousand, thousand years ago, covering the wooded mountains and ancient hills like gilded clouds at the moment of twilight, like the beloved’s breath at dawn weaving the garden into life?
What if that music is still hovering all around us like an all-embracing breath, and if we fall really, really silent, and listen, if we open up and receive the world into our flesh, or simply glide like gurgling water into hers, we can breathe it in again and again, quivering like a leaf above autumn’s lake?
Rooted in Love 