Planes of Reality

Two months ago I experienced a truth that I keep returning to daily.  Dare I say that it was like seeing the face of God?   I’ve hesitated to share it with anyone for a few reasons.  First, I wanted to keep it to myself so that it wouldn’t bleed out into the world and be lost to me again.  Second, I thought that others would not  appreciate it and that they would likely regard it as magical or dream thinking.

I am now able to recreate the experience any time that I want, at will.  Each time it floods me with a sense of peace and a notion that I’ve touched on something which is bigger than me and bigger than all of us.  I can now wake every morning with a sense of purpose and a knowing that I AM a very important part of EVERYTHING.    Now I choose to do the work of putting this notion – idea – realization – revelation into words.  Please bare with me and be patient with the limits that words bring to sharing such an experience.

My experience was the result years of ideas merging into one massive understanding.  I have been tossing around so many – many ideas in my head and writing about them for a number of years.  The ideas always remained separate and divided, but on that morning two months back, the ideas converged into one simple truth.

I had just said goodbye to my son after walking him to school and I was walking down a busy street with parents zooming past to get their kids to school on time, and then rush off to work.  The high voltage lines that run down the street were buzzing under the morning fog and an airplane was running up its jets at the airport – a mile away.  It was anything but peaceful.  For some reason I stopped to pick something up from the wet grass;  I can’t remember what it was now.  As I stood up the feeling and truth flooded my every cell….

The truth spoke, “Man, you exist simultaneously in innumerable planes of reality.  Your existence is only limited by the influence that you choose to exude in the world/universe/life/each plane of existence.”

Okay… The feeling was different than the thoughts that my limited words can express, so don’t stop reading yet…  I’ll try to make this more clear.

Reality.  What is it?  It is everything that is tangible in this plane of existence.  We can touch it, see it, feel it, hear it taste it.  It is everything that we know with our five limited senses.

Now it gets tricky (for me).  There is a reality of memory and imagination.  We can remember times from our childhood and times from yesterday and even our dreams from last night, and the emotions that are connected with those memories are just as REAL as how you feel about what is happening in within reality at this very moment, as you read this.  We can imagine (image training) things that will happen in our near and far future and the anticipation or anxiety or fear or joy is just as REAL as if we are DOING that which we imagine right now in this moment.    So, can I trust that you will believe me that REALITY is much broader and deeper than our limited perceptions of the tangible – here and now?

As I stood erect on that morning, looking up through the buzzing high line wires – an understanding flooded my every cell.  There are great fantastic consciousnesses that live within me which manipulate my moods and overall well-being.  These consciousnesses have been described by others as the subconscious and as archetypes and I’m sure that Buddhism and Christianity and Hinduism have a million ways to describe them.  They pull on the heart strings and move my moods in ways that I don’t fully understand, and until now I had little control over.  These characters exist within me, in a vast universe that they can’t comprehend, just as I can’t comprehend the universe that I live in.  No, their not little-people inside of me, but it’s easier for my mind to conceive of them when I think of them in that way.  They have individual personalities and dreams and desires and disappointments, just as I do.  They live in a world that is filled with hope and fear, love and hate, and all of the things that my material world is filled with.  They live in a world that has been largely created by my inner-state — my well-being or ill-being.  The love or fear, compassion or violence that they experience in their lives is my inner state.  I am largely responsible for these individual consciousnesses that exist within my consciousness .

Now I understand that this is getting a bit “far-out,” but hang with me because this becomes greater than us all – in the end.

In that moment of realization I also saw that I am a small consciousness in a humanity of consciousnesses.  We are all tiny players in a much larger field that is the subconscious of a being on another plane of reality.  That being (imagine it as a gigantic version of you) lives out a life in a material world that is similar to our own (or maybe it’s completely different)?  But inside that being are billions of archetypes (you and me), all calling out, trying to express ourselves, trying to be heard, hoping for some kind of greater expression in a larger universe.  We; you, me, are all small voices in the mind, in the dreams of a being in another plane of reality.  We have a voice in that beings mind and we manipulate it’s imagination and emotions and it expresses these emotions out into it’s material plane of reality.    The shrinks in his reality tell him that he is just hearing voices in his head, or having irrational emotions, but we are as real as the sun that is in his sky or the ground that he walks on.  We live out the memories of his childhood and we are his imagination of what will come in his future.   We are REALITY.  Our fear pain, joy, desire become his emotional state.  We have a great responsibility to live with compassion for his inner well-being.  When we live with peace in our actions and we project love into this plane of reality, we impact his inner well-being and he lives out a more fulfilled life and when he is feeling good, we are more likely to be expressed into that greater reality.

Here’s where it gets real groovy.  Here’s where our life becomes significant.  Here’s where we live in all beings.  Here’s where we become infinite.

Knowing that I have an inner reality, with “archetypes” all living out their existence within, I now understand that I owe it to them to be gentler and kinder (to myself).  I want to provide them with a peaceful world to live in, where they know that something in another plane of reality cares and watches out for their well being.  I have a great responsibility that is to myself, and it is much greater than me.

Knowing that I live in this material world where there is so much turmoil, fear, war, and hurt, I have great compassion for that being who is living out his reality in a different plane, but has the great storms of torment taking place within him.  I have a great responsibility to reach out to him, on his “higher plane” and ease his internal suffering.  I want to make this world a better place and let him know that I care for him and that I am love and I am “light” and that I am a small part of him that is his dignity.  If I can reach out to others on this plane, and show them love and compassion, perhaps together we can reach his heart-strings and communicate this same message to him.  If he receives the message, perhaps he will realize the same and do the same and the love and compassion will rise to yet another “higher plane” of reality.  Perhaps it will loop back to us on our limited plane of reality.

To those consciousnesses and archetypes within me, I hear you, I will express you into my plane of reality and I will try to pay it upward.

As above, so below.  As within, so without.  Father – Son – Holy Spirit.    Now I’m starting to sound like Dr. Bronner’s Magical soap label (google it).

Hope this raises your consciousness.

Please leave comments.

Light

Blue star (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sam felt the flame burning brighter, like a noble blue star lighting every shadowy, empty corner of the cavernous universe.  His comprehension of it’s origin was flickering and fleeting.  The shadows danced about trying to avoid Sam’s scrutiny and as much as Sam wanted his light to catch the shadows he was afraid to see what they hid.  He knew from some knew sense that eventually he would have to look into these things and face them if he wanted the flame to continue to burn.  The flame felt like courage, and pride and esteem, it was all of these and much more.

Thunderstorms of Thought

Lightning (Photo credit: Bart van Stratum)

Late afternoon crawled slowly into early evening.  The heat and humidity remained and dark towering cumulonimbi crept over the horizon climbing a mile high.  No rain fell but inside the clouds an epic event was unfolding.  Lightning flashed silently as the clouds moved overhead and darkened the landscape.  Not being able to fill the creeping emptiness in his head, Sam went outside and laid down on the lawn.  Mac refused to join him and stayed in his safe place near the house.

Lying there on the ground Sam felt the earth pushing up from under him.  He became aware of a prickling electrical energy leaping up under his legs and his torso and the back of his neck.  The hairs on his arms and legs stood out and bristled with the electricity.  He felt the curious notion of energy passing through his mind and body from earth to sky and from sky to earth.  Overflowing with verve Sam found himself engulfed in a field of energy and with no effort and no will he floated up with it.

Drifting up slowly at first, lying on his back, Sam was carried towards the clouds until they filled his event horizon and were pulled into his mind.  Thousands of feet above the earth his mind emptied and his eyes twitched to observe each silent flash of lightning from the depths and heights of the clouds.  With each flash he felt his mind loosening more and slipping out of gear and soon he found himself rolling with boiling thoughts.  Merging with the clouds and understanding that they were his own creation a joyful bliss washed over his senses and dissolved his fears.  Sam watched as each of his lightning-thoughts flashed through the turbulent thundercloud.  Sam released himself completely to explore the thoughts as they snapped and created ideas, and ideas sparked into creation.  The thunderstorm was active with electrical impulses and lightning synapses popped and hissed deep from within Sam’s mind.  Coherent thoughts developed, creating experience and the memories;  not only his own but experience of the universe from before the beginning and stretching far beyond any possible end.

Sam disappeared in the joyous experience of awareness and forgot the tangible world.  He would have stayed for eternity but something warm on his face was pulling his awareness back to another reality.  From the very edge of the western horizon a fiery red shaft of sunlight burned through the clouds and lit the world.   The sunlight streamed over the scene and fell on Sam, warming his head and face, bringing him out of the clouds and back down to earth.  The world around exhaled along with his parents.   They had walked down from the house to join him on the lawn and stood nearby talking.  He got to his feet to be completely washed in the sunlight.

“We thought you were asleep,” said his dad.

“Oh, yeah.  I guess I must have dozed off.”

“It’s passed,” said his mom.

“Seems like it,” agreed sam.

They stood there together for a long time watching the sun drop out of sight beyond the horizon to unveil the dark eternal night sky and the stars shining from a millennium away.  The remaining clouds progressed across the sky and Sam laid back down on the lawn to watch them recede beyond the pines.  Thoughts and noise began to fill his head and he felt loneliness creep in and cover the calmness that he had found in the cloud.

“I guess I’ll watch the news reports,” announced his mom as she turned toward the house.

“Yep,” agreed his dad.  “You coming Sam?”

“No, I’ll stay here a while.”

The clouds burbled and crackled with electrical energy and rolled on to the east.  As his parents disappeared into the house a single white-hot flash, from the cloud’s depths, sent a surge of light out in every direction.  Sam flinched as the air rippled, radiating out from a single point, light falling on light rushed at him in a powerful shockwave, creating a twinkling shimmer all through Sam’s mind.  No thunder followed but Sam felt a painful deafening twang and a whine in his ears as the wave passed over him and enveloped him.  A high pitched ring reverberate and bounced off of his inner and outer landscapes.

“What just happened?”

Passing Mirage

Sam is the other hero of my story.  Moving into adolescence he longs to push his limits while maintaining his comfortable sense of safety.

Rubber tires whirred over pavement as Sam picked up speed.  Early morning chill blew across his biceps and into his open shirt sleeves, raising goose bumps on his neck and arms.  The effortless motion gave Sam a new thrill of freedom.  The new bike came from a dream and a desire and now it created new dreams.

“So this is living?” Thought Sam.  “Now I’m alive,” he shouted, breathing in the morning, savoring the sweet taste of time passing with the wind.  With each breath of crisp morning air, life rushed through Sam, absorbing into his blood and surging through his body.

In fifth gear Sam easily reached the crest of the ridge where he met the morning sun.  It’s rays warmed him from the morning chill and goosebumps melted with it’s bright smile.  Sam pedaled hard and slipped silently past the barnyards with their sleeping dogs and bleary eyed farmers.  He worked his way through all of the gears learning the sound and feel of every combination.  He freewheeled the pedals backwards to relish in the buzzing gears.  He checked every angle and tilt of the bike until he was satisfied that everything was working absolutely as it should.  Then he settled on the seat and fixed his eyes on the road twenty feet ahead of him.  The pavement blurred, Sam was drawn into the hypnotic motion and as the world flew by his mind settled, finding relief from the torment of these past turbulent months.  With his eyes wide open, and his mind no longer occupied Sam opened up to his entire environment.  He saw and became every crack and every pebble on the surface of the road.  Every brilliant color and subtle movement reached his eyes from far-away, invisible places.  He heard and felt the gears and tasted the wind.  He smelled the sunlight and heard the bees bounding from thistle to thistle and he touched the heart of the Redwing Blackbird perched on a roadside-cattail.  One with the bike Sam vanished in motion, a passing mirage, bending light and time to wipe away all of his irksome emotions.   Hours passed in an hypnotic instant creating that first bliss filled morning on his new bike.

Spirit of the Wind (continued)

“I can’t fly!  You look yummy and you say funny things.”  She was feeling disoriented, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should try to rationalize the experience, get a grip on herself, or just go with it and enjoy the moment.

“Just go with it and enjoy it,” encouraged the boy.  “Come on, you can fly when you’re with me.”  He floated to his feet and in a twinkle, danced to where Ashby was sitting.  “Take my hand and we’ll go,” he offered with an intent stare.

Ashby reached out her hand, and as the boy put his fingers around hers she felt her body dissolve and every cell expand so that she seemed to encompass everything in the cabin.  The table with its map dissolved and Ashby absorbed its knowledge.  The candles in the lanterns flickered light into her being and Ashby felt herself pressing into every recess and cubbyhole in the cabin, and overflowing out into the cockpit.  In a whispered moment and a flurry she felt the wind tugging on her and she watched with rapt wonder as their separate puddles of essences whirled about furiously and coalesced.  As the two became one, they gleefully whisked through the open porthole and into the starry night.  Spinning in frenzied exertion around the Serenity’s mast, they twanged the nylon lines and puffed with heat and fury through the tattered wind runners.

“How’s that?”  Asked the boy.

“We’re the spirit of the wind,” squealed Ashby, letting the emotions flood forward.

“Yes, we are!  We’re the spirit of the wind and much more,” replied the boy.

They blew across the open water towards the opposite shore and Ashby’s mind opened to profound realizations as they skimmed out over the landscapes of her mind.  Plunging  forward  in one moment she understood that she was part of everything and everything was in her.  In another moment she tasted the sound of a distant bell at the marina, and she smelled the color of yellow lamplights on the opposite shore, and she heard the twinkling of distant stars.

Ashby became part of an unfathomable universal flow of energy pulsating through everything, everywhere, all at once.  Aware of all of her desires and her wills and wants, she was able to fill them up and meet each of her unspoken needs.  She was no longer enmeshed in the worlds story.  She was free of the cycle, able to see the patterns for what they were and what they could be.  She was now free to pilot her imagination and direct her own voyage.

They weaved their way along the shore line in and out of hidden coves.  They whisked through the wooded groves that huddled like children on the shores of a great puddle.  Each tree waved and whispered a welcoming “hello;” each greeting seasoned with its own ancient secrets.

Ashby’s mind trembled when it turned in and looked upon itself.  It saw that the universe was one big bundle of being-energy, karma, as brilliant as the sun.  It was bursting and overflowing with a creative light that filled her with an almost unbearable rapture.  Fearing that she would dissolve into the brilliant pure awareness she looked away for just a fearful moment and in that instant she found herself summersaulting forward, landing in the cockpit of the Serenity,

The feel of the wooden deck under foot and the wooden rail in hand reassured her that she still had a grip on reality, although now the deck and rails seemed more like possibilities than determined objects.  The Serenity was no longer just a sailboat floating on the surface of a lake, it was a possibility floating in a universal consciousness.  It was a profound subconscious comprehension.

The Spirit of the Wind

Spirit of the Wind (Photo credit: CRFish)

The cabin was still a bit warm and stuffy from the hot afternoon so she opened one of the small porthole-windows above the table.  The seals separated with a sucking noise and a cool, fragrant breeze drifted in across Ashby’s face and swirled around her head.  She closed her eyes and savored it’s light touch caressing her neck and moving down and around her body.  Opening her eyes, she watched as the breeze moved in oily colors around the cabin dancing and changing hues with the candle flames.  Shimmering a deep blue it paused above the map and gently lifted shades of greens, yellows, golds and blues from the paper.  Letters and words lifted to swirl with the colors and this playful breeze seemed to twist with delight.

Ashby flopped onto one of the benches next to the table with a great huff and watched eagerly as the breeze continued nosing around the cabin like a curious cat.  Finally it swirled around her head with soft fluttering sounds then went to the cabin door.  She watched with dazzled eyes as it painted a starry night in the doorway then in a swirling of energy the star-flecked night materialize into a boy.  He sat peacefully in the cabin doorway smiling, his teeth as bright as the moon.  His glowing presence evoked a memory and a sense of deja vu.

“Who are you?”

“I’m…“

“You’re the Spirit of the Wind, aren’t you?”  Said Ashby, speaking for him.

“Um, if that makes you happy, then that’s who I am,” he said with a sly grin.

“Every sailboat calls the Spirit of the Wind,” she said.  “Serenity called you here.  And yes, that makes me happy.”

“Okay, so I’m the Spirit of the Wind,” agreed the boy.

“I can see right through you.”

“I can see right through you too,” he said with a giggle.

“You’re funny,” added Ashby, feeling his breath of giddiness on her cheeks.

“I’m always here but this is the first time you’ve been able to see me,” said the boy.  He seemed amused and there was a wickedness about him that excited and unsettled Ashby.

“Why can’t I see the wind?”

“You can always see me and feel me when I’m around, but most people never take the time.  Most people only know me as a ripple on the water, or the fluttering of leaves, or as a gentle caress on their neck, or sometimes as a blast of breath in their face.”  He puffed up his cheeks and blew a mighty gust at Ashby.  It blew her hair back and swirled about the cabin whistling through every nook and upsetting papers until it found it’s way out the cabin door.  Ashby followed it with her eyes, dreaming wildly.

“It’s wonderful, I want to eat you up,” she squealed, unable to contain the joy of the experience.  “I feel like I can taste the wind.  This is wild.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun, but don’t try to eat me,” teased the boy. “Hey Ashby, you wanna go flying with me.”

Gethsemane

Gethsemane, Jerusalem (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From Harold Bell Wright’s “When a Man’s a Man.”

“Gethsemane ain’t no place, it’s somethin’ that happens. When ever a man goes up against himself, right there is where Gethsemane is. And right there, too is sure to be a fight. A man may not always know about it at the time; he may be too busy fightin’ to understand just what it all means; but he’ll know about it afterwards– No matter which side of him wins, he’ll know afterwards that it was the one big fight of his life.”

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Sailing Away

In this snippet Ashby uses a metaphorical key to unlock a metaphorical door.

Before climbing on board, Ashby paused and looked back towards the house with dull indifference, unamused by the antics of those kids all trying to impress one another.  She longed for something deeper, more meaningful.  She longed for an elevated experience even if she had to cheat a bit and unlock doors that were never meant to be opened.  She dug into her front pocket and pulled out the bag with the keys.

The smooth wooden deck of the Serenity felt like home under her bare feet.  By habit she ran her hands along the nylon ropes and inspected some of the knots.  She could tell a lot about the owner by the knots he tied and she decided that the Serenity had a well intentioned but unseasoned owner.  The Serenity was about 30 feet long, too big for Ashby to sail all alone but that didn’t matter, she had no intention of sailing her.  All Ashby wanted was a peaceful place where she could leave the world behind and open her mind.  She took a seat in the cockpit and took one of the keys from the sandwich bag.  If she was going to use it now was the time and the Serenity was the ideal companion.  Ashby slipped one of the keys into the lock and with an audible gulp, opened the door.

It had been shut up for a while and a stale air met her as she ducked down into the cabin.  The smell triggered memories and Ashby suddenly realized how important sailing had been to her.  She longed for the weekends out on San Francisco Bay with uncle Jim.  The sense of longing was not an emotion that Ashby was used to and it was the first sign that the key had unlocked the right door.  She found a flashlight in a predictable place and flipped it on to discover the cabin was much nicer than she had anticipated.  She understood the owner a little better now, he was the kind who liked the atmosphere of being on a boat but the sailing was secondary for him.

While waiting for something to happen Ashby explored the Serenity, getting familiar with her new companion.  Finding some candles in a drawer, she lit a few of them and placed them in lanterns secured to the cabin walls. On the wooden table was a beautiful hand drawn map of lake Minnetonka with all of its coves and bays.  She read the names of the numerous bays out loud, “Carman Bay, Phelps Bay, Lafayette, Echo, Gideon, Cook, Priest, and Halstead Bays.  Uncle Jim would like this lake.  So many places to explore, so many secrets around each corner.”

Undiscovered Worlds

A  snippet of a “darling” that was recently cut from my writing.  Here Sam tastes the notion that he is like the church.  There are rooms, caverns, characters in himself that still lie undiscovered behind dirty yellowed windows.  Like the church, he has an outer reality that only sometimes reflects his inner reality.

They discovered the passageways on a snowy evening  when they were ten-years-old.  While the choir was practicing the Sunday hymns up in the chapel the two boys were hiding-out down in the boiler room, reading from their stash of comic books.

“How come we’ve never opened that door before?”  Asked Pete.  He was pointing at a heavy iron door that hung from large iron casters and when unlatched, could slide from side to side.

Sam looked up from his daydreams.  “I’ve never noticed that door before.  You can’t see it with all that junk stacked up against it.”

“Let’s check it out!”  Urged Pete, excitedly.

“I’m not opening that door.”  Replied Sam, with a shudder.  “That’s probably the stairway down to hell.   If you wanna open doors, let’s try getting into the bell tower.”

“You imagine crazy things.  Come on.  Its’ probably nothing, you big chicken.”

After some coaxing and double-dog-daring, they each managed to manipulate the other into opening the door’s heavy metal bars that slid up and down by a lever and gear mechanism.  With a great rumble and groan from its ancient rusted-iron rollers, the door slid one foot to the side.  The boys slipped through the small opening, to find a room covered in coal dust.  A bit of light streamed in from a small window-well high on one wall.  Pete turned the old knob on the wall, and was surprised to find that the single light bulb , hanging by a wire from the ceiling still worked.  It was covered with coal dust and cast ominous shadows into the corners.  In one corner lay the remnants of a great iron furnace and next to it, a pile of coal.  Along the opposite wall was an old wooden workbench, scattered with smutted and rusted tools.

Sam made his way across the room to climb a ladder that had been left against the wall just below the window.  He climbed carefully up the filthy rungs and from the top of the ladder he peered out between the old paint cans and rags and through the remnants of spider’s webs, onto the parking lot.  A street light shown dimly through the  falling snow.  In that moment Sam realized that he had often passed by, outside this very window and seen the paint cans and rags in the window-well, but never questioned what was in the room beyond.  He had never considered a connection between the inner and outer worlds of this dirty, yellowed window.  He had never questioned before that there might be a room in this great building, that he did not know about.

“Can you believe that we’ve never been in here before?”

“What’s out there?  Is it the parking lot?”  Asked Pete.

“Yeah…  It’s kinda weird that this room is so obvious and I could have looked in from the parking lot any time.  But I never did.  It never even crossed my mind.”

“Yeah…  Kinda creepy,”  teased Pete, sarcastically.  “Wonder what else we haven’t seen.”

From “The Town and The City,” by Jack Kerouac.

pp. 471-472

And when Peter came back in the mornings, the old man asked him what had happened all night in the cafeteria.  Nothing had happened, people just came in to eat doughnuts and drink coffee in the dead of night, and left, all in the middle of life.  And then father and son looked at each other, and talked about the past, all the things in the million-shadowed blazing past, and about what they would like to do, what they might have done, what they should do now.  Father and son were also two men in the world, sitting idle for a moment together, recognizing in sad-voiced commentary that the destiny of men is to come up to rivers, and cross them one way or another, this man’s way and that man’s way and any other possible way, and get over them or turn back in defeat and sarcasm.  At these times they experienced moments of contentment talking to each other.  This was the last life they would ever know each other in, and yet they wished they could live a hundred lives and do a thousand things and know each other forever in a million new ways, they wished this in the midst of their last life.

These things began to work their change on young Peter who saw in an ancient vision spaded up from his being, what life must be about, at last.  He saw that it was love and work and true hope.  He saw that all the love in the world, which was sweet and fine, was not love at all without its work, and that work could not exist without the kindness of hope.  He gazed at his father’s impending death, into eyes that would soon be blind and dead.  He understood these things when he helped the feeble old man out of bed in the mornings and supported him on wandering feet that used to stride and clack along on Saturday nights in Galloway, he saw these things when his father roused himself from fevered reveries to eat, wash himself, and settle his things around his chair to resume another day.

He saw that all the struggles of life were incessant, laborious, painful, that nothing was done quickly, without labor, that it had to undergo a thousand fondlings, revisings, moldings, addings, removings, graftings, tearings, correctings, smoothings, rebuildings, reconsiderings, nailings, tackings, chippings, hammerings, hoistings, connectings – all the poor fumbling uncertain incompletions of human endeavor. They went on forever and were forever incomplete, far from perfect, refined, or smooth, full of terrible memories of failure and fears of failure, yet in the way of things, somehow noble, complete, and shining in the end.  This he could sense even from the old house they lived in, with its solidly built walls and floors that held together like rock:  some man, possibly an angry pessimistic man, had built the house long ago, but the house stood, and his anger and pessimism and irritable laborious sweats were forgotten;  the house stood, and other men lived in it and were sheltered well int it.

Peter and his father, by just looking painfully at one another, seemed to understand that to question the uncertainties and pains of life and work was to question life itself.  They did that every day, yet they did not hate life, they loved it. They saw that life was like a kind of work, a poor miserable disconnected fragment of something better, far greater, just a fragmentary isolated frightened sweating over a moment in the dripping faucet-time of the world, a tattered impurity leading from moment to moment towards the great pure forge-fires of workaday life and loving human comprehension.  

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