The world is so full. People, throngs of people, on every continent, brushing up against each other, breathing earth’s air, carrying things back and forth like ants busily rushing in and out of our anthill domiciles. So many things, myriads of manufactured goods, boxes of grain, greenery, groceries, books, crates of cars, barrels of liquor, drums of oil, floods of water, molecules multiplying to overrun it all, plant life thrumming with photosynthetic energy, slicing through thick earth’s crust like a chaotic shell of creation once ordered, now wild and uncontrollable.
We live in all this, seemingly unaware the whole while of the pandemonium that surrounds us. The honking of horns, the bleating of sheep, the crying of babies, the shushing of the wind in tree branches as they crackle with excitement.
It must all be saying something. What, I wonder? When I lay my weary head upon my cotton puffed pillow, pull the blanket up to my chin, and the silent air hovers above my sleepy frame, as I drift off to another world, I listen to what whispers outside my window, a subtle lullaby of place and time, the chef salad bowl of life on earth getting tossed and dressed in seasoned madness and splendor. Imperceptibly, I hear it—the word on a page of God’s imagination, as the page turns, and I float off to my dreams before the crashing in of another day.