Touching the Mystic's Mind.

I stood for a while in my garden at twilight tonight. The air was mild and there was no sound of traffic on the lane to pollute the peace, the pleasure and the sense of wonderment.

Such a cocktail of awareness there was in that little spot deep in the heartland of an English shire. The taller plants and the smaller tree branches were dancing dreamily in a gentle breeze. The multi-hued flowers were settling slowly through the gathering gloom into a colourless sleep. Intermittent grey clouds drifted languidly across a sky of darkening blue. The moths and bats were taking eagerly to the wing, while the land and all things inorganic remained resolutely still. And the waxing crescent moon hung proud and remote above the old sycamore tree.

I stood and questioned, as I have many times, what I should make of this sense of wonderment. How should I explain it to myself in rational fashion?

I don’t think there is any rational explanation to be found, and maybe it’s right that there isn’t. This is something which can only be felt, not reasoned. I assume it has something to do with the relationship between consciousness and perceived reality at this level of existence, and maybe it tugs the mind towards some deep yet unresolved knowledge to which only the heart has imperfect access. Maybe this is the beginning of the answer to the great existential question, and maybe it’s why the concept of God is so misunderstood and misrepresented by mortal man.

What would I know? I’m not qualified to be a mystic yet, merely a mortal man entranced by the mystery of an unidentified scent.