I am always being brought up short by beauty, by loveliness. I don’t know why. Thistle strung with spider webs makes me forget God entirely.
Every morning – often after sunset as well – I walk the same trails in the same forest I’ve been hiking and hunting and fishing and praying and writing in for forty some-odd years now. You think I’d get bored but the landscape is so complex, with so many folds and intimacies, it is hard to imagine a Heaven apart from it. What else is there but this? Attention of any kind redeems us: attention to the interior movement, surely, but there are times when what is external – the flowers, the rivers, black bears, the moon – seem somehow more internal than love itself.