“Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling.”
C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

The days have been sweet and beautiful, full and expansive. Unfamiliar faces have become dear and precious. We have laughed and healed and changed.

Still, something has been lacking: so slight, so hidden I hardly notice it.

I drove into the sunset this evening, a wide field of sunflowers on my right, silhouetted mountains on the left. Moments like these, my senses sharpen to the ache within me.

More and more I long for sincerity. I long for truer, deeper encounter. I want to soak in the presence of those who live uncontrived and un-self-conscious, unconcerned with praise and criticism, who love and live pure and free.

Is this too much to ask? Can we strive to prefer the person standing in front of us over the image we create of ourselves on a screen? Can we break out of insecurity long enough to let love flow through us? Can we be people who move beyond mere talk to live and love in sincerity? Can we close our mouths and make room for stillness to come in?

Can we be like the mountains, the sunflowers, the setting sun, living as they were created to be, that still, that lovely, that free?

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