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We all have our Promethean moments, when we share the warmth of human kindness and illumination of the spirit with another.  These moments are precious, whether rare or common.

But most of the time, we are simply tending the flame.  We are keepers of the flame, of that something that can’t be seen or smelled, felt or heard.  It tastes like victory though, just a faint trace of something you can’t define, but it reminds you of summer.

These are the things that don’t have a reason, that are eternal though they stay with us for only a moment or a season, this is the flame that changes each moment but doesn’t really die.  Because we keep feeding it- our hearts, our souls, treasure, talents, and most of all, time.

This is the all-consuming God whose face remains a mystery.  He brings the light of the sun but is ever present in the dark of night, in the shadow.

Why do we sing, dance, play, love? Why do we make art, why do we fall to our knees to pray, why do we feel so exquisitely for another human being that it brings us to something grand, something more profound than the mammalian fellow-creature concern that is o so important but certainly not inclusive of every higher impulse?

But it is not a self-destructive passion. It can be yet more painful, because it is creative.

Everyday brings its labor pains, no moment from the next is certain. We don’t know what we are bringing into this world, and bit by bit it comes, though we don’t know why. And never, never how.

That’s it. That’s the point of life as far as we really know– just putting your whole heart, your love, everything into something special for reasons even you don’t understand. That is our taste of the sublime.

And unlike everything else on earth, it is enough.