A novel is not a depiction of reality
but, of reality charged with purpose.
Being on Center is like that.
No one enters casually its gates,
nor offhandedly empties out
onto the busy highway beyond;
no chance encounters nor random exchanges
and, around every corner –
infinite possibilities and yet ...
charged with purpose and revelation;
hurtling towards a rendezvous
along the winding footpaths, within
the small cabins, the communal kitchens,
charged with purpose and beauty, nothing
left to chance, nurtured and arranged long ago –
and the invited drop in
and the uninvited hurry past
the pristine and infinite possibilities of such a place
built with love and responded to by Love Itself.
O child of God, home is where the heart is. Hurry,
every chance you get, to His home in the west.