Som'lorea

Simply writing of a thing that is so experiential is difficult. Some things are able to be written about and loved outside of experience; we are able, for example, to enjoy a writer’s ever-weaving journey through a forest, or perhaps their simple observations of the flitting birds found on a park bench. We have known these things, or have known things like them, so it is not improbable that we should be able to enjoy them. It is not difficult for a person to understand the joy of something or its inherent beauty by understanding things similar to it. A woman who has known the love of one can fathom what it is to be known by another–though they have not known them.

Yet there is a different kind of grace that begs to be experienced outside of the sentimental subjects of storytelling, a grace that is so great that it expands from one end of the earth to the other, circling it seven times over until the very air around it is thick. It is like a man who has left his land in search of another, to return with proof of its riches to show his people. Do they believe him, or find reason to believe instead in what they know? It is much easier to believe in the land we were born out of than the land we have heard news of.

That is, in the best way I can think to explain, the stillness of life, despite all trials of war and famine, that is given from heaven. By “life” I do not–at all–mean the act of living and dying, but that grace which is given by God.

There will be more to be said of this, but a well is only as deep as it is established to be by the one who decides on a land; and I am not that man.