I don’t know. I don’t quite get it. When I woke this morning, what greeted my eyes were the colors of a sky painted from sunrise. There were stripes of pink. blue, pink, blue- and the whole picture was infused with the rosy glow that I identify with dawn.
The sky was beautiful. But last night, last night from that same window I also saw the moon hang like a heavy, golden globe, and the silhouette of tree leaves frame its slow descent into the high regions of the night.
Outside, if I walk a little ways, there is the ocean, vast and silvery, reflecting the morning rainbows, and the waves pounding out an eternal song.
These sights amaze me. That they exist, yes, and that I have the capacity to see them- that the world should be painted in colors that are beautiful to my eyes. What is that an adaptation for? What was the point of that subtlety of perception?
There’s no answer in the physical realm, I can only go to the spiritual. The sights of this morning aren’t just ‘sufficient’, there is a wild beauty up above. It is a gift. Our world is a beautiful world.
Outside is where I feel it. When I sit in a room and have the wonders of existence interpreted to me by men who err and sin willfully, my cynicism also kicks in. But out in all of this, my doubt dissipates with morning dew.
I don’t get how a heart could take so much for granted. I don’t understand how cynicism gains such a powerful foothold. Other people’s beliefs are their own business, but to scoff at the idea of a God, to loudly and proudly denounce any meaning in creation seems sort of, I don’t know… sad. It seems sad, when I see the sky like that.
Maybe it’s just too easy not to believe in anything. Maybe that’s the flaw in the heart of human-kind: We will not be made fools of. And so miss the glory of the forest as we hide in the shadow of the trees.