Do you remember the first time you looked into a microscope, how at first you saw only a blur, but then managed to twiddle the focus knob until all of a sudden something that was invisible before that moment sprung into focus and you could actually see microorganisms, or the cells of a plant, or the cells of your own skin?
When have you had the revelation of some part of your life suddenly springing into focus and making sense?
These builders work at heights most of us would find terrifying, constructing the bones of an edifice that thousands of people will walk through and work in without the least concern. They understand that all you need to move around safely is a place to put your foot for the next step.
What girders form the basis for your stability? What do you stand on as you move through the world?
Out of all the stones on this beach, this particular set of nine rocks stands out, only because someone has taken the time to balance them into a tower, to arrange those particular stones as part of part of their personal vision.
What has become special to you because of the way you have made it connect with a vision?
“Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d just feel a prayer.”
― L.M. Montgomery
What kinds of moments feel to you like prayer? What settings draw you into a sense of prayer?
Anne Lamott tells aspiring writers that they should look at the world though a “one inch frame,” allowing particular details to tell the story rather than trying to address big issues with a broad stroke.
What small particular thing that you can see right now speaks to you?
