As the rhythm of the train gently rocks me towards sleep after a long afternoon running errands, I idly imagine the Tree of Life sigil superimposed on the map of the New York subway system (train lines as paths up and down the Tree, stops on the train as Sephiroth, each with their own attributes of angels, planetary energies, tarot correspondences, all that nonsense), and something clicks in my brain, an old familiar feeling.
It’s a spacious feeling, an anticipation, like the universe is about to open a door or pull back a curtain, to reveal some fundamental truth about my life and place in the grand story of creation.
When I was younger, I got this feeling all the time: revelations lurked around every corner, behind every stray cast of light from a knowing sky, and I was ever at the ready to throw aside everything and transform my life in the face of this new cosmology.
Today, it swells in my stomach like a joyous balloon, filling up my chest like the day before my birthday, but now, a piece of me watches the whole thing with cool skeptical eyes, unafraid, but wary and unconvinced.
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