pine trees

“This is the season for reconstituted living. look at the smallest kindness and you will see the ingredients Einstein spoke of as comprising life. Love constitutes all things, abides in all things, reveals all things. It is never the catastrophe that does us in. Rather, it is the blind spot through which we view it.” (from Vibrating At The Speed Of Love.)


Behold the tree. I asked the tree, what is God? Tell me. It stood wordless, waving. 

I asked the sunflower, what is God? tell me. It’s stillness leaning in, silent.

I asked the puppy aquiver with energy, what is God? Tell me, its tail wildly screaming joy.

I asked the bluebells, cupped with aplomb, what is God? They simply bloomed.

I asked the worm, what is God? It ignored me, going about its earthmoving business.

To ask what — or even if — God is, strikes me as comical at this stage of my life, seemingly an egoistic exercise, a gambit in intellectual self-gratification, a puffed up cleverness ploy.

What I have come to know is that the question itself is a distraction from celestial-driven observation. We humans insist on definition, the naming of things.

Go to the woods. Go to the ocean. Go to the symphony. These all reflect places, things, nouns. Even the word God implies a thing, something to be named. A noun.

I have come to know God is not a noun. It is a verb. It is Is-ness. It is creation, allness, expression spoken in forms—out of formlessness it arises. 

It (God) is not confined in a book, not even the Bible, the Koran, the Talmud. Rather, It is everywhere, silently expressing itself in a robin’s fleshed out, beating breast, in the golden poppy, in Love’s gaze from mother to child.

It matters not whether we humans believe in It. It has no need of adoration for all that exists is its expression, scaled down like a step down transformer. 

It only requires awareness, reverence for that aspect of itself which spins creation, in one form or another, named or not!

As its offspring, all of life serves as reflection, mirroring back, pulsating, blooming, replenishing ad infinitum. Verbs, all.

Therein lies the peace that passes understanding. It is not only enough, It is all. Whether It is passive or active, It just is.


Rosalie Cushman is the author of three books, numerous essays, magazine articles, and a whole lot of web content for business and industry. She lives in Northern California.

Vibrating At The Speed Of Love

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