When I was in my 20s, my childhood vision of God as an old man with a long white beard sitting on his throne with a staff and a scowl was replaced by God as an ethereal, transcendent and boundless white light of distilled love.
I would imagine myself in a dark room with the door cracked open just enough for a stream of brilliant light to enter. I would mostly sit huddled in the corner, staring at the light, longing for the comfort it offered. Occasionally, I would venture closer and sit in the tiny sliver of illumination.
When I was very brave I might reach out and open the door wider, allowing a large pool of light to spill into the room. It was brilliant and invigorating; it was life-giving. I would start to imagine that I might go to the door and step out into the light. I would imagine myself falling into the phosphorescent glow. Just imagining the glory of that fall would take my breath away.
Lately I've been thinking that perhaps I wouldn't fall at all; perhaps I would fly.
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