Returning

There have been, the past few days, secret transmissions; subtle suggestions from the cosmos hinting at a vast interconnectedness underpinning everything. It is something that can be felt on sunny days, when walking alone on a deserted street enclosed by cheering trees thrashing like green pompoms, birds chirping excitedly with their squeaking-wheel voices, a wave of familiarity and then a feeling of returning appear in the air like mist. It is something that can be felt when staring out to sea, its infinite horizon rejecting your sense of separateness, your discreteness, making you feel as though you are a drop of insignificance inside something endless and eternal; also something integral, an inexplicably small completing piece to an incomprehensible jigsaw-puzzle. It can be felt at the prospect of falling in love, or at the end of an adventure. It's in the awe of the stars in the night sky. It's in the wings of a bird glowing in the morning light. It's in the loneliness of the desert; the company of close friends. Of someone asleep. It is in the palms of our empty hands.