I don’t belong to a church. Or follow a religion. Or believe in any particular creation story. I love the mystery of existence and spirituality of sand dunes.

I understand the collective community of church. I defer to the safety of God and an agreed upon order of the universe. But really, the notion that I was born, that I grew and became me, that I exist is so fantastically accidental that I how could not be rapt by mystery?

Thich Nhat Hanh has returned to Vietnam to die. This man practiced the miracle of being alive every day. It is a miracle, that I am here thinking and tapping these thoughts, that I am able to walk outside and feel the mist on my face, that I can wash dishes or peel an orange or simply take a breath and feel the miracle of being alive.

Is that God?
Is that joy?