And when we are outside, we notice this: a certain melody emerges, soft from the woodland, effervescent in the mist-filled marshes, overlaid with the murmur of trees, a soft wind in the leaves. Something says, “aaaaaa” or even “oooooo” a tone, a sound, one that dances in the sun, almost a rainbow window, dancing light, the play of intermingling colors.
We read about angels, see their icons in church, pray to Saint Michael the Archangel, and what do we see? Surrender into the mystery, and forget about cold-steeled logic, the neat rational proofs that angels don’t exist. What about art? Something penetrates art, a nuance, a forward movement, an impetus toward expression, a dance that must be put into motion.
In the cracks of time, angels permeate art. Look and you see something that calls you, stirs the soul. See with the eyes of meditation, and you whisper, “Perhaps the…
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