It is noteworthy that when I am meditating and directly experiencing the stillness of centeredness—I then feel most palpably the gentle tug of the eternal. But later, when I am pulled back out into the leveling white noise of ordinary ego-consciousness, I am likely to content myself with trudging through time to my destined, obscure end. It is as if the comparative crudity and tinniness of humdrum human ego-consciousness acts like a muffler that muddles my remembrance of that bittersweet joy that I reliably, but fleetingly, experience in moments of exquisite inner serenity.
I call it ‘bittersweet’ because the joy is searingly poignant. Perhaps this slightly painful tincture comes from my recognition that, while joyous, I am holding no more than a ‘snowflake’: it melts upon contact with the human warmth and motion of my mind. The simple fact of the matter is that you can have no idea of what you’re missing until you’ve ‘had’ it—this cold, not quite entirely human experience of perfect, inexpressible tranquility. And then, after it slithers away we become oblivious, once again, of what has magically transpired. Could it be that we, ourselves, are no more than snowflakes that—for fugitive moments flashing here and there throughout our lives—embody perfect beauty and symmetry, while the far more numerous hours find us adrift in a thick cloud of forgetfulness, our blinkered souls ambling through banal routines that lend a sense of structure, but little else, to lives which are often over before they ever really get started?