There exists such invitational magic in the space between the shadows and light of day. When the magnificence of second hand light falls, but never quite the same way. Where perception shifts unknowingly, until there is an unintended and natural allowance for the drifting away. And, something that once had us shaking our clenched fists at the sky, now falls softly on our shoulders in invitation as though a wisp of comfort through the ages. Blessed are the moments when invitational magic pours through time and the fluttering fabric falls away. Offering us a clearing of the mist that once covered the meadows filled with milkweed. Magic awaits on the wings of whispers and our never-ending story through time.
