"I felt it as I nestled into the arms of lovers, swallowed a Valium, devoured yet another brownie, or drove my car too fast."

As far back into my childhood as I can remember, I was searching for something I could not name. Whatever I was looking for would help me to feel all right, at home, as though I belonged. If I could find it, I would no longer be lonely. I would know what it is like to be loved and accepted, and I would be able to love in return. I would be happy, fulfilled, and at peace with myself, my life, and the world. I would feel free, unfettered, expansive, and joyful.

I have tasted that possibility many times and in different ways: as I sat on a hill, infused with reverence and wonder, watching the splendor of a sunset spread across the sky; as I came upon tiny spring flowers pushing their way through the frozen earth; as my heart swelled with the power of the hymns and the voices and the beauty of the stained glass during a Christmas service in church; as, with joyous abandon, I galloped my horse bareback down the long, warm sandy beach and splashed into the ocean for a swim; and when as a new mother I looked into the perfect, miraculous face of my newborn child.

I saw glimmers of that prospect during those moments, however fleeting, in which each filament in my experience suddenly seemed to come together; it all appeared to work; everything made some sort of nonverbal sense. It might happen as I worked in my garden, when I prayed or meditated, while I was walking with a friend in nature or sitting at the feet of an elder.

I also remember sampling what seemed to be the promise of freedom, connectedness, and love as I received praise from a revered teacher, a colleague, or appreciative guests after hours or days of frantically working to prove myself. I thought I felt it as I nestled into the arms of lovers, swallowed a Valium, devoured yet another brownie, or drove my car too fast.

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