We ourselves are a labor of love. Even our material bodies, the least part of us, are fashioned from living stardust. The same energy that pulses in the hearts of stars pulsates quietly in our own wrists. The same unimaginably creative dynamo spinning out galaxies, spins out in our own thoughts. The Milky Way itself flows through our veins, eddies in our muscles, and spills over in our conscious acts. And not a single particle of this vastness has been found in isolation, somehow separated from the whole. It is all working together, unceasingly in a single multidimensional connectedness. Each human being then is an investment in the future, backed by the entire cosmos.

We bright specks, self-aware god-sparkles, here on our exquisite floating mote in the dazzling sea: can we do less than honor this with our life s work? By means of our labors, we can consciously participate in this vast ongoing act of creation and perfection. The work of creation is still unfinished, because we are born. That we are here at all implies a work to be accomplished, and a love meant to be let loose in a new way. What then shall we turn our hands to?

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