Estonia

Perfect. All was right. Sublime. Actual, ancient order, Sublime (with the capital "S," just as Kant would have wanted it).

Standing on the sand of that Baltic cove, I was on holy ground. The sandbox of a young god. Rubbing hallowed grains between my toes. The sun sank silently while the waves sang a hymn of sweet surrender, and I sang, too. I sang because mine was the only part I'd ever known and everywhere I'd gone, someone was already singing my notes. But, there on the banks of the Bay of Finland, every note in the song was present--every note but mine. I was meant to be there. To stand among elements like mine. And sing.

So, I sang.

I closed my eyes and let the notes take me in high tide, overwhelm me and immerse me in the song I'd been meant to sing all my life. It was like I'd spent each moment learning how to react to that day. My day.

I could have jumped into the waves, head first, eyes and mouth wide open, ready to float away to every port to which the current carried my newly sacred corpus.

I want another day like that. Perfect. sublime. Sublime. When the stars sing a chorus to the gods and they, out of ecstasy and clumsiness, respond favorably, opening, for only a moment, all the colors, sounds, smells, and art with which they entertain themselves. All for us. For me.

occasio perfectus, occasio sublimis, unus sanctum sanctorum