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One day it's the clouds, one day the mountains. One day the latest bloom of roses - the pure monochromes, the dazzling hybrids - inspiration for the cathedral's round windows. Every now and then there's the splendor of thought: the singular idea and its brilliant retinue - words, cadence, point of view, little gold arrows flitting between the lines. And too the splendor of no thought at all: hands lying calmly in the lap, or swinging a six iron with effortless tempo. More often than not splendor is the star we orbit without a second thought, especially as it arrives and departs. One day it's the blue glassy bay, one day the night and its array of jewels, visible and invisible. Sometimes it's the warm clarity of a face that finds your face and doesn't turn away. Sometimes a kindness, unexpected, that will radiate farther than you might imagine. One day it's the entire day itself, each hour foregoing its number and name, its cumbersome clothes, a day that says come as you are, large enough for fear and doubt, with room to spare: the most sacred wish, the deepest, the darkest, turned inside out.