I woke this morning and in the early dawn light filtering through the windows, Michelangelo’s David stood over my wife’s side of the bed. The figure was exactly David, the outline of the head and the curve of the shoulders. After a moment, I realized I was seeing not an enigma, but a pareidolia, the same phenomenon of the mind which finds faces in clouds.
The pareidolia is an uncanny evidence that Existence is simple. All things borrow their existence from a single Source. We revisit these same truths every time metaphors makes sense, but also in the unusual delight of rhymes, in the precision of ambiguity in poems, and when wine tastes like peaches and cheese tastes like mushrooms and coffee tastes like flowers. Or when all the characters in a novel seem on the verge of collapsing into the same character, as with Psyche and Orual and Ungit and the King of Glome. Or when the daughter is the spitting image of the mother.
In fact, most of reality testifies to the perfect unity of the Creator.
