An emotion with no name.

Life is a beautiful, complex, sometimes painful and often marvelous creature that more often than not is indescribable when at it’s most poignant.  So when I found this excerpt from ‘The Eyes of the Soul’ by Hugh Brockman Ripman in the latest issue of Parabola magazine that nearly perfectly describes my internal reaction to said poignancy, I knew I had to record and share it.

Feelings of like nature were sometimes produced by impressions reaching him through eye or ear- a sunset or a symphony, the flash of a bird’s wing against the blue of the sky, the voice of a mother crooning to her child.  At times for a whole week he would be filled by this sense of expectancy, of being on the verge of revelation.  At such times all his senses were unusually sharp, as though stripped of a covering which normally muffled them, and he felt an emotion to which he could give no name.  It was a kind of pleasant melancholy, painfully intense under the stimulus of certain impressions, as though he were a musical instrument, the strings of which lay in his heart and were plucked, and in the pain of the plucking was born the beauty of the note.

Blessed be the beauty and pain, friends, family and strangers, dusk and sunrise, and the glorious sensory overload that is October.

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