As any Buddhist will tell you, you can't survive for thirty seconds without desire. Here lies Christina in a golden field, her yearning filling the vast land and gorging itself on something out of reach.

You are with her because you yearn, too. The human being is a yearning machine. Not always of significance, this yearning, nonetheless, can be profound. But you stare at Christina and your body arches ever so minutely in your vision of her. I feel your back become sinuous and elongated. This is the yoga of the heart and you can't escape its universal texture and pose.

Me, I'm the blade of grass beneath her--yet I can't be just one, for my brothers and sisters are a carpet of mindfulness and are so melded together that we, many millions of us strong, speak and wave with one mind in the brilliant Maine sunshine. Our yearning matches this girls who stops the world on a canvas stretch. We yearn for the sun, for the breeze that sways us to gorgeous effect, that if you saw us with your true eyes and open heart, would shatter you into a sparkle of universal joy. Our product, our meaning?

Epiphany.

Christina's helping us with that. So much has accrued against her, hurting her, leaving her so barren on our carpet. And you, too. All through this picture, until these things bring your frontal gaze to this frozen moment of Christina's yearning. You, human host to the grass of life, soil for the cultivation of experience, can't you see?--- knowing about these moments are all that stand between you and ignorance---all that stand between you and finding your own epiphany.

You yearn for it.

You were born for it, and you know that only when it arrives will you find relief. Like Christina you stretch out your arm and let your hand stand ready to grasp all the purpose and meaning that is out there. Out there, somewhere. Right in front of her. Just past the golden fleece of our skins shining gold and green.

Perhaps it is to be found in the house or the barn just in view. We haven't been there, but reports are told on the wind that inside the first window on the left, toward the north face of the house, there lies a table close by the filtering light (who reports such things to us) which there lapses into shadow, a particularly lonely setting of cup, pitcher and glass half filled with orange juice.

It sits there, all still and pregnant with meaning as the curtains flow in a somber attention to their existence. Flapping like small handkerchiefs held to the tearful eyes of a mourning old woman, dappled delicately across a whisper of the rural beauty and meaning in this day.

This setting, of itself is not important to you. But to us?

We fully understand its beautiful significance in a moment. For not only is that table the base for crushing beauty, so barren now and perfect in structure and loss, but it holds on it symbols of Christina's yearning and your awaited epiphany. It's glass, the last one held in the hands of her grandmother, the juice, the last fruit to touch her throat, the cup, which once was held in her hand at an earlier moment of morning, now bereft of any liquid at all.

Screaming with inconsolable grief and panic, Christina fled that house. She ran until her feet trampled us with grief and pain. Each step steering her further away from grandmother, table, cup, pitcher, filtered sunlight, shadow and now a floor, ( the light informed us well) as bare and necessary as we are, supporting the lifeless body of dearest, most cherished grand mother. Mother to a mother.

Flight from this moment leads our Christina in a heap, falling on our lap and the yearning becomes a full force in her. Now turning, twisting, making herself look back, she reaches out to touch her dearest, who moments ago fell crumbled into eternity.

Somehow, this has manifested in the marrow of your bones too.

You know, as we have always known, the depth of Christina's yearning. But did you know that It is still to be found? Found in the slightly curled hand of her grandmother lying lifeless now, where tiny, almost ancient lines criss-cross her palm as a particle of light dances in her grasp? It's true ! Life's light, having left her body, now dances from her once strong grasp across the room and out into the field, beyond the grieving panic of terror and confusion that propelled Christina to our embrace. She is Christina herself, born in an earlier time, living a not-so-different life, connected by sinew and blood, still fully alive in this moment of universal light ...reaching...reaching in unbearable beauty... to attach itself to Christina's hand.

Can you see a thin and gossamer thread binding itself to the young woman that now holds hands with the elder? We, unimagined grass, see it clearly. We can hear the voice, too. After all, we have the light as messenger, the sun as sacred father, the world as monumental communicator!  Should you and Christina realize your kinship to us more carefully, you would catch it too:

"Dear child, I'm not gone from you. I touch your hand on the Minds wind and gather my soul up into it. Our connection forever sacred. Your yearning is delightfully misplaced, silly child. I fulfill it even more now. I have become pure epiphany for you on this very day in Maine. I caress our friends, the grass, with you, and, for each day of your life, we'll find you".

Now be consoled, lost lover of art. Be comforted, at last.

For this child did arise and, standing in the light of these epiphanies, stepped slowly across our face and left the captured moment you found her in. When the painter took you to her, you stayed too long. Your work lies straight ahead as you walk with Christina to another day of great promise and full desire. Now, have no confusion about that yearning in your life. It will always propel you. It will change its composure and countenance until often you follow it blindly, but realize, it is all so sweet a thing. So perfect and proportioned about, that when you discover it laying on the grass, under the sunlight, out in the field, simply, you will find a newer epiphany, a finer knowledge, a deeper joy in all.

Consider your grandmothers hand holding yours, right then.