Spellweaver: A Historical Fantasy Novel

She had merged with the ground. In the arms of her lover, she melded and became one with him, too. She had merged with the divine, as well, but was the loving, grateful, holy, mystical mistress of the physical…that incredible sensory experience that we embody for…that gorgeous gift of life and physicality that so many take for granted or, worse, shun.

 She turned her head and her eyes rested on the blades of grass next to her. She saw the entire act of nature in each one of them: the sun, the rain, the minerals in the soil.

An insect crawled along the blade of grass and she saw the miracle of life. That’s all miracles are—life looked at with the eyes of love. Everything is a miracle.

 That’s what love does: it shows us the entire cosmos within one entity. It blasts open the heart to see the beauty, the majesty, the…miracle.

 She was more in love with life than she’d ever been. Falling in love with this beautiful man just opened her even more—like the galaxies opening to the universes.

 Yet love was such a small word to use to describe such a vast feeling. Her heart was cracked wide, wide open. It was expansive, a cosmic connection. It was a communication with every atom in all of the All. She saw shapes and forms and colors folding over on themselves and emerging in new shapes and forms and colors. Shadows of ancestors long gone and descendants from far into the future passed before her.