by On a sun-warmed stone near the casita, a small lizard named Gus made his appearance—tail twitching, eyes bright, unhurried in his kingdom of light and shadow. His presence was not an interruption but an answer to a question I hadn’t asked.
I thought of the overlooked wisdom in forgotten books and discarded stories, the kind Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell, and Mary Baker Eddy were always trying to describe without ever naming it outright. Vareya was the one who named it—without pronouncement, without demand—by simply being there, attentive and alive.
Gus blinked. The air shimmered. And for a moment, I knew: the sacred does not declare itself. It lets you notice it.
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