Folks, as I wrap up one last thing, I am settling in for the night, listening to the sweet, ethereal tunes of the angelic composer Tim Janis.
His Celtic Heart album is beyond this earth.
Consider ending your night in reflection of the heavenlies, of the incredible Father Jehovah, and the unending Agape. Rest your eyes in the imagery of which you imagine Heavenโthe sweet fairy glens, the dark golds and lush greens, flowing waters, rising blue mountains, and the cry of the bird in the wind.
The great Christian C.S. Lewis once said, โThe fact that our heart yearns for something Earth can’t supply is proof that Heaven must be our home.โ
Consider the definition of anemoia: “Nostalgia for a time or place one has never known or experienced.” Perhaps I am afflicted strangely, but I cannot deny wandering throughout the woods or gazing upon fields or old paintings or stories and feeling a deep anemoia. I have written many stories, poems, and songs about such a phenomenon, so it would be. Much of my life has been fueled by this feeling.
I ponder the Welsh word hiraeth, “a deep, nostalgic longing or homesickness for a home, place, time, or feeling that may no longer exist, or that one has never truly experienced.”
As I drift off into the Fairy Glen, into a time forgotten or never lived, a world of my own mind and fantasy, that I fight for and surrender to, the world that fades in every sunset and is in the shadow of every star, I ponder these thoughts. Lord, carry me through the wings of the night breeze.