The faintly glowing quality which can be seen in a thing which has life

When I look at a thing which has a living quality, sometimes I am aware of it, almost as if it is faintly glowing. I am aware of something like light — not actual light itself, but something softer, something very like it — in the thing. The more it is alive, the more it seems faintly to shine.

In my later years, as I have encountered this sensation more and more concretely, and with more and more certainty, it seems to me, that I am seeing God, the glowing of all things, shining out from that bush, or from that face, or from the flowers in a vase.

It is the same life, already described so many times. But in the end, this is what I am left with, the sensation that somehow, in this living thing, there is something faintly luminous, there is something streaming from it, something visible, and something real.

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