This is not an expression about location or essences. I do not mean to say, as such, that the divine can be found everywhere, already made, underneath a lonesome rock, in a desert bush, in an austere oak tree. I mean to say, in a more immediate, more intimate and haptic sense, that every place is a divine becoming, that every moment is a sacred involution, and that perhaps a better figure for divinity is not that of a berobed king ennobling his lowly subjects with his presence, or even of a democracy of subjects who are now political equals, but of subjects plotting to overthrow a king.
A lion stalking prey, its bovine movements animated by the prospects of a rich supper. I speak of the unfurling of yawning petals, the eddies in a boat’s wake, the proposing of one’s finiteness to another’s. The divine is risky business, a tense betweenness, an ongoing proposal, a bonsai of possibilities. A material gerund. The divine is everywhere. Everywhere-between.
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