And did you cry? And, if so, why?

When, and how, does the ordinary world give way to the transcendent? At very unpredictable moments, sometimes, and in temporarily disarming or even shattering manners. Listen, for instance, to the author Robin Parks:

"I cried so (so hard I had to leave) at a little concert where a young man plaed solo cello Bach suites. It was a weird little Methodist church and there were only about fifteen of us in the audience, the cellist alone on the stage. It was midday. I cried because (I guess) I was overcome with love. It was impossible for me to shake the sensation (mental, physical) that J.S. Bach was in the room with me, and I loved him."

Cleo was in the room with me the other day, and she wandered into my closet, emerging a few moments later with two crisp pairs of clean boxers. She promptly sat down at the foot of the bed and began to try them on, one leg at a time, in a delicate, deliberate series of motions. A minute or two passed; I simply watched, and enjoyed the quiet focus of the action. Suddenly, she took one pair, and gracefully passed it over her head; next, the second pair formed an accompanying necklace of sorts. And, seemingly satisfied, she stood up, and strolled across the room, wearing the two pieces of underwear as if they were stoles of sable, or spun silk.

Cleo was in the room with me, and I loved her.