Fleetingly we sense it, that deeper connection. Like a microcosm that reflects the macrocosm. A cosmic mystery out there, of which we have intuition. Springing from seed, back to seed. Nivedita’s poem here invokes this mystery.
What should sit in the driver’s seat: Ideas or Matter? Must the reason of philosophy and the energy of religion always be at odds? Can Europe and India teach each other anything, or are they distinct civilizations, drifting off on divergent paths?