Rosarium Philosophorum, Station 8

This body lies grief-stricken in its tomb, waiting. The answer lies not in anything to be figured out, but rather in the listening. It waits in the sunbeams streaming through half-open doors, in the soft undulations of tall grasses, in the flapping of fresh laundry hung out to dry in the bright morning. Also, in the forlorn loneliness of the abandoned road, cracked and overgrown with weeds.

This body waits, spreads out Gideon’s fleece on the dusty floor. Everything depends on looking closely, mindful of all that passes through the gates of consciousness. And then it appears: the gathering wind sweeps up the innumerable prayers and vigils and wakes into a revelation, and Gideon’s dew appears.