For my beautifully steadfast mother, Adele Teague:
Thank you for helping me cross over the many arduous death-wombs that could have swallowed me whole (Jeremiah 1:5).


Death comes to us all. It’s the great equalizer. No, it is the great begetter of the mysterious unknown – uniting both you and me. We may not logically frame it so, but we sense death everywhere. Throughout everything, its siren call emerges. Decomposing matter remains the arbitrary awe and function of our everyday existences. Life is fleeting and therefore trivial; this is what they say. Death turns us into the waste of what we might have known and the people we may have yet become. If only things were different. If never we’ve accepted the immaculate grace of love in this one and only world we know, then surely the earth swallows us up into its disintegrating pit of sod and soil. Six feet under. Oh, how it loves to recycle us!


We bend to the forcible will of an impermanence that cares not for how we cling to relative personal comforts for our illusions of immortality. In legacy building and the overall minutia of our perceived accomplishments, we erect vanity monuments to escape time’s ravages. We are constantly reminded, however, of the little ephemeral pieces of nothingness that we are. Both you and me. And yet no matter what life-preserver we choose to weather the storm’s rages, it still remains true: death comes to us all.

We know not what hour, nor the place of its arrival (Matthew 25:13). But like a bandit, it enters our houses and takes us for ransom. It is the strongman in the room (Luke 11: 21-22). When it comes to us, will we welcome it with generosity? We do, after all, have the ability to accept it into us, just as the intertidal shoreline embraces the immensity of a tidal wave looming on its horizon. We all know how it roils over and leans backward while taking ourselves captive. We must bend into it anyhow!

Please count me accurate on this one, for I have seen it in person. Death can be a marvelous spectacle of beauty. Conversely, it can be a chilling exercise in despair. In its final moments, a life lived in the abhorrent constriction of fear and self-isolation can produce a raw slab of existential shock for those observing it. It can, indeed, fossilize a person’s spirit just as it can annihilate a heart. In the end, I often wonder which way it shall be for you; or more precisely, which way it shall be for me?

In the cemetery of my heart, I ponder these musings before a dead zone of emotional unraveling. As doom-based thoughts wander around my brain’s periphery, I sluggishly recall my own morbid depression. Its misery is torturous and true. Why am I drowning in this cesspool of self-abysmal living, I wondered? Does it have to be so real? Oh no. Not now: I regret this circuitous cosmic tape unwinding before me. This is (just so you know) the third occasion over 2005, in which I grapple with yet another living-thread unbinding in what appears to be an endless spool of pointless tragedy. The phenomenon of death strikes once more while I rock back and forth on a whitened wicker chair on my mother’s screened-in porch. I voraciously inhale the bitter fumes off of a half-burnt cigarette nub on Easter afternoon between ho-hum commercial breaks of a UNC basketball game. It matters little now just as it mattered not then. In fact, the game weighs so light upon my soul in comparison to that awful heart explosion awaiting my arrival in the living room in three seconds time. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. My mother projects her sobbing voice from the kitchen; its harrowing urgent pang reverberates directly in my ears.

“Son!” Yes, mom? “Get back in here quick! There’s something wrong with your stepfather!” He must be languishing away on the couch like he usually does on days like this again, I think. I’ll go check. As I traipse back into the living room in full steam-ahead motion, I look to my mom to quarterback the play. She pivots from behind the kitchen counter and then points to where my stepfather reclines back in a plush, blue chair. He seems to be snoring away in 3rd heaven! Thank you, dear mother, for your assist! As she frantically telephones 911, I stumble-step out of my depression-induced daze.


I immediately walk over to my stepfather’s unconscious body. Okay. I think I’ll check his pulse. Much to my surprise, no blood flows throughout his carotid artery. I beg him to awaken, but he does not respond. His heart explodes in his chest cavity, as we speak. They call it an aortic aneurysm. Taking his lower torso in the inadequate clutches of my arms, my mom and I lower him down into a supine position on the sprawling red carpet. My hands now quiver like the delicate little nubs they are, and I enter into a full-blown panic.

Recalling some CPR maneuvers I once rehearsed during lifeguard training, I discover my palm notching downward to what I think is an appropriate location on his chest. These compression-gestures are intended to be life-saving. Or are they? One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. And after ten compressions, I perform a mouth sweep and pinch his nose tight. I then administer a series of mouth-to-mouth exhalations. When I begin heaving gulps of air down his throat, I notice a snoring pattern permeating into my mouth. The death-rattle. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. Snore. Peering into the empty orbits where his vacuous eyes meet mine, an already deadened look arises. There is panic, fear, constriction. Staring blankly into the void of its digital screen, I completely disassociate. I am now entangled in with the television static. The game is still on. UNC ties in the waning moments of the Elite 8. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand.

After all is finished, the paramedics arrive 10 minutes too late. UNC prevails by a 6-point margin. By this time, however, the poor man before me – I know from inhaling his fragrance – has long since expired. Revved up electrical charges shock his body like high frequency chatter. Tick-tock-tick-tock. Boom! Zap. His heart blows-up like a thick wad of confetti, showering the room in its mourning. I cannot articulate this new lingering feeling (or non-feeling if you will) that slowly encases my being. In his final moments, my stepfather injects something into my newly fractured identity. His departing essence transmits its agonizing constriction into the feeble moorings of my soul. Wave after wave of despair crashes into my suddenly wilting center. Without my consent, I am irrevocably transformed.

I know not what, at the time, this heart-implosion means. I am, however, converted into a hardened shell of a human being. In the aftermath of this debacle, I let myself go. I am but only 21 years of age. It will take me the following decade and more to mend this trauma. No one knows why I down-spiraled into such future-fragmentation: only I know the facts. The specter of my stepfather still follows me. Only in time, will my mother’s love realize and compensate for this most unfortunate of mortal happenings. Our family shall rally together. The question yet remains: did I do it okay?

Flash-forward precisely one decade later. I now sit vigil beside my beloved spiritual teacher, Dr. Beatrice Bruteau. Her wrinkly skinny nubs are a residual reminder of where her 84 year-old hands once orchestrated aerial mind-bending feats from the vestiges of her intellectual prowess. Oh, how she used to wave her hands to and fro like magic wands that pumped pixie-dust ideas straight into my soul. I was once enchanted (no, invigorated!) by the palpable energy-forces that crisscrossed between such wild gesticulations. And yes, she was a beyond-brilliant, highly cerebral master of Hindu Vedanta and Christian contemplation.


Beatrice interwove her musings with inter-stellar bursts of scientific logic and the evolutionary enlightenment found in Sri. Aurobindo and Teilhardian teachings. Even at warp speed, my mind could never ascertain the cross-pollinating currents of information and energy at once, all of which she used to zap me where I sat. It was never the absorbed content that mattered – at least not during our teaching-instruction sessions. She reminded me on occasion, “Josh it’s not about theology! Whenever we talk about God, we’re really talking about ourselves! It’s the presence that you have to offer other persons that truly matters…” Yes, dear Beatrice. My heart bends into you, even still.

One afternoon while standing idly in her apartment, with Beatrice sitting in a living room chair, closely attuned to my current cognitive condition, and I staring blankly toward the dining room window, she giddily approached me. “Josh, what are you thinking about?!” to which I replied, “Beatrice, I am thinking about God.” She then retorted, “Why don’t you remove the ‘thinking’ and the ‘about’?” After toying with the removal of this predicate data over a period of no less than 30 seconds, fully digesting the implications of what I had accepted in my heart to be true, I felt compelled to respond: “Beatrice, if I am God, then you are God too.” To my surprise, whatever Teacher-student hierarchy had existed in the back of my mind immediately toppled. We were both suspended in this simple “if, then…” hypothesis, that if I dwelled in her, then in the dissolution of my disbelief, she had come to dwell in me. This I now know to be true: she remains identical to my most actualized source-ness. She speaks through me, arises from the foundations of my existence, is the transformative-catalyst for my self-actualizing being. She is made acutely manifest in my better actions and deeds.

But how did this come to be? I wonder. It was just earlier this evening that she had conferred upon me the filial-gift of recognition, “At least we have produced a successful offspring in you!” With this bedside blessing, my heart exploded. This time, however, the confetti-energy shooting across the room was of a positive variety! I had developed sufficient enough reason through the completion of my undergraduate studies and now in seminary at Wake Forest University to know that this was no ordinary blessing. Rather, my wonderful Wisdom teacher Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault illumined me that this was nothing other than a lineage-transmission – or, an uninterrupted conferring of spiritual power-in-relation from one successor to another extending back to our tradition’s founder.

outward lightI nevertheless began lamenting our beautiful year-long relationship that had culminated in her hip-fracture. After contracting a bacterial infection in her GI tract, hospice soon came calling. Within this context, our time together was painfully short-lived. My intuitive reasoning, indeed, led me to believe that Beatrice, with all of her higher-tier cognitive faculties, was willing herself to die. Not only did she refuse solid foods for minute dollops of ice cream, she began chasing around her nurses with her intimidating demands. The more awareness she gave to nurse so-and-so, the more likely that particular nurse would devolve into a condition of learned helplessness.

That said, her nurses loved her. They simply did not know her genius and tried to convert her on her death bed. On one very tense occasion when a nurse tried to tell her “Now Beatrice, the powers that be need you to eat your food,” Beatrice rebelled, “I-am the powers that be!” They each knew their places thereafter. Unfortunately, none of her nurses were on a given wavelength to understand her. It was in these vulnerable moments of relational disconnection that Beatrice confided in me. No matter how much it appeared that she would spontaneously rebound (both spiritually and physiologically) it was to be of a different nature. She never conceived of the necessity for a full-on physical resurrection. Only that of her Spirit: nothing less, nothing greater.

Now, in this moment, while grasping the sum of her pruned-out fingers in the palm of my hand, I gaze at her directly. Truth be told, she remains God-incarnate – at least for me. I look upon her somberly. With the exception of a 75 pound exoskeletal-frame that is shrinking by the day, she has lost most of her mortal features. Over the next 2 weeks, as she abounds more and more with the powerful radial energies at her disposal, she will arise from her indolent slumber only to reconcile her practical affairs. Others may not be in the loop, but I know the truth: her self-effusive vibrancy is short-acting.

Her radiant essence is a bittersweet perfume wafting into my nostrils and out of my awareness. Its magnificent glowing aura breathes life from her dilapidated frame, like a vibrant phosphorescent mist careening across the room. What I’m really exposing myself to, in this moment, is the distillation of her consciousness. It overpours into mine with the most salient of ease. I do not have to penetrate too hard below the surface in mining for what I am after. I suppose that what I’m trying to convey is that Beatrice summoned me here, specifically for this. I am to bear witness to her conscious crucifixion. I am to receive her Christ-contagion in love, as an offspring; a spiritual son who is to carry the future-mantle of her flame. I let this reality seep in before suddenly peering up.

A light lingering above her head calls me over, ever-so quietly. I look out of the window and into the night’s horizon. It is the moon! A halo envelops her softly sleeping crown. I know that the grief will come. There will be time enough for every unknown feeling to fluidly cascade forth; to crash forward into me like a tsunami, carrying my fragile identity back out again to sea. But not now. In this moment, I am being reborn in the death of a woman’s love. And that love is a life that will eventually overcome…

courtesy of

Death comes to us all. What a simple fact to swallow, but a difficult truth to learn? When we give death our presences while we are still living, a heart-to-heart connection can be forged between both living and dying. The basic constitution of these energies merely depends on what death-source transmits it to us. The source of our transmission assuredly determines how it can be incorporated into the subtle depths of our awareness. It also determines what consciousness-material manifests in us, as its receiving agents.

On a personal note, I know how the knock-down-drag-out lows on the receiving end of another’s death can result in a poverty of presence. The grimness of its transmission, for me, from my stepfather, was absolutely wrecking. I also know how the transformative effects of a pure self-giving can occur from an enlightened beloved’s intentional radiation just moments before departure. In the totality of my experience, what I do know is that love, in its most refined variation, is more potent than death. We only need the right transmitting-source to show us this fact.

The love that I received from Beatrice is now synonymous to the love that I give. In the absence of her mortal guidance, I am simply a mouthpiece. Although we remain two particular beings with distinct life-experiences and characteristic-identities that couldn’t be further, the quality of depth exchanged between us is absolutely analogous. As a matter of fact, the presence that I now possess may very well be Beatrice’s own! Our consciousness’ are so interwoven in the shared garment of a mutual indwelling that it is difficult to tease us apart. She dwells in the space-less place where I begin and I-am located in the transitional-zone where she ends. Back and forth, we dovetail each other throughout space-time horizons.

At the origins of my own consciousness, I now (as always) recognize that it is in Her that I live and move and have my being (Acts 17: 28). While my stepfather introduced me to the gravity and weight and seriousness of what death could offer, Beatrice set me free. Even as I crudely tried to cut her cuticles on her death bed, fumbling around with the clippers so as to lightly nick her quick, I wondered: am I doing it okay? In death, Beatrice reminds me that there is no right or wrong. She affirms us all: “Yes, yes, you are. Let-be. You are doing it in only the way that you know how. Let-go.” Love is stronger than death. Now, I finally see.  

Josh 3A grateful long-time student of Rev. Cynthia’s Bourgeault, Joshua underwent a radical process of deepening consciousness that culminated in a profoundly enduring relationship with the inter-spiritual mathematician and philosopher Dr. Beatrice Bruteau. After her death in Nov. 2014, Joshua underwent a series of life-altering changes; he refers to this spontaneous showdown with the unconscious as a constructive process in grief. An ongoing flow of self-transcending experiences (in suffering) suddenly led to a shattering of his narrow identity. What gradually emerged in the aftermath of this creative transformation was an altogether different person. Operating from beyond his prior limitations, Joshua seeks to both incorporate and advance the philosophical understandings of Bruteau. Having recently accepted an invitation to “upgrade” the formal learning instruction of his transmission-download, Joshua now consciously actualizes his Wisdom inheritance as Bruteau’s lineage-bearer. Joshua remains committed to developing a Wisdom circle in Raleigh, NC, where he plans on realizing this blessing as a formal spiritual teacher.            

“I was delighted to receive this wonderfully creative exploration of imaginal reality by my student Josh Tysinger. Aside from simply his completely singular and wondrous mind itself, Josh’s claim to fame around our Wisdom network is that he was the one who stepped forward to journey closely with Beatrice Bruteau during her last few years of her life and the one who expedited getting her archive safely delivered to Emory University. Josh is her direct lineage bearer, and you will hear a bit of her voice and sparkle speaking through this mind-bending (to say the least) imaginal rhapsody.” ~ Cynthia

Over the past months, our teacher Cynthia Bourgeault has articulated her pioneering and breath-taking research into perspectives on the imaginal realm. Invigorated by her beautiful meditations on this most sacred of spaces, I broach this subject with only the most humble of intentions of initiating dialogue onto how it plays out in daily life. These are my personal beliefs inspired by her musings on the imaginal – ones I hope are in step with Cynthia’s own views on the matter. ~ Joshua

To begin, I perceive the imaginal as connected with an intermediary flow-through area existing between the unconscious and more transcendent realms of Reality. When I say that Someone is communicating to you through this liminal space “between” realms, the experience may be akin to a sense of personal thou-ness radiating itself to you through a veil of the unknown. What I mean is that this persuasive Someone coming to-you from beyond the unconscious mind intends to take you deeper into Christ’s heart – a luminous web of Mercy that playfully creates and re-creates you through a radical all-encompassing love. Imaginal space may lend to you it trans-rational impressions – they are “messages” filtered through the semi-permeable boundaries of the unconscious as animate symbolic images. Synchronicity, de-ja-vu, precognition, and the sensation of being engaged by spiritual forces generally make Christ’s presence known in these meeting quarters. At all times, the Spirit re-directs you to a heightened awareness of Christ’s underlying unity that intimately pulsates through the kinescopes of your lived-in experience.

Self-diffusing energies in imaginal space are not only constantly available, they are eternally replenishing. Without your efforts, these energies perpetually pour over into your field of perception. As you become more in-tune with a naturally rhythmic form of interconnectedness that coinheres with your zone of receptivity, conscious experiences with these phenomena emerge. We each have an “antennae-unto-God” that receives such cosmically self-giving phenomena, if only we make ourselves (as the mystics say) “passive” to them. Whenever we battle against the Source or make it our intention to impose our agendas on the face of reality, this imaginal frequency wanes as we lapse into unconsciousness. We once again find ourselves out of synch with its organizing effects upon our consciousness.

The more you deepen consciousness in imaginal space, the more that higher realms self-communicate their knowledge through you. This interaction with the imaginal affects a proximal transcendent center of interior selfhood, penetrating beyond and deeper into the cave of the heart. If you hone your sensitivities toward the imaginal through steadfast attentiveness, over time, that Someone coming to you gradually incarnates as your very person! As a space, this realized form of liminality exists between the automata of ordinary consciousness and higher realms of universal presence. As a dynamic source of creative in between-ness, imaginal space is where the multiplicity of formed subjects unites with the radically formless subject of all existence. The 19th century Indian saint Sri. Ramakrishna affirmed that this non-dual mode of perceiving could be integrated into individuals after having experienced the impermanent effects of Samadhi consciousness. In Vedic terms, Samadhi consciousness refers to the total dissipation of interior phenomena via absorption into absolute formlessness. In Christian contemplative circles, one aspect of formlessness is sought during centering-prayer in what is known as objectless-awareness. Since true Samadhi manifests itself as a pervasive unmediated state of union with radical formlessness, the individual is no longer dependent on materiality for practical sustenance. In fact, all dualities seem to disappear!

Here, Samadhi consciousness exists as the peak form of non-dual attainment. That being said, it administers a very serious ultimatum. If one does not come down from absorption into the formless, then an inability to function in the causal world may result. Due to the notorious hardships of Samadhi subjects who endure this precarious experience, Ramakrishna believed that the subsequent “fall from grace” back into phenomenal reality could beneficially actualize an intermediary consciousness. Surmising that sustained encounters with objectless-awareness are in fact meaningfully relevant to ongoing transformation, he suggested Samadhi’s function, after having been summoned back to ordinary consciousness, was to gradually integrate the experience into Bhavamukha. This zone of liminal reception allows for a transformed multiplicity to join in with absolute One-ness, resulting in a sophisticated mode of non-dual perceiving. Through bhavamukha, personhood remains in-tune with the phenomenal world, as Ramakrishna himself, their life spared from complete absorption into One-ness for the continuing enlightenment of all beings.

If the imaginal can be compared to bhavamukha as Christic mediator, then we as contemplative Christians can devote our intentions to cultivating its essence. Ironically, it is only when we passively receive our nourishment from the imaginal – and its different frequency-channels – that we become dependent on that Someone coming to us, their direction for our activities, and are (actual) active agents in worldly creation. When we are the actors, we are not free. Only when “let go” into non-striving, for whatever ends we seek, does the actor die and all of our potentials are unleashed. One can only “transmit” from this self-transcendent channel of divine communication when they become so passive, that (In Paul’s language), “It is I no longer who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.” The more you seemingly follow the non-linear, asymmetrical pathways of the imaginal – it will look asymmetrical to some, but who cares? – the more Christ works through you to become the living light that you are and have always been! Most realized mystics, sages, and self-actualized luminaries have had to push through what the world perceives as “disorder,” in order to break through into full imaginal coherence.

Think Jesus of Nazareth, St Francis of Assisi, Carl Jung, Ramakrishna, etc.; those for whom the Spirit led. Really, what the world thinks is order is actually ruining the world, while what the world perceives as disorder, it cannot comprehend through a binary-lens, may actually be playing out in realms of the unseen. Food for thought! In the future, I hope that we might follow Cynthia on her journey into the imaginal – that through our collective journey, we might wage a larger discussion on its effects on our contemplative practices.

A bit about the author
A grateful long-time student of Rev. Cynthia’s Bourgeault, Joshua underwent a radically transformative process of deepening consciousness that began in 2011 while working with the homeless in Asheville, NC. After a two-year discernment with mentors in the Episcopal Church, Joshua voluntarily enrolled at Wake Forest School of Divinity for continuing education. Although at the time still uncertain of his vocational direction, Rev. Bourgeault’s synchronous introduction of Joshua to renowned mathematician and philosopher Dr. Beatrice Bruteau in Winston Salem, NC ignited a fire in him for embodied contemplative teaching. The beneficiary of a year long lineage transmission with Bruteau, Joshua later discovered (after Bruteau’s death) that he inherited the sum of her unpublished works. The vital content of her life’s literary legacy to this world was transferred to Emory University’s Pitts Library for safekeeping. Continuing guidance under Rev. Bourgeault, Joshua recently humbly accepted an invitation to “upgrade” the formal learning instruction of his transmission, more fully actualizing his contributions to Wisdom as Bruteau’s lineage-bearer. Joshua is now happily situated in Raleigh, NC, where he plans on crystallizing this blessing-imperative into formal spiritual teaching.  

In case you missed Cynthia’s “Imaginal” postings, here are the links:

Link to Part I, Introducing the Imaginal

Link to Part 2, “Where ” is The Imaginal Realm Located?

Link to Part 3, Is The Imaginal Realm Real?


It is now closing in on the 2nd anniversary of my transfer of private documents into the Beatrice Bruteau archive at Emory University’s Pitts Library. My prior article for Northeast Wisdom titled Beatrice Bruteau Archive to Reside at Emory University published October 27, 2016 articulated the unexpectedly complicated yet highly rewarding process of procuring Beatrice’s works for the preservation of her legacy. Since her ideas have once more gained traction through the immeasurable inspirations of luminaries as Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault and Sr. Ilia Delio, it may once again be of some value (no matter how limited) in calling attention to how priceless this collection is.

As her most immediate disciple and unofficial caretaker over the last year of her life, I absorbed a great deal from Beatrice about the unadulterated power of intentionally channeled presence. Our lineage-transmission process was anchored in a non-hierarchal indwelling of radically subjective love. It was one in which I was instructed to unbind discursive reason and an over-reliance on cognition, in order to make the dynamic boundary crossing over into who she was and what she experienced. This quantum leap into the beginnings of an “I-I” relationship were only first made possible by Beatrice acting as the first cause and initiator of the indwelling relationship itself! What poured over into me during these spontaneous, pulsating transfers of information and energy were the most precious self-offerings she could have given to me.

Although at the beginning of our relationship, obtaining her uncirculated works for the purpose of safe archiving was the most crucial aspect of what I felt I had to offer, she made it abundantly clear, time and time and again, that that preservation mission was to come second. Her intention for our time together was less about scholarly discussions, book studies, or attaining project-outcomes. She taught me that there was nowhere to go and nothing to concede my power to, but to the intimate Ground of groundless Truth between us. In fact, whatever I have retained from my illumined Teacher places the necessity of knowledge alongside what might be described as heartful-ness to encompass all crisp currents flowing from my lineage-transmission system. After all, according to her premise on the Hindu phenomenon of “satcitananda,” any contact with the divine God-source within our Reality must synthesize the immediate experience of existence, bliss and knowledge in order to penetrate Truth. Realized truth is a type of purity, something that can be apprehended through the connective ultimacy that reveals itself in the penetrable depths of love.

As renowned paleontologist and Jesuit theologian of evolutionary consciousness Pierre Teilhard de Chardin describes it, “Purity does not lie in separation from, but in deeper penetration into the Universe. It is to be found in the love of that unique boundless Essence which penetrates the inmost depths of all things… Purity lies in a chaste contact with that which is ‘the same in all.’”[1] Anything that lacks this deep love, this ineffable contact with that interior essence which is all in All, is but a noisy gong.

Whatever ulterior motives I had in obtaining her citadel of unpublished works toppled over against what I knew to be the road less traveled. In one traumatizing situation while discussing the potential transfer of documents between libraries, Beatrice accused me of trying to seize her property. What transpired after is fully documented in the following article. This “hard-teaching” led to the fruits of a non-transactional relationship that I could scarcely have imagined. The ongoing subtle gong sound in the back of our relationship suddenly stopped reverberating. I relinquished my “unconscious ownership” over the documents and allowed life to intervene. And intervene it did!

Since her husband Jim Somerville’s death in 2016, I have had the honor of not only inheriting Beatrice’s works, but I have commenced a journey to making them accessible through Emory University’s Pitts Library in Atlanta, GA. Just very recently, the library has begun transferring digitized boxes of her earlier material to me. I take this to be sign that their website will very soon contain the very literary fruits that were Beatrice Bruteau’s lifelong labor of love. While the knowledge that she gave me never denied the necessity of content through literary absorption, what it asked me to do, at the very heart of her insistence, was to go behind the words and into the experiential Reality beyond it. I had the great pleasure of doing this in “real-time” with an authentic, living master. My hope is that her words permeate from screen or paper into your consciousness as well, that you may encounter a personal transformation as a new creation and become whatever the spaces between the words of whisper to you as you experience this brilliant collection.

Joshua Teague Tysinger

[1] Kathleen Duffy, Teilhard’s Mysticism: Seeing the Inner Face of Evolution, (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2014), 80.