I am drinking in my mornings in the cup of my soul. I am reaching out and grabbing it by its wing. I am flying with it, dancing with it as I've never done before or had felt in an enduring time... my soul—the thing that has had such wounds, that it was so hurt and had grown so dim and bent, that I was left in such darkness; blinded from the smallest light, and all that is good in me. And now, as I jog in the early morning, slowly, as though in an exquisite dream, how amazing, and how wonderful this new feeling running through my veins feels, and is... all my senses have been awaken to the magic of life, and I'm astounded and amazed at the splendor and beauty which surrounds me. Have all of it been here before? To see the morning, to see it as it is... to feel it. For it is more than just seeing it. You have to inhabit it, live it; feel the warm morning breezes rake its fingers through your hair and let the symphony of birdsongs guide you; guide your steps into this newness of life; to the edge of green peeking under cobalt skies. My sight feeling like thunder, brought forth on a crackle of light. The air is silk and gold vapor, a shimmering yawn; the moan of a door hinge opening to new possibilities, new hopes, a brand new beginning of a day—reverence and resurrection. I am utterly astounded by it all, swooning with love for all I see. This is the "drinking in". This is the "feeling it" I'm speaking of. This is the "letting that warm curative liquidness of love and hope heal you"—heal my soul, so that my eyes can see again and my soul, unchained from its slavery, could sing again... this bundle of bones that I am; these days turned to songs—I can touch them. Touch "la esperanza"—hope. My hands are prayers that worship God.