I am a strange wire by which the dreaming flows into the world of solidities. Sometimes merely to scrawl symbols in the medium of light, sometimes more substantial workings of the hands in construction. As to feel like destiny merely uses me as a convenient vessel, as like to think that what moves through me is larger than I’ll ever be. The world is a strange place, and we will never parcel out the pieces of it in complete understanding of what goes into even the smallest sliver. But it is a life well lived that has partaken of the ambrosia of creativity, that which makes us images of the One who created us. Of Him it is sure that the idea came from within His light, but for myself, it may be that the best things that come from these fingertips are not human at all. To wonder at some marvelous made thing if angels whispered its design to me. To think myself part of the grand scheme of it all.