A moment that I’d anticipated and imagined and fantasized about for ten years finally strolled into my life on Saturday evening. I’d arrived in Chicago to participate in Andrew Harvey’s week-long course at the Institute for Sacred Activism, and some copies of my book, New Self, New World, were waiting for me at the hotel, hot off the press. Once I’d checked in, I picked up the box, carried it to my room, and opened it. There was none of the expected exhilaration, no whoop of joy, no one else around but me. What there was, though, was a perfect stillness, a spaciousness of such magic I barely noticed it. I merely drifted inside of it. The moment of pulling the first book from the box and holding it in my hand seeped into my every pore. I was empty of any great or overt emotion, but I could describe to you the quality of the light in the room, the hum of the air conditioner, details of the carpet and curtains and furniture – all of it quietly luminous, specific, and felt as a single, singing unity. And I whispered, “Thank you.” It was that simple.