The world is still trying to twist and shake you and turn you around so you can't see it. But it is there. And you are close to it. Scholars call it the sacred, the holy, the other. Mystics have called it the face of God.
Children just call it play, the space where flowers unfold.
What we are about here, in these liberal arts, in this place where the flowers are unfolding, is a refined and sublimated and yet genuine form of play. Build a tent with the bed sheets. A fort with the couch cushions. Mix peanut butter in your chicken soup. Paint yourself instead of the paper.