I want to understand the bunny-rabbit. Oh, how I want to understand it, and everything else in creation. What is a bunny…to God? No, not to understand a bunny as the world sees it: not as a little meal, or as a pet, or a mammal, and not as a biological organism, or an element within an ecosystem. But what is a bunny…to me? When the cosmos came into being, what was God’s intent, when He made the bunny? Or the turtle, or the pine tree, and the ocean waves? In the depths of my heart—where I rarely go—could I find there, and remember, traces of the original meanings? Man helped name the creatures, after all. Can we remember; if God graced us with the memories? Living obscures life, as sense obscures essence, and mind occludes the truth. If I could understand the bunny-rabbit, I imagine that I could also understand myself. Not myself as I think I am: not as a citizen of some-such country, or a doer of this, or achiever of that, and not as one who works at such-n-such, or as a biological organism, or a part of a larger civilization or ecosystem. But what I am to God? When the cosmos came into being, what was God’s intent, when he made you and me? When I breathe in the earthly air, and look up into the trees, and as I watch the ravens fly overhead and the hawk carrying its meal, I am struck with a certainty—that I know nothing. Nothing, in the way that things can be known. I believe there is another knowledge; one which can so reveal, and connect us to the squirrel and the moth—that we are brought into fulfillment. This knowledge doesn’t edify the mind alone, but brings peace to the heart as well; it settles the soul and comforts us within the bosom of God.