Before there were worlds, before time found its rhythm, before even silence knew itself as silence, there was a kind of stillness so complete it did not yet call itself God.

And within that stillness— not separate from it, not other than it— there was a shimmer. A twinkle. Not yet creation, not yet intention, just the faintest glimmer of possibility in the infinite. We were there.

Not as bodies, not as names, not as stories waiting to unfold— but as that glimmer itself, held effortlessly in the vastness of what is. A twinkle in God’s eye.

And then—a blink.

Not in time, but as time. Not a movement through space, but the birth of space itself. A soft closing, a gentle opening— and everything began.

Light spilled outward like a quiet astonishment. Galaxies turned like breath made visible. Stars gathered themselves into luminous constellations of longing and becoming.

And somewhere in that unfolding—in the spiraling dust, in the forming of oceans and bone—we appeared again, as though remembering ourselves in fragments.

A hand.

A face.

A voice calling out across distance.

We forgot the twinkle. We lived inside the blink. We searched for meaning in the movement, in the rise and fall, in the coming together and the falling apart—not realizing that what we longed for was never lost.

Because even now, in this moment of breath and thought, in the quiet ache of being human, we are still that first shimmer. Still that glimmer held in the infinite gaze.

The blink has not ended. Creation is still unfolding— not as something happening to us, but as something moving through us.

And perhaps awakening is nothing more than this gentle remembering: that we were never only the world that appeared after the blink— we were the light before it, the stillness within it, and the quiet wonder that gave rise to it all.

A twinkle in God’s eye—

forever

looking out

through us.

Nigel Lott teaandzen.org

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In the quiet between heartbeats a whisper calls you home, you are not broken you are becoming. These threads of silence and sound are letters from the threshold, offerings from the edge of stillness. Nigel TEA AND ZEN - MAIN LIBRARY

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