To contemplate the Profane

Much depends on how one views the nighttime hours in relationship to the current day of the week. Ironically, then, it were either very late Saturday night or the wee hours of Sunday morning, when I finished my mad dash to the last words of Erin Morgenstern's first novel, The Night Circus, "You are no longer certain which side of the fence is the dream," and turned in my bed to fall into sleep.

When one keeps the hours I often do, he can pretty much guarantee to remember few, if any, dreams. I recall none from last night. But, upon awakening, my mind turns back immediately to the book on top of the stack beside my bed, a stunning debut novel by the aptly named young author about Le Cirque des Rêves that opens at dusk and closes at dawn and keeps many a fictional character--and at least one live one for a night or two--magically bound to sustain the imaginary life of the fantastical realm she has enfolded in its pages.

Before opening my eyes, I wonder what the point of reading such a book might be. At a glance, it has little--maybe nothing--to do with my daily life. Do the words, "The circus arrives without warning," which open and close the plotted action, signify anything for me personally? But then, the thought blooms in my mind very much like the vision that made me name these scribblings as I've done: What happens when I contemplate the profane? In fact, is there any other subject that someone like me (that is to say, anyone living) can contemplate except everyday objects and actions? To find my way to the sacred, I must dwell upon the profane. If I am lucky or persistent enough in such contemplation--and you must believe me that only once or twice have I even glimpsed its bright wonder--the profane may sometimes reveal its sacrality.