What to one person is a relic to another is a wizened bone.
In this frame of mind,
a certain Tibetan merchant each year made a trip to the bustling markets of India. Each year his mother would ask him to bring her home a relic of the Buddha. He promised he would, but during the long journey forgot.

Then one year he suddenly remembered his aging mother's request. Passing the skeleton of a dog by the side of the road, he removed a tooth, and told his mother it came straight from the Buddha’s mouth. His mother was overjoyed, and her crone friends came to pray at the shrine she had made for the tooth.
Over time, the tooth began to glow, recalling the preternatural breaths that had passed over it on route to a larger existence.

Religion, philosophy, art-in-depth take place on the verge of
the adept's grave, where grieving earth threatens to cave in. One day, leaving his office, the physicist David Bohm phoned his wife to tell her he was on his way home. "'You know, it's tantalizing,'" he added. "'I feel I'm on the edge of something.' When the taxi reached his front door Bohm was dead."

At our front door we reach for
the latch of the Gateless Gate.

Faith in the unknown is the miracle and the madness; however, consciousness judders in a liminal state. So Webb pointed out that the warming predicted for the next century is on the same scale as the temperature difference between the last glaciation and today. ‘You know that’s going to give us a very different landscape,’ he said. I asked what he thought this landscape would look like. He said he didn’t know—his central finding, from more than thirty years of research, is that systems of belief pall under the spell of their own lapidarian myths, just as history scores the specter of its larval dreams as allusions to images and words.