River in a Glass
There are moments in life that don’t feel like learning; they feel like remembering.
For a long time, I had been quietly wrestling with purpose. I wondered, if maybe I didn't have some great shining calling in this life. I thought, “Maybe my purpose is simply to be grateful, to be kind, to bring a bit of light where I can.”
And beneath that lived another belief I carried for years—a quiet intuition that maybe the meaning of life was simply to recognize the beauty in the world. I used to tell myself that often: “We're here to notice the beauty. To really see it.” The sky, the trees, the way light moves, the smile on someone’s face.The endless wonder woven into ordinary moments.
I didn't understand it then, but that instinct was already pointing towards something deeper — the quiet truth of seeing through the eyes of the Infinite.
Maybe that was enough, I thought. Maybe my purpose was just to witness life with gratitude. To see what is sacred and not take this short walk on earth for granted.
And I had made peace with that. I loosened my grip around the idea of needing some grand mission. I softened. I let go.
And in that surrender — In that acceptance without striving — something opened.
One early spring morning, as I was walking into work under a rising sun, the words God Is, I Am, You Are rose up inside me with a flash of clarity that felt almost other-worldly. Not a thought. Not an idea. A knowing. A gift.
It didn’t feel like something I created.
It felt like something given.
And in the very next breath, another phrase surfaced just as clearly:
“The Divine Formula.”
In that instant, something in me shifted. It wasn't, “I should write a book.” It was, I need to.
What had arrived felt like something I was responsible to, not something I owned. It felt inevitable — like the next breath I was going to take.There was excitment in it, a quiet inner certainty. I didn’t think how or when or where. I just knew the arc of my life had turned into a new direction.
It was only later — once the first rush settled and I began sitting with my thoughts —that the deeper questions rose:
How do you write about something that feels like a river flowing through you? How do you take a living Presence as vast as everything that is, and put it into the small, fragile shape of language?
For months writing this book has been exactly that:
Trying to pour a river into a glass.
The water keeps moving, keeps widening, keeps showing me new reflections of itself. Some days it rushes with force; other days it lies almost still, but the current is always there, just beneath the surface.
Over time, I came to understand that this book wasn’t something to “capture.”
It was something to listen to.
To sit with.
To let speak.
The Divine Formula is more than a formula on a page — its a remembrance
A remembrance that:
God Is the awareness behind all things,
I Am the expression of that awareness in form,
You Are the recognition of that same sacred presence in every other being.
And if I'm to be the only one who ever reads this book… if I'm the only one who ever sees the Formula for the beauty that it is… if all of this was meant only for me… it has already been worth it
It has been a gift — changing the way I see, softening how I move through the world, and bringing so many beautiful things into my life. And maybe that is the quiet miracle in all of this: that by opening my own eyes, I find myself able to help others see.
Because the process itself has been a kind of awakening — a way of staying in touch with that flash, that whisper, that river that arrived one ordinary morning, as I walked into work under a rising sun.
This blog — Divine Reflections — will be the river as it flows:
small drops,
quiet currents,
brief rememberings,
moments of clarity,
tiny offerings along the way.
If you’ve found your way here, welcome.
You’re meant to be part of this unfolding.
May these reflections meet you in the ordinary moments,
the way that first flash met me one morning —
unexpected, gentle, and unmistakably alive.
In stillness,
William Allard
