The light offers no promises; it is simply alluring. ​Hands to God traces the quiet illusion of arrival. A radial mandala of reaching arms glides inward, closing the gap until the fingers brush the core. But the moment the light is about to be swallowed, understood, or held, it slips through the hands. ​In an instant, the forms find themselves pushed back. It feels further than before, yet it is only ever the exact place they started, the place they have always been. ​The illusion is the belief that the center can be contained. If it can be known at all, it will never be by trying to grasp it. ​May you always reach, but never grasp.