Life is everywhere. No one can step beyond its boundaries. If he fancies he has done so, as when out on the wide desert or in the high heavens, he has only to turn attention to himself to find on his own premises the highest form of life; for the individual does not exist who, enlightened by Christian Science, dares appraise himself less than an immortal.
Life is more than always and universal. It is a certainty. There are not many certainties in human experience. You do not need all the fingers of one hand to count the things you are positive about. Indeed there are times when you are hardly sure of anything, except that you exist. You may wonder about the existence of others. You may suspect, when searchingly critical, that they may be emanations of your own thought. But no person can seriously question that he himself lives. Life is the one indisputable fact.
But Life is more than certain; it is more than universal. Life is self-existent. It exists by virtue of its own inherent power and vitality. In other words, it was never caused. But, you say, everything has a cause. Realities are not caused; they are. Emily Dickinson observes that beauty is not caused; it is. So simple a device as the multiplication table was never made. It is, it was, it will be. No one ever fixed it up. Millions of youngsters have tried to unfix it, but without success. It remains the same table you and I learned, and it promises to so continue.
