I haven't detected a rhythm or cycle to these bursts of expanded consciousness.
The experience is beyond words; but, of course, we are by nature inclined to seek words, to capture our experience by thinking about it, writing about it, singing about it.
Serene. Forgiven. At peace. Forgiving.
Except for two occasions -- a nuclear family reunion at Lake Tahoe marked by volatile, vocal conflict and the two-day combined family and friends gathering on the occasion of my son's wedding, during which we exchanged no more than 100 words -- my mother and I were hermetically estranged from each other for the last 20 years of her life. The separation was not emotionally painful most of the time but I carried the wound of it in the background of daily life.
I wrote bad poetry -- "I do not love you, my mother" -- and tearfully, relentlessly, retold the stories of our conflict and my wounds to a series of therapists for a few years. This gradually resolved into an acceptance of things as they were and getting on with my life.
These instances of new sight, of seeing something I could not see before or seeing something I've never seen before, are miraculous. How does the invisible become visible? How does what seems solid and incontrovertible disappear?