He or she is simply their creator, and he or her creates because he or she does not attempt to control.
When we try to control power or people, we always copy. To some extent the world copies itself, in that there are patterns. Those patterns are always changed to one extent or another, so that no object is ever a copy of another–though it may appear to be the same.
In our terms, the world is intensely different from one moment to another, with each smallest portion of consciousness choosing its reality from a field of infinite probabilities. Immense calculations, far beyond our conscious decisions as we think of them, are probable only because of the unutterable freedom that resides within minute worlds inside our skull– patterns of interrelationships, counterparts so cunningly woven that each is unique, freewheeling, and involved in an infinite cooperative venture so powerful that the atoms stay in certain forms, and the same stars shine in the sky.
The familiar and strange are intimately connected in our most obvious, our simplest utterance. We are surrounded by miracles. Why, then, does the world so often seem dour and cruel? Why do our fellow beings, sometimes seem like unfeeling monsters–Frankenstein not of body but of mind, spiritual idiots, ignorant of any heritage of love or truth or even graceful beast-hood? Why does it seem to many of us that the race, the species, is doomed? Why do some of us feel, in our quiet moments, such a sentence just?