Seeking the Sacred Earth

The sound of the coffee shop blender, the click of the chess tournament timers as one of fourteen players finished a move, my occasional sip on the sensory awakening hazelnut frozen cappuccino and the leaf blower outside, all help to set the stage for what would be an enjoyable morning.

Our son, Kyle, was one of the youngest casts of characters in this coffee shop. Customers seemed delighted to order while commenting on the intellectual wonder of playing chess. Albert Einstein, strong brain waves and the health benefits of playing chess were mentioned. I sat alone at a small round table, books, notebooks, knitting supplies, an array of pens, pencils and camera ready.  I experienced the sacred in the ordinary.

I appreciated the rare opportunity to plant myself in one place to read and observe. The book of choice was one given me by my friend Rev. Judy Drye, An Altar in the World, by Barbara Brown Taylor. What a joy to find companions in this beautiful dance with others who celebrate wonder. My life rises up in praise to God and I dance. We are seeking the sacred in the everyday. And, we have found it.

My earliest understanding of the sacred in the world around me, as well as the value of the arts, was at the age of six. My father, being an officer in the United States Navy, was commissioned on the U.S. Springfield and was sent to Villafrance, France. As I vividly recall, I found myself standing at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea with my parents. I can still hear the sound of the waves hitting the shallow walls that divided the water from the town that faced it. The waves seemed to push and leap with such force. I was struck by the power and the grace of the waves. Small fishing boats danced and rocked surrendering their every movement to the desires of the force under them. I could smell the fish and salt in the damp air. 

There were two older women sitting under a shallow shelter to escape the heat of the sun. I watched one of these women. She had gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. There was a dark colored fishing net draped across her lap and seemingly folded in some kind of order at her feet. She was mending the net. Her hands fascinated me. The skin of her hands was weathered and wrinkled yet seemed about to burst open to the fullness of the flesh within. She moved her hands with a consistent speed, aware of the task before her and seemingly little else. She never looked up. I was drawn to her “beauty.” She seemed timeless and noble. I believed that she knew some secret wisdom. I was a part of her in a mysterious way. 

Suddenly, I became aware of a light from a small doorway to the right of this woman who “knew a secret.” I could see paintings illuminated within. I turned to my mother and asked if I could enter. I walked in. The aroma of wet paint filled the room and was strangely silent. I looked. I saw. I stood in the silence and felt what I now call a holy moment.

Standing in a small gallery in a fishing village in France, I began a journey. My journey is one based on the ideas of our connection to each other (as I have experience in the holy moments); of my desire to experience life to the fullest (the glory of God is a person fully alive); and of there being values and experiences which go far beyond our abilities as human beings to fully comprehend. The sacred is all around us!

These ideas have developed into the belief that we are creatures who feel lost and isolated and in search of a connection; that most people go through life half asleep (blind to most of what is trying to present itself to us); and that these feelings of being lost and blind nurture the less human aspects of our nature. These beliefs have led me to a dedication to the immense value of the arts as they help us live in ambiguity. Yet, at the same time, the arts help us develop a sense of connection to all of humankind and to our spiritual selves. They help us ask difficult questions of ourselves and nurture the qualities that help us to be noble, strong, wise and good people.

Barbara Brown Taylor comments on those who seek more in their lives. She notes that those who “have drawn close to this More”, have done so “in nature, in love, in art, in grief.” (xvi) She goes on to suggest that “the last place most people look is right under their feet, in the everyday activities, accidents, and encounters of their lives.” (xvi) As to why we don’t realize this, she responds, “. . . the reason so many of us cannot see the red X that marks the spot, is because we are standing on it.” (xvii)

What we remember, what we know, is unique. There will be companions as well as strangers along the way. Respect the strangers and embrace the companions. We learn from both. I am learning to depend on Love and not my Ego. I am learning to depend on what I learn from the earth. I am learning to pay attention to the “woundedness” of the world which presents itself to me. I am learning, as has Taylor, that there is indeed “an altar in the world”.

In this section, you will find paintings of Bald Head Island, of skies, a sunrise and a sunset - the place I now call a sacred place on earth. You will also find photographs from my garden and of a day I spent with my husband. Gene is a farmer and as connected to the earth as anyone I know. He teaches me of the sacredness all around us. While I was with him, we headed to the fields to pick up two-ton trucks filled with wheat. The wheat was then stored in grain bins to await delivery to the grain market. The experience touched my soul. The beauty of earth, sun and wind surrounded us throughout the day. Beauty showed up in unexpected places. . .

Patterns created by dirt, hands, shoes and randomness

Music of clinks, bangs, hums, chokity, choke, rattle, rattle, clink

Honey bees, crickets and birds

Ever changing shadow of the town's water tower

Reaching across fields and out of the limits of our dwelling place

Scenes rushing by like an old "timey" movie projector

Dancing vibrations of the truck accompanied by the whirling plum of dust in the field

Walking across fields of wheat straw stubble

My hair falling down as I pulled out the hair pens

Allowing protection from the sun on the back of my neck

Conversations between two souls who love each other and the gifts of this earth

Spider webs not visible until they glowed in the late afternoon sun

What was not seen is now seen

Pouring gold from fields of grain brings to mind "Fields of Gold" by Sting

Sweep, sweep, the grain falls into darkness

There are poems to be written

And paintings to be born

The sacred can be found all around us. Praise be to God the Creator.  Amen.

Taylor, Barbara Brown. An Altar in the World. New York: Harper Collins, 2009. Print