On Friday, I got out of work early, and I went to one of my
"special places." Everywhere I
have lived, I have found one or two of these spots. Places where I can reconnect and slow
down. I even took pictures, planning on
writing about this place. Then there was
drama, my sister came to stay with me, and my plans were sidetracked.
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| Taken at my "Sacred Space" on Friday |
Last night, I was going to write again about these special places, and about the importance of finding those spaces, and about how I need that space. When I sat to write it, though, I got anxious and bothered, decided it wasn't the time, and wrote about the process of writing instead and how, sometimes, I just get anxious about topics I want to write about and can't write. (Yeah...okay...busted).
Tonight, I just had no idea about what to write. I looked through my pictures from Friday,
posted a couple to Facebook, decided I wasn't going to write about that, and
then asked my FB friends (okay, maybe I pleaded...) for inspiration as to what
I should write about. I mean, I've been
writing for 28 days straight. I need a
little inspiration here.
So my wonderful, beautiful friend responds: "Sacred spaces. Holy ground.
Love in an elevator..." (and
then recants the last suggestion, citing the Aerosmith song).
*shivers* That gives
me goosebumps. (Not the Aerosmith
song. Steven Tyler does NOT give me
goosebumps).
So here we are, then.
I think I need to write about sacred spaces.
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| Picture taken at my "sacred space" on Friday |
(This may be a wild ride.
My heart is saying "NO!" to writing about this, but my head is
saying "yes," and I'm not entirely sure why they're in such disagreement. Hold on tight, okay?).
A used bookstore/junk shop called "Off the Deep
End" was the first place I remember identifying as a place I held
sacred. I have difficulty saying it was
a "holy" or "sacred" place, seeing as it housed novelties
like whoppie cushions, plastic flamingos, and fake dog poop...but the basement
was awesome. It smelled old and moldy,
and was literally filled from floor to ceiling with books. When I was a kid, this was our "go
to" place on rainy days, days when we weren't getting along, bad
homeschooling days...if something was awry, we went to "Off the Deep
End," and spent $25 on armfulls of books.
The best part about it was that the young adult/poetry/fiction sections
were on the complete opposite side of the
basement from the kids section/nonfiction section that my mother and
sisters liked to visit. The young adult
section was literally just a tiny little nook under the stairs. There was never anyone else there, and no one
would bother me. I could sit there and
go through books for a little bit and then, because I was a fast reader, I
would pick up one that looked interesting -- but not interesting enough to pay
for -- and I would read it, cover to cover, while everybody else was on the
other side of the store. If I was at
home, even in my bedroom, I was always being bothered. The space never felt like mine. I was always waiting for the next
interruption. But in the nook under the
stairs, I had at least a good solid hour when nobody would bother me. I never saw anyone else there, so the space
was essentially mine. For 11 year old
me...it was pretty much heaven. It's
funny that this is the first place I think of when I think about my
"sacred places," but it is--it's the first time I remember having the
sacred place feeling about. Not the
sacred place feeling you get when you walk into a beautiful place of
worship. I'm talking about the comfortable sacred place feeling, where
you can just be. The feeling of fully
embodying your true self and being able to just truly live in your skin, even
if just for a moment. The feeling of
finally getting true solitude to unpack your soul and leave the messy pieces
out to dry in the sunshine while you bask in the glorious weightlessness of
setting everything down outside of yourself and letting yourself just be.
Am I the only one who knows this feeling?
I had other sacred places, too. The little place past the blackberry bushes
that you had to fight
through near the stream in the woods next to our
house. There was nothing special about
this place, other than the fact that I claimed it and I went there to think and
to be alone. The thinking and writing
that happened there made it sacred.
 |
| The butterfly bush was COVERED with butterflies. If that's not sacred, I'm not sure what is. |
When I went to college, the introvert in me required several
sacred places: the bench by the duck pond.
The desk in the way way way back of the back of the library. The computer lab at 2AM. I needed those quiet places where I could
open my heart onto paper, or lose myself in a book, or find myself walking
through my thoughts. Once I had a car, I
drove out to the park near my school and sat on the grass between the geese
poop, watching the geese, and listening to the rush of traffic on the
highway. My last year of college was
complicated by innumerable difficult, painful, and traumatic family
situations. Everything about the process
of going to the park became sacred: the drive to and from the park. The ritual of parking and walking to my
favorite spot. The setting down and
picking up of thoughts and burdens. It
was during this time that finding sacred places became not just important -- it
was essential.
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| Taken at my "Sacred Space" on Friday |
Moving to Ohio for grad school was challenging. Starting over in a new city, in an entirely
new state...you have to find all new special places. I did, though. Quickly.
That one specific study room in the basement of the library. The woods behind campus. The arboretum not far from me. The village not too far in the other
direction. The glen near the
village. Grad school was also the first
time I felt like my space truly belonged to me.
I began creating little alters, and I made the space my own. I made my tiny apartment a holy space.
I learned in my 2nd year of grad school how easily sacred
places can be uprooted. One Saturday night,
I was cooking in the tiny kitchen of my on-campus apartment. I had burned incense several hours earlier
with some new incense I had gotten from my birthday, my windows were open, I
had music playing, I was taking a break from studying, and my heart was at
peace. Suddenly, around 10:30PM there
was a banging on my door, and a deep male voice announced that it was the
campus police. Frightened, I opened the
door to find 4 cops and 2 RAs standing outside my door. They asked me if there was illegal drug
activity going on in my apartment -- to which I replied no (it was just me,
cooking couscous in my kitchen). They
asked to search my apartment. Not
wanting to seem suspicious, and having nothing to hide, I said yes (not knowing
I could say no). Three of the cops went
into my bedroom and bathroom, while the fourth and the 2 RAs stood by the door,
watching me. They asked me for my
license and university ID, which I provided.
In the end, they determined I was "clean" and unsuspicious,
and they left. I went into my bedroom
and found that they had not just looked in my room -- they had opened every
drawer of my desk and dresser, had pushed things aside, and left everything
looking messed up and gone through. In
relating the story to people afterwards, I could never quite put my finger on
why it was so devastating. It was
because it was mine: it was my holy and sacred place, and suddenly, it reeked
of someone loud and aggressive I had not wanted to let in. It took me completely rearranging the
apartment -- and several weeks -- before it felt sacred and mine again.
In my third year of grad school, I learned that when your
body is violated, it's impossible to find a place that feels sacred. For a while, I stopped trying to find sacred,
holy places. I wanted only to find a
place that felt safe. But when your body is not a safe place to
reside, how can anything external be safe?
Books, learning, and academia were always safe places for me. No longer.
Even my own apartment could not feel safe enough, secure enough, because
even my own skin did not feel big enough or strong enough to contain what was
coursing through my veins. I wanted,
needed, craved, even, to find a place
where I could feel safe and feel some sort of connection with myself. As time went on, I thought I would never find
it again. It got to be that I couldn't
even imagine a place where this could be a reality.
It was after church one Sunday. I was sitting in the back of a Borders
bookstore working on my dissertation, surrounded by the smell of coffee and new
books. I had covered a table with all of
my articles and books, had my computer open, and Pandora radio playing through
my headphones. I
was completely immersed
in writing my discussion section and trying to understand my data, when I felt
it. I hit that point of safety and
holiness, and although it lasted only a few moments, it gave me hope that I
could find those places again. The back
of Borders became a safe place. It
wasn't QUITE as awesome as my cubby at "Off the Deep End," but it
worked. And I was grateful.
 |
| The labyrinth at the Sisters of Bon Secours |
I slowly --slowly -- tried to rebuild my network of sacred
places. The Women's Center on campus
became one sanctuary. A coffee
shop. My church. It was still hard, though, to try to identify
that one place I could go when I needed to unpack my heart. I never did find the sacred places there
again. Safe places, yes. But not sacred. Not holy.
There was nowhere I could consistently go to unpack my mind and heart
and connect with something greater.
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| One of my altars |
Then one day, I had to do something that was difficult, and
frightening, and overwhelming. It was
something I had to do by myself, and I was scared. I called in sick to work, got in my car, and
started driving. While traveling some
back roads, I saw a sign for the "Sisters of Bon Secours." I drove up a big hill, saw what looked like a
well manicured convention center, and a large, beautiful, deserted labyrinth. It was quiet.
There was no one around. I didn't
know what a sister of Bon Secours was, but it didn't sound like someone that
would yell at me for walking a labyrinth.
I could not agree more.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEg4amz_ptg
I parked and spent the next hour walking the labyrinth. I cried, and I unpacked my heart, and I
examined all the pieces, and one by one, I put them back in. Even the broken ones. And then I sat, feeling everything that was
beautiful and sacred and holy around me--and that's all. I just sat there. After another hour had passed, I stood up,
gathered my belongings, and drove home.
I did the scary, difficult, and overwhelming thing that day. I never would have been able to do it if it
weren't for that sacred space.
I still don't know what or who the sisters of Bon Secours
really are. I never see anyone
there. But it is my spot. I went there on Friday to clear my head and
walk the labyrinth. I spent 20 minutes
just watching the butterflies on the butterfly bush. Just the process of driving there makes my
breath go deeper into my chest in anticipation.
 |
| Another Sacred Space |
I have many sacred spaces now. My house with my Durga altar is one. The labyrinth at the Sisters of Bon Secours
is another. The spot under the railroad
tracks off the trail behind my house is a third. These days, I seem to collect these sacred
spaces like rocks in my pocket. I
sometimes bring them out and hold them in my hands, just to remember. The sacred spaces bring my heart into a holy
place: a place of gratitude and joy and pain and suffering and compassion. I am always grateful for those moments.
Another one of my favorite hymns has a chorus that goes like
this:
"When our heart is in a
holy place
when our heart is in a
holy place
we are blessed with
love and amazing grace
when our heart is in a
holy place."
(And a video of kids singing this hymn...because nothing is
more adorable than kids singing, right?).
What about you? Where
are your sacred spaces? How do you find
them? How do you know they're sacred?
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| Final butterfly from Friday |
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