Sanctuary

Marking Sacred Space

“What is the meaning of sanctuary—and of sacred places—in the context of our lives and creative pursuits?”

David Ulrich (To Honor the Sacred, Parabola, Fall 2017, p.11)

Liza and I have a particular route we walk in the neighborhood. There are places she wants to go and places that are special to me. She marks her route by peeing on things—pine straw, grass, debris in the gutter. Her droplets mark each place as “Mine! This is my sacred territory! Beware!” When other dogs bark from their backyard enclosures, she gives the spot an extra dousing.

Thankfully, I don't have to mark my path that way, but I do like to check on certain things—the three hens pecking away in a backyard nearby—one white, one red and one black. I gather seeds from the rows of “four-o'clocks” blooming along the alley—pink, yellow and white. Sometimes, jasmine and sweet-pea are blooming there, too. I find ways to linger across the street from some folks who live in one of the 1930's stone “Arts and Crafts” houses a few blocks away. The family consists of a couple in their sixties, and their old parents, who are no doubt pushing ninety. They sit in cushioned wicker chairs on their deep, front porch and have animated conversations. Almost always, the front door stands open with classical music wafting out, and everyone, depending on the time of day, has either a coffee cup or a glass of wine in hand. On Sunday mornings, they're devouring the New York Times, passing sections among themselves, and commenting on the articles. I don't know them very well, but I always want to eavesdrop, or better still, go sit among them and involve myself in their discussions.

When I was taking care of my mother toward the end of her life, I found a piece of property up the hill from her house where a farm-house had once stood. All that was left of it were two concrete front steps and a rock chimney. But the property was absolutely divine—a grassy knoll with every sort of low-growing wild flower blooming in its season, and a sweeping view of Table Rock and Grandfather mountains. This time of year, I could watch autumn climb up the mountainsides, turning the trees to red and gold on its way. I would walk there every day and sit with my back against an old walnut tree, and let the stresses of care-giving drain away. It was my sacred space.

We all need sacred space—a sanctuary for our body/mind. It doesn't have to be a temple in the Himalayas, or a grotto in the south of France. It can simply be a place in your own neighborhood that draws you to it and when you get there, you want to stay. Our sanctuary time is every bit as important as whatever work we do in the world. We can spend half an hour there and recharge our soul-batteries. Time in sanctuary fortifies us for the days ahead, for the challenges that life drops in our laps. I hope that today, you claim sacred space for yourself. I could have Liza mark it for you, if you like.

                                                            In the Spirit,

                                                                Jane