I don’t attend a church.
I don’t pray to the God I was raised with.
The cross on my foot is a reminder of what once was and is no longer.
I am not a Christian.
Paradoxically, I find myself some of the most spiritual that I’ve ever been. Not religious. Not necessarily devout. Not in a new-agey way… though if you asked some, that’s possibly how they’d describe it.
I believe that souls are recycled. They are drawn to particular people or places or circumstances where they can flourish and exchange karmic lessons.
For as long as I remember, I’ve been told I have an old soul. Aging has been interesting because with more experience I’ve found that I agree. This isn’t intended to be self-congratulatory and there are certainly times when I am as immature as a dick-joke-making 12-year-old, but most of the time I feel like things flow differently for me. I see big picture, multiple views, and take things less personally. It makes me wonder what I’ve done in past lives that has taught me so much and what I continue to miss with each cycle of rebirth.
My infatuation towards Savannah, Georgia is as akin to metaphysical peace as I can think to describe. On those streets, under those mossy trees, strolling through those city squares… I feel my muscles loosen. My heart exhales. My soul somehow sinks deeper in my torso. Truly — I can think of no other manner to describe it. From the first time I visited, a small voice inside me buzzed with contentment. I’m home.
I will seize any opportunity to relocate there. Savannah is without a doubt a sacred space, one I connect to in a profoundly primal way.
Funnily enough, my most hallowed space is one I’ve visited little more than a handful of times. It exists in my mind, though perhaps also in some plane that’s not entirely in my head.
The first time I accessed it was for a high school creative writing project. We were reading Dante’s Divine Comedy and I drafted a short story about hell disguising itself as heaven. Sure, not an original twist but the mental picture I created was somewhat similar to Glacier National Park (or what I’ve seen in pictures at least). When I began my meditation practice, I rediscovered my mountain and the surrounding vistas. A large prairie stretches in a valley with Appalachian-esque forests to the left and aspens to the right. Behind me is a grand tutor looking house, six or seven feet high. In the sky I see swirling galaxies on a purple sky. I always enter within close proximity to a large rock to rest on, within ear shot of a trickling stream. The air smells cold, there are no bugs or birds, and the breeze is just enough to cool my skin without eliciting goosebumps.
Occasionally I’m joined by my deceased shar pei pup, Fang. And on those visits I cry.
I’m not so wispy as to believe I’m accessing anything astral. Logically I’m aware that I’m creating ‘reality’ when I ‘visit’ my valley. Regardless, my transcendental meadow is the most sacred of my places. It is where I go to pause, to reflect, to express gratitude, to gain patience. Where I go to feel and to plug into Source.
I don’t visit as often as I
should could but when I do, all is perfect.
I am holy.
Smell the roses with us as we PAUSE next week…
Lin’s VOW mantra: Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again
Lin’s Song of the Week: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohem (Pentatonix version)
Steph got a jumpstart on #VOWpause by taking a by week