Sacred Spaces

Our state of mind informs our reality, does it not?

I recall the impact of what I called "a special place" even as a young child: how I tiptoed when I entered the local church, a concert hall, a ruined abbey.   I instinctively felt the need to speak softly, to allow my eyes to rove across every niche, to tune my ears to the slightest sound, while being aware of a growing sense of awe in my little chest.   The church, blessed and consecrated for worship,  its very essence taken from its soaring nave, candlelit apses and impressive altar, marked it as the place to meet the divine.  The concert hall, echoing when empty, but later resounding with glorious music, also inspired that same heart-swell, accompanied by a feeling that I ought to be good.

The ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, Yorkshire, sacked during the reign of Henry VIII under his Dissolution of the Monasteries decree, were my early introduction to pantheism.   Nature has overtaken the site of the deconsecrated abbey, although some of its stone walls still stand, and breaths of its former glory remain to stir the breast: a ruined wall rising starkly against the sky, a flowering shrub at its base on which briefly rests a butterfly, along with the soft notes of the droning bee.  William Wordsworth wrote, in both his beautiful poetry and thoughtful prose, about the hallowed relationship between nature and spirit, and I am persuaded.

But what about retaining that feeling of awe in more lowly spots?  I had heard about cloistered nuns who believed that the most menial tasks were sacred because they were offered to their God, which inspired a transcendent feeling as they scrubbed.  I sometimes thought about that when I was cleaning toilets in the campground we owned for several years, but could never get myself into a contemplative state of mind.   The noise of faucets being turned on and off, the flushing of the toilets, the sound of the mop splashing in a bucket, did not nudge me onto a higher plane.   It was a chore to be finished as quickly as possible.  Not only that, I  resented the campers who came in right afterwards to use my newly scoured facilities, leaving soap scum in the sinks and wet footprints on the floor.   So much for my feeling that I ought to be good.

One summer, a man and his wife stayed for a while in our campground.  They remained longer than they originally intended, because they believed the surrounding woods was a haven for fairies.   They observed their tiny faces peering over the boughs of trees, smiling through the leaves, and peeking under the ancient roots.   The couple were also very conversant about nature, particularly wild plants and flowers, made their own oils and unguents from rosemary and lavender, and were altogether charming and generous in their sharing of the lore they claimed as their own.    When I was with them, I confess I found myself wanting to find an elf beside the mushrooms growing plentifully in the dank, moist earth.   However, although I never glimpsed one of the little folk, I did enjoy a feeling of innocence for a little while, along with the "hail-fellow-well-met" feeling in my heart.

A variety of places and experiences over the years have filled me with both reverence and joy, and I am open to the idea that the most unremarkable areas can evoke such deep feelings, even though the communal bathroom was a stretch for me.  For example,  I believe that Robbin Island, the notorious prison in South Africa that housed Nelson Mandela for so many years is now sacred.  The essence of this good man surely remains there: his faith in his anti-apartheid cause, his love for humanity, and his courage in the face of years of injustice, torture and imprisonment, either dwells in the air within the compound or is imprinted on our minds when we visit the site.   Does it matter which?

I now think of my little house as a container for the sacred.  The window seat, built so lovingly for me by my husband, lends itself to meditation, tender thoughts and, yes, comfort in difficult moments.  At times, I view my dog Bertie's trusting, sleepy little body between my knees as a beloved icon.   And having been prodded in the following direction over the years, I've also discovered that not only spaces, but certain times of the year also lend themselves to deeper contemplation.   As part of our collective unconscious, pagan themes of darkness/light emerge in our psyche over and over again.

At Easter, for example, this old story and its accompanying rituals which overlay even more ancient tales,  allow us to publically embrace death--of self, seasons, loved ones--either within religious movements or without, but always with a sense of hope.  Winter is nearly over--spring is on the horizon.   Of course, darkness can hover at any time of the year, but it is a comfort to be able to ritualize it or speak it out loud as a sacrament.   As I have aged, I've learned to move towards sadness when it comes upon me.   I no longer flee from despair, but, like Persephone,  allow myself to descend into the Underworld.   It is not pleasant, but it's there that I have always absorbed the emotional lessons life has had in store for me.   By greeting them, I am able to rise up again, a little wiser and filled with gratitude,  aware of the naturalness of the yin and yang of life. 

I don't really know if I've ever experienced the divine or if I'd recognize it if I did,  but I have come close to transcendence in places other than a church, a concert hall or a ruined abbey.  I've also experienced a spiritual renewal in the presence of loved ones--or in the memory of them.   The sacred waits to be discovered in the most unlikely of spots.  We simply have--to be.

Ode to Mashed Potatoes

My friend Alexandra
Fixed the best mashed potatoes--
It was
Her raison d'etre.
At fifteen years old,
We spent Saturdays together.
She lived in a three-story home;
Kitchen in the cellar,
Tiny work bench,
Small white cookstove.
At four p.m. we'd descend
The steep dark staircase
To peel potatoes
Stored in a wooden bucket
Behind the sturdy oak door.
Big white Idahos,
Thick brown peel,
With eyes.
She examined closely
Every potato I pared;
Made sure
All specks were removed,
Then cut them up
Just so.
Popped them in cosy salt-water
To boil.
Softened to perfection
Out they came--
And the magic began.
I've never seen anyone beat potatoes
With such elan;
First with a fork
Until all the lumps
Were frightened into submission,
Then with a whisk
Until they were
Air-downy--
Adding gradually
Soft coverlets of
Golden butter and
Creamy milk. 
Such fluffy potatoes,
They grew in size
As she whisked
And whisked.
I swear her right arm was
Twice the size
Of her left one. 
When the glorious concoction
Was spun
To her satisfaction,
They were cradled in a warm oven
So they could
Be eaten
At the correct temperature.  
Sometimes I stayed for dinner--
Beef Wellington? filet mignon?
I don't recall
The rest of the menu.
But those potatoes,
Mashed with such care,
Peeled and eyed
Under such loving
Supervision,
Resting comfortably
But briefly
On our plates,
Were the gustatory stars.