
6 am. November 10th. Silence. Solitude.
I creep around my room in theĀ worshipful dark, lighting beeswax candlesĀ and placing the last of the seasonāsĀ peach dahlias on the windowsill altar. TheĀ first real fog of the season has newlyĀ landed on the hills outside the window.
ForĀ this moment, before the fog lifts, I embrace this inner sanctum.Ā
ThereāsĀ aĀ big breath and a sigh as I surrender to a deeper peace than I have felt forĀ months.
I create a little altar for the family cabin which burned to the ground on Labor Day:
And then I remember what Iāve forgotten during the tumult and strife of recent life. Something ancient and deep and comforting. A peace that has been here all along, beneath the screaming headlines and the pandemic fear. And like aĀ spell has beenĀ broken, here I am, with all my parts. I am Re-membered.
The Remembering Thing is big enough to be the basis of ritual in nearly every world religion. Itās the prime directive that enables the words of sages to resonate through the ages.
I understand this now in a whole new way. So much is forgotten when Iām in reactivity, no matter what spiritual tools I use to maintain peace of mind. And so, today, this morning, Iām welcoming myself back home with an act of remembrance, perhaps as simple as lighting a candle. Or creating a little altar to remember something I loved and lost.
Because fall is the time for remembering what we have, what weāve lost, and what is never truly gone.Ā
Join me?
SgB
Poem: “Sanctuary”
(for Breitenbush, 2020 )
They say the firestorm took the Sanctuary.
The vaulted wooden arches, the soft carpet
built to receive the deep bows of a child,
windows opening to the sound of
roaring river in the gully below.
The setting small enough for quiet whispers
Or the sound of voices meeting voices in song
Yet big enough for rampant drumming,
under tall tall trees and blue bowl sky.
Here this winter morning,
within this home sanctuary,
the big beyond exposes herself,
draped not in smoke but only a mauve whisp of cloud.
Here the slow dawn reveals
glimpses of the great beauty.
Here candlesĀ greet morning light,Ā
gently waking up the far hillside.
And love of what was shines bright,
Tucked close in this heartĀ
and inĀ little altars Everywhere.Ā Ā Ā