finding spirit

There are many days I could sit quietly and think…

about what spirit is, for me.

So many holy days to spark contemplation, so many people pausing.

Today, Easter Sunday, is one such day. A deeply important day, in this part of the world and others.

If I lived in Morocco,

Israel,

Tibet,

or the Sudan,

the days to pause, the holy moments, might be different.

Perhaps I'd find people dancing and calling out their name for God,

or kneeling towards Mecca,

or praying in a synagogue,

or quietly meditating in a room, high in the mountains.

(I know I'd find this happening here in Australia too, if I looked.) 

All of these people would be resonating. Finding their spirit. Their song. The path that feels truest to them. 

All these ways, these days, this kaleidoscope of faith,

are 

beautiful to me. 

We were watching the sunset the other day, looking over a lake that I loved as a child.

We stood high, high on a sand dune, the sea behind us, the lake before us. The sun dipped lower and lower over faraway hills.

Out of the blue, I said to my husband, "Who decides when Easter is? The date is always different."

He didn't have an answer straight away. I turned back and watched how the falling sun changed the light. The hills waited, infinite layers of blue. Tiny birds darted through the bushes. Called to each other, nestled into the trees. Larger birds coasted the twilight wind, their wings out like palms of the hand, held upward.

And then I said, "I wonder what those hills are." 

Thinking to myself, Are they part of the National Park? They are so beautiful. They seem to go on and on.

And my husband said, "Perhaps the Church?"

In that moment, I thought he meant the hills. I had already forgotten my question a minute earlier. 

In that moment, I thought, Yes. 

It felt so true to me. 

Of course. The hills are the church. 

And the sky all around. 

And the birds calling, the sun dipping, the light changing, 

the water in the distance, so still, and fading into blue grey. 

And the sound of the surf behind me, purring, holding me up with its hand warm on my back. 

This, here, is my church. This is where my spirit feels truest. 

My feet on the sand, rooted into the Now, into this moment. This view. These sounds. These trees, this life, this sky, this sea. The living, breathing, vibrating, resonating natural world. 

My spirit is here. This is my worshipful space. 

And I felt such peace. 

Such connection.

Such joy. 

On this day, and on others, where the spirit rises and holds you, 

wherever you are, 

however your spirit sings,

I wish you beauty, peace, and love.