My Own Cathedral

Could this be my cathedral? 

Sitting in the shade on a hot, sticky day,

listening to weed trimmers and the pool pump?

Watching my dog chase some mysterious foe?

Feeling my breath and listening intently to my thoughts?

Could this be my cathedral?

Towering Redwoods and babbling brook,

sunlight and leaves creating its own stained glass on the ground.

Silence so deep that my thoughts could shout.

Air so clean you felt purified after only two minutes. 

What is a cathedral, after all, but a place set aside for the divine.

Do I need majesty? Do I need sacredness? Do I need holy?

Or do I need now? 

Could this be my cathedral?

Where I listen to the deepest parts of me? 

Where I provide time and space to pray, know.

Where the chirping birds provide all the music I need.

Where I strip bare the pretension and hypocrisy from within, the girdle that holds everything in like it's "supposed" to.  Where I forget the ideal and the expectations of everyone else.  Where I release all bullshit and embrace me.  All of me.  

Isn't that a cathedral? 

Isn't holiness within me? For I was birthed from the sacred.  I draw breath with the divine. Within me, the Creator abides.  Not from the outside.  Not from the mouth of others.  Not from the fucking songs that repeat the chorus 50 billion times so emotions grow to a crescendo and there's plenty of time for hand raising and tears to come.  Not from the hand shakes and judgy smiles of people who will forget your name in 3 seconds.  Not from the volunteer opportunities that serve the person more than the community.  Not from small groups where you're supposed to feel safe but feel awkward and alone.  Not from slick transitions between prayer and sermon and alter call.   

The cathedral is here--with me. 

Watching the fat squirrel stuff more birdseed in his mouth.

Listening to the airplane fly overhead.

Feeling the aloof breeze hit my arm.

This is where I go to commune with the holy.  

This is my cathedral.