There was an old field near my house where at certain times of the year mists told of sacred magic and old wisdom. On ordinary days the wind hid, invisible. But on those days when conditions were just so, swirls of gauzy spirals revealed delicate air currents. I always gasped and slowed to watch as I drove by. The breeze repeated ancient patterns, allowing me to see Spirit’s artwork in the mists that hovered over grasses and feathered trees. I understand: the wind has opened a portal between dimensions where matter and spirit meet. Earth meets Spirit. The field and the mist and the wind wait easily for conditions to be just right for me to see plainly what is always there.
Waiting. Like my soul. Somewhere, hidden in the swirls and fogs of life is my soul. Waiting. Waiting for me to figure out that life unfolds whether or not I have patience. Waiting for me to understand that whether or not I have a plan, life happens. I get entangled in stuff, or appointments, or the to-do list that never ends. I’ve noticed that my mother’s worthy admonition to play only after all my work is done is a trap because work is never done. And the clutter of expectations piles up in messy heaps. My soul waits for me to figure out that I can just walk through the fogginess, experiencing the eddies of life as the mists that they are. It waits for me to understand that Spirit is always there. It waits for me to see clearly again.
I cried the day that field was sold. I knew what would come. Today, the mist is hidden by row upon row of plain houses, expensive but oh so ordinary. They have no idea, those current dwellers, that the land on which they live is a holy field. They are unaware that their homes cover the Spirit of the Wind.
But perhaps ~ just perhaps ~ there are open souls living there now whose spirits capture the Soul of the Wind. That Old Wind that simply waits and hides until its seasons. Perhaps the mist still curls, unseen, through the window cracks and door sills, forced by circumstances and human-made structures to move differently. For Wisdom prevails.
And I realize, I, too, have covered sacred ground with my dwelling. I, too, unwittingly obliterate Spirit and Nature. All of this Earth is God’s creation. All of our lives are sacred. What is here now is what is. May I - may we - have clarity to see beyond what appears to be reality to the truth swirling at our knees.
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