“While I am looking for something large, bright, and unmistakably holy, God slips something small, dark, and apparently negligible in my pocket. How many other treasures have I walked right by because they did not meet my standards?” 

Barbara Brown Taylor

I, too, search for the large, bright, and unmistakably holy. I crave the shiny, the soft, the exuberant, the just outside my reach, the bigger than life. In my thirst to be wide-awake, I hurry to pay attention. How do I step back and seek something else — quiet and deep, thoughtful and kind, smart and funny, beautifully broken and healing, (and yes even) small, dark, and negligible? What is holy in the light? What does paying attention look like in the dark? Maybe large, bright, and unmistakably holy live in concert with the small, dark, and apparently negligible?

I treasure things that slow me down. (Which is not antithetical to valuing things that fire me up and get me going.) I treasure things that allow me to digest and feel and heal. I treasure the why and the I am and the not yet. Let me explain. I am the one on a walk that stops to smell honeysuckle, pet a dog, and take pictures of blossoms and peaches. I am the one who processes, discusses, journals, and breathes (as much as my body and mind allow, probably not enough as much as my body and mind need.) I am the one who looks under stones, flys close to the sun, and identifies mountains to climb. I am the one driven to create — the creative process requires me to slow down.

I am writing this in New York City. The city that never sleeps. New York City is absolutely large, bright, and unmistakably holy. What is darkness here? Darkness here is marching, kaleidoscopes, and the road. Darkness here is anonymous, hopeful, and electric. Darkness here is excellence, edge, and energy. Darkness here scares me like the way pushing my comfort zone scares me. Something beyond sight happens here. Something, thank you Joni Mitchell, I could drink a case of. Something cellular and sensual. Something bathing in the unknown and the omniscient. Something that so deeply thirsts for oneness with our whole selves and with one another that atoms bounce and reach for the deep, beautiful, and real. Maybe that is darkness? Maybe that is holy?

What I Keep Learning

The Hunger for Holiness

I like it much better than “religious” or “spiritual” — to be a seeker after the sacred or the holy, which ends up for me being the really real. – Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor, from the On Being conversation, “This Hunger for Holiness”

I found the holy on my walk this morning. The outdoors are holy to me. The outdoors are real. The holy is indeed real. The urban park just off the trail built on an old railroad line behind our loft is an oasis. It’s big enough to get lost and found in. It’s big enough for people to gather and be alone. It’s big enough to be quiet and loud. It’s big enough to see all the seasons up close. It’s big enough for a botanical garden, dog park, farmer’s market, music festivals, and public art.

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The Only Clear Line

The only clear line I draw these days is this: when my religion tries to come between me and my neighbor, I will choose my neighbor … Jesus never commanded me to love my religion — Barbara Brown Taylor, Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others

Choosing our neighbors — loving our neighbors — is a clear line for me, too. This line is bigger than any one religion. It is more important than any creed or scripture. It is strong enough to be chanted as a mantra and brought into existence.

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What We Are All More or Less Lacking

What we are all more or less lacking at this moment is a new definition of holiness. — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin 

I want to write a new definition of holy. We live differently when we see ourselves, others, and our earth as holy. Where to start? A new definition of holy would have to dance between being so tiny that we have to squint to see it but big enough that we can’t miss, ignore, or dismiss it. A new definition of holy would have to be accessible in the way that we all know someone who embodies it. A new definition of holy would have our stories at their core — stories connect us, and connection is holy. A new definition of holy would lift justice as the only way to peace. Justice is holy. Imagination is holy. Joy is holy. Awe is holy. A new definition of holy would include children laughing, whales breaching, dogs smiling, smelling my grandmother’s peonies, and sharing secrets with my best friend. In this new definition, the earth, our young, and our earth would all be holy and loved. 

Paying Attention

Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor, from the On Being conversation, “This Hunger for Holiness”

A Case of You, Joni Mitchell

Kaleidoscope, from Hell’s Kitchen

The Road Don’t Make You Young, from Water for Elephants

An interview about the musical Suffs and the finale song “Keep Marching”