Holy Ground 22

When I come to this place I always take off my shoes even though there are rocks, walnuts, and red clay underfoot. Many steps on this overgrown homestead have given me sure footing and I can run over the imperfections that build this space.

As a child I wandered here, wondered here, belonged here. I have made the trek from tree to tree in the pitch black night. I know this land better than any other and I could walk it blindfolded, hands at my side never  feeling for obstacles — I know the paces to each old haunt — I do not need my sight.

From a mile out you can smell the sweet gardenias becon. A scent that fills the empty house, it peruses every crack and crevice of the home like a curious child. Subtly it fills the air, fills the explorer heart and lungs and soul and gently kisses the inhabitants of this hollowed ground.

Clocks tick and echo and chime and cuckoo a steady beat that kills any silence within and outside birds call each other names, chase each other, and love each other — being as invested in the limbs and roots of this place as the larger inhabitants are. Each being that lives here works to make a habitat of grace and smooth waters and soft winds.

When I come to this place I always take off my shoes — the place where I am standing is holy ground.


1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

One response to “Holy Ground 22

  1. gladysschaefer


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s