A Stump & Other Sacred Spaces

You never know where you find sacred spaces.  Ordinary places become holding places when in transition, when reflecting on life and when longing for a future. 

Music by Scott Holmes - A Wee Tipple 
Non Copyright Music

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At the last several places I have lived, I would always come across a special spot and make it my own. They were ordinary places that over time became sacred, places to escape for a while, steal some time for myself, take a breath and try and make sense of whatever I was feeling in the moment. They were also where I could go and let the tears fall without being seen. After all, kids get concerned and take on too much responsibility when they see their mother cry. And sometimes I would just sit there, taking in the beauty. Although I didn't realize it at first, these places would eventually become in a way mile markers for the journey I was on. The first one was simply a hill on a back country road where few traveled. Surrounded by fields, it had a great view of the surrounding countryside, and located so far from the main road, the traffic could not be heard. Many early mornings, late afternoons and evenings, I would drive to that hill, pull off to the side and park, then carry my camping chair and sit right on top of that hill, beside the road, facing the west. Sometimes I simply sat in silence, longing for a life full of purpose and meaningful relationships. Sometimes a friend of mine would join me, and together we sipped on wine and spilled our thoughts. Sometimes my kids would join me. We'd stop for ice cream on the way, and then off they would march up and down, scampering off into the fields when the occasional car drove by. They thought it was the coolest thing that they could play in the middle of a road. Late one night, just before it was totally dark, I dared my kids to run up and down that hill naked. Two of them actually took me up on it and laughed the entire time. In hindsight, I remember often feeling suffocated in my life at that time, feeling like I was stuck, living a life that had no way out. The wide sky and gorgeous view helped me to take a deep breath and keep some perspective while I hung on, hoping for dear life. The second spot was a river at a small nearby park. It was tucked away around a small bend, protected from too many prying eyes. And just like the hill, I simply referred to it as the river. Hey kids, I'm going to the river for a bit. I'll be back. Again, I would carry my camping chair and sit down, watching for the blue heron that was a regular visitor. When the water was low, I would move my chair into the river or slowly walk across, enjoying the feel of the river bottom on my bare feet. But most of the time I could be found sitting at the bank of the river underneath the shade of a tree, its branches stretching out over the rushing water. Sometimes I was joined by the same friend from the hill, and sometimes the kids would come along and jump into the river, finding rocks and stacking them, attempting to direct the flow of the water. What I also remember is how often the river would change. It looked different after a storm, or after it hadn't seen much rain, or during the thaw in each spring. Despite being the same river, the look of it was ever changing. It was during that time when I first began to realize my life as I knew it would probably fall apart. And though I was trying, I could hardly come to terms with it. Looking back, the sound of the river soothed my thoughts, and I felt protected and hidden on the bank while I wept and tried to wrap my heart and mind around the unthinkable. The third spot, the one I often find myself at, is in the front yard where I currently live, just off of the sidewalk. The one I was sitting at this evening. Well, it's actually a stump. What's left over of a very large oak tree apparently? An old stump in the middle of the yard and right beside a road. But I soon realized it made a great side table, holding my drink of choice, a pen and a journal. Or it made for a rather comfortable footstool. I'm sure those who regularly drive by have found the sight of a middle-aged woman completely not interested in waving back, sitting by a stump, feet propped up, quite strange, sometimes watching the sunrise or sunset, sometimes just sitting there in the middle of the day, sometimes writing, sometimes reading, not sure if they could see the tears when they fell, but sure they found the woman just as odd as the stump. What I've noticed over time is how the small crack in the middle of that stump has considerably widened over the past few years, providing a comfy home for some small critter during winter, and how the mushrooms grow in proximity around the stump, outlining the root system beneath the ground, and the softening of its bark and the lighter shade. Well, it's obvious, isn't it? All of those signs are signs of decay. They are the leftovers of what used to live, and now decomposing, providing nutrients to the soil out of which will grow the next new thing. I don't think I need hindsight to notice the correlation between my life and the stump. One day I also noticed a green shoot poking up out of the middle of that stump. I looked at it for a while, considering the underlying meaning in all of that, but decided I wasn't having it. That shoot pulled out real nice out of the middle, and it was oddly satisfying. Whatever, I did not want to hope at the time. It hurt way too much, and it felt really good to be grumpy, as I'm sure many who drive by can attest to. Look, I don't know what is next in my life, but I do not need to know anymore. I've left go and know full well I am not in charge.