Our Quaker meeting rents a space inside a Jewish shul and because of this, we never know what we may find when we enter the building on any given Sunday. Our Jewish friends might have left us apples to eat, or the meeting room could be decorated in artful Hebrew prayers. But often there are flowers.
On this particular Sunday three vases of roses bloomed atop the windowsills. Modest colored glass panes with dimpled, wavy textures created impressionistic paintings out of the lawn, parking lot and sky. Light danced across petals evoking a luminous, fiery presence.
I was struck by the simplicity of what I beheld: flowers, containers, windows, light. And yet I was infused with emotion—a perilous ecstasy brought on by a sense of overwhelming beauty. Would I fall headlong into Presence? Faint into the hand of God?
I am always on the brink of Divine Encounter. It is simply how I perceive the world. For me, a rose is not just a rose—it is also a conduit to the Creator.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
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Entering a garden full of dahlias, I felt the urge to waltz. The upturned, expectant faces, wildly outstretched arms and petals dancing in the wind brought me into a state of exuberance. Lively insects buzzed to the scalloped rhythm as I began to twirl around, remembering…
Have you ever danced with God? I have—in a vision, many years ago. I was at a Quaker Meeting for Worship, eyes closed, deep in silence. Without warning, I saw myself waltzing with Jesus in the center of the room, both of us barefoot and clad in long, flowing gauze tunics.
I was standing on his feet, as a child would, letting him bear all the weight of my frame, do all the work of lifting and swirling. I was as ecstatic as a whirling dervish, lost in the joy of movement, pattern, unity.
But then I saw the carpet beneath our feet was stained with blood. His feet still bore the gaping wounds of the stigmata and my standing on top of them was causing them to bleed more profusely.
I suddenly understood that I was no longer a spiritual child. It was time for me to partner with God as an adult. To carry my own weight. To learn the dance moves well enough to mirror Jesus, enabling us to glide gracefully in unison.
Back in the garden, I realized that I was dancing with the dahlias, partnering with the glory of creation. The bold flowers were dazzling. Even the dying dahlias bowed graciously, allowing the bright, beaming buds to take their place on the grassy dance floor. And the scattered, fallen petals were ready to nourish the next set of dancers. I, too, was ready to move on—to the next dance.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 