I waltz into the “Begonia House” at the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens. 
The structure is brimming with begonias that boggle my mind. 
Every petal a plié. 
Every ruffle a petticoat. 
The pendulous flowers beckon me to dance. 
No one is watching, so I take a tiny twirl. 
Languidly outstretch an arm. 
I close my eyes and sense Presence. 
The Creator is within the flowers. 
The Divine is all around me 
encouraging me to participate in the Dance of Life, 
encouraging me to invite others to this great celebration. 
Would you care to dance?
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
Are you happy? 
Silent retreats always lead me towards interiority. 
Living surrounded by tall trees — bull pine, cypress, redwood — I see only patches of sky. But just two miles away, the sky takes over.
And when I peer over the edge of headland bluffs to spy on seal pups, terns and cormorants, the sky reminds me of its presence.
The Presence. Always there if we but tilt our heads to see.
Most have heard the phrase: Eyes are the windows to the soul. But what do the windows themselves connote? Not the glass that allows us to see in or out, but the frames.
Some have a prayerful shape and radiate reverence.
Others illustrate interconnectedness—a metal latticework of joining or crossing paths.
Do we need the aid of their upward-pointing shapes to connect to Spirit?
Do they encourage us to contemplate the beyond?
Seeing these window frames all stacked within a shed gave me a sense of soaring, of peace, of Presence. They felt . . . worth sharing.
I tiptoe through a channel of slippery rocks at low tide, knowing that one misstep will plunge me into … knee-deep water and ruin my sneakers. Not exactly treacherous, yet my body pumps with fear nonetheless. My anxious discomfort is worth the reward: ankle-deep stands of beach glass. What difficulty worth looking into do I need to face?
A photographer’s dream lies before me: craggy rocks, unreal blue pools of water, shapely crevices and the ever-present glass sand. What crevices in my life need exploring?
Emerald cellophane seaweed makes its own green river complete with currents. Am I enough as I am?
A rock tunnel invites me to crawl through it, the blinding light at its end beckoning me forth. When I am called to get on my knees, do I stubbornly try to stay on my feet, bending just enough to enter into the Light?
A picturesque spill of brown, clear and Kelly green glass waits for high tide to dislodge it. When I feel low and stuck, do I believe the Mighty Waters will set me free?
A mound of seaweed calls to mind a burning bush, licked by green flames. Do I believe God speaks to me in unusual ways? Am I continually seeking God’s Presence?
I would like to think I’m listening, and telling the story I hear. For I believe all creation speaks of its Creator. What do you hear?
Litter is ubiquitous. It’s omnipresent, like God. If you find a place free of litter, it’s because humans rarely pass there, or because other humans choose to pick it up. Many of us feel God’s presence in a pristine plot of nature; fewer feel The Divine smack dab in the middle of a crowd, elbows jabbing into flesh. But God is pervasive—among and within us all.
A plastic cup lid creates a porthole into a minute terrarium. Lord, bless the drinkers of cold beverages. All of them.
Some sort of strap, a part of something greater, rests among tufts of grass that resemble explosions of life. Lord, bless those who manufacture, toil in factories, create physical objects.
The butt of a cigarette on the ground reminds me of all the people I know who have tried, both successfully and unsuccessfully, to quit. And those who would never consider stopping. Lord, bless the smokers, one and all.
Lastly, I see a circle. A remnant of what was and is no longer. Just a shadow, really. Lord, bless our ephemeral lives. Let us leave our mark, not as litter, but as reflections of you here on earth. Amen.
Today is Good Friday, a day I normally spend hours upon hours in various churches. I thought about my recent visit to the Mendocino Presbyterian Church, which hosts many cultural events in its adjacent building, Preston Hall. I was there to hear a trio of musicians and walked outside during intermission.
The small area around the church was festooned with flowers—large and small. Purple buds flung themselves wildly about on wiry stalks looking alien-esque against a whitewashed wall.
Tiny clumps of flowers beckoned me closer to see their detailed petals and smell their subtle fragrance.
I heard the shuffle of feet, the rustle of clothing rubbing against limbs. Intermission was almost over. I looked down to see a fiery orange blossom dying on the pavement. Although its life was short, its striking death brought undue pleasure.
Hurrying back, I almost tripped over a geranium whose hairy stem had reached beyond its garden boundary to caress my ankle. I stopped and noticed how the emerald leaves had ruffled red edges. The entire plant seemed to glow from within.
Before I reentered the hall, a pot of pink and yellow tulips shouted: Easter! I suddenly realized that Good Friday was just the intermission.
I imagine the Desert Fathers and Mothers lived in crude structures, and when I caught sight of a skeletal teepee fashioned of narrow tree trunks and framed by a dramatic, smoky sky, I thought of them. There is a mystical feeling I get when I walk the deserted, sandy beaches here, where people have created temporary lives, perhaps for just a few hours.
I come across an alcove made of branches, inviting me to sit down, tucked into its embrace. It’s a perfect place to meditate, to seek God’s wisdom as those who made their homes in the desert did.
Nearby a sawhorse made of sticks serves as a storage area for firewood and kindling. It’s ready and waiting for night’s descent, when it can fuel fire for warmth and light. Over the ages many have contemplated existence while looking into mesmerizing orange flames.
And then I reach a tabernacle with worshipful offerings placed on top: a stone, a pile of sand, a seed pod. Holiness hangs in the air. I breathe in. I feel Wisdom enter my body, gathered from all who sought God through solitude in the past, as well as future seekers. I feel the fire, smell the sacred smoke. I have entered the tabernacle where all are one.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 