Seeing God

I fully admit that someone else might not see “GOD” written in the kelp, but I did. I was simply walking along the Mendocino headlands, glanced out into the Pacific, then looked back down at the path and thought: Did I just see a word? Was that word GOD?

I knew I could never really capture in a photograph the way “GOD” was spelled out to me, so plain and obvious. As clear as the sweet peas on the other side of the path.

But I’m not alone in feeling a sense of sacredness here. That’s why people leave offerings in grotto-like niches.

Or wedge them into cracks in makeshift driftwood shrines.

Is this a larger-than-life portrait or an island deity?

To get to this place, I had walked along a path of flowers that started at the edge of a church parking lot.

I felt immediately grateful for the loveliness around me.

Even skeletal remains of flowers seemed beautiful, rising against fields of beige and a robin’s-egg-blue sky.

That’s why I saw GOD. For to be me is to see God in all things.

Photos © Sondra Sula.

Take a walk with me by reading my most recent 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.

Be Sacred

I came upon this directive as I walked along the Mendocino headlands: Be Sacred. Hmm.

As I passed a gully brimming with calla lilies, I pondered a film I had seen of Mexican villagers gathering armfuls of callas for a funeral. Are these flowers inherently sacred?

On a cliff’s edge, another message: We Love You Melody. It was rendered in bottlecaps. The love was implied by a heart shape. Had Melody gone to meet The Sacred?

A large bench welcomed visitors to take in the view: a roiling, turbulent ocean. When I sat down, I felt small—engulfed within the wide planks. Is part of our sacredness our admission that we are but specks in the universe, yet still important?

A nearby sculpted totem included recesses for offerings. Everything I passed seemed to be sacred in some way. Even the rocks had a holiness to them—their veins an ancient scrawled language. Is every created thing sacred?

I wondered if I was sacred by simply being. Looking out over the vast shoreline, I believed I was.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

My most recent daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula, is available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions. It is also sold at the Gallery Bookshop in Mendocino.

Gifts from the Sea

What has the ocean gifted me today? A single golden beet with algae leaves and a trailing root.

Sea palms clustered in families, alone or coupled.

A bulbous balloon necklace held by a sea grass cord.

A salmon pink corsage, a corkscrew, and a tiny lace tree.

A fringed olive scarf for wrapping around a beachcomber’s neck; a string of firecrackers ready for popping.

Feathers that show their personalities: wild; balanced; aristocratic.

My last present is an abstract work of art—a minimalist piece—wrought by The Ultimate Creator. It’s temporary, too, for it will be washed away by the next frothing wave. I am not asked to cling to these gifts, but to enjoy them for the moments they are given.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

I’m Goin’ to Jackson

Jackson State Forest is large and mysterious. I know I will be taking many walks in this place of evergreen needle-padded quietude. In a wonderful turn of good fortune, my next door neighbor is a forester there and was kind enough to show me around this magical redwood forest he knows like the back of his hand.

Sacred. Silent. Sublime. These are the words that instantly come to mind as I enter the woods. The Sequoia inspire awe inside me. I feel their stately presence, breathe in their exhalation of rich oxygen, sense a strange wisdom exuding from their standing in one place for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years.

Light enters through the canopy in angelic rays, spotlighting ferns, pine cones, beetles, berries and bark. Each is exquisite in its own right: fern leaves like toothed swords, cones interwoven and fringed, beetles black as night, berries bluer than a deep, cloudless sky and bark wavy as silken hair.

Flowers make unexpected appearances too: tiny white stars bloom up a slender stalk, Douglas iris shyly folds her inner petals, and wild lilies explode like red fireworks.

I’m grateful I’ll be going to Jackson again and again. God is ever present in the living, breathing creation there, here and everywhere.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Found Whole

“Searching for Statuary” by Sondra Sula

I looked over my my shoulder at a photo my husband had snapped that morning somewhere on the grounds of the Center for Prayer where our silent retreat was taking place. I didn’t know where he had taken the picture, and I couldn’t ask him because we were committed to silence all weekend. But I was determined to find the broken statue of Saint Francis with his head placed gently at his feet. The image was compelling in a way I couldn’t explain and I had to see it for myself.

“Old Rugged Cross” by Sondra Sula

Donning a jacket, I left our dormitory with camera phone in hand and a bottle of water—just in case the quest took a bit longer than expected. I soon realized there was a lot of statuary on the campus as I met up with a startled, spray painted Mary almost immediately. Her pupil-less eyes, pale pink lips, and prim veil were dotted with small bugs gathered within her graces. A small mauve buck, covered in ivory and lime lichen, proudly stood among the trees on his rectangular cement stand. A modern, expressionistic Jesus with a mottled patina looked imploringly at me, head intact.

I came to a small wooden cross, its white paint peeling to reveal the wood grain underneath. I hiked through forest trails, undulating fields of grass, and then crossed a bridge from the sacred grounds to a public river path.

After an hour I was spit out into a subdivision. I was lost. Houses in subdivisions often look the same to me, and in my experience, the roads wind about every which way, confusing everyone except the residents who have memorized their way to and from home. As I was pondering which way to go, I saw a map on a stand. The map showed each plot of land assigned to a number—probably for construction workers, as there were still many empty lots—and also the street names. But try as I might, I could not figure out where I was on the map, or in which direction the map was pointing.

I suddenly looked up and saw the water tower on the Center for Prayer’s grounds. Even if I couldn’t figure out the map, I could use common sense and intuition to get back. As I wound my way through the maze of houses and finally touched campus ground once more, I encountered a paper wasp’s nest hanging like a lantern under a bright yellow maple leaf canopy, as if welcoming me home.

“The Walk” by Sondra Sula

I saw a statue of Saint Francis, barefoot, with two saplings growing next to his toes. His head and neck were squarely on his shoulders. I bet the headless statue is right in front of the dormitory, where I started, I thought as my two-hour odyssey came to a close. But it wasn’t. I trudged up the stairs to our room, taking note of a sculpted sacred heart along the way. Where was the broken Saint Francis statue?

After dinner I took a short stroll. There he was. But his head wasn’t missing at all. It had been reattached prior to my walk. I was looking for something broken when what I was seeking was already whole. Perhaps I need to reexamine what I believe is broken in my life, for it may already be mended.

“Ways of Being” by Sondra Sula