A Tabernacle Place

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.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Seeking Warmth

I show some of my artwork at the Artist’s Collective in Elk, and on the days I mind the gallery, I sometimes feel chilly. A wood stove sits invitingly behind the desk, but my previous experience of running through my friend’s house with a burning log in my bare hands keeps me from building fires. I would hate to be the one responsible for destroying the hopes and dreams of thirty artists.

If I’ve swept the place, done a set of jumping jacks, and still feel cold, I walk the grounds. There’s nothing like a stroll in the sun to warm myself up. And there’s always so much going on.

Flies, bees and hummingbirds buzz from flower to flower collecting pollen. Beautiful blooms spiral, twist, point and curve.

Some buds cluster together while others fan out. Yellow, wildly fringed petals open widely, welcoming a bee, while ivory bells shyly look downward—their pollinators will have to work harder by slowly crawling inside.

Two creamy calla lilies are locked in an embrace, one overlapping the other. The overall impression is of loving parents waiting for their “child” to unfurl under their protective hearts.

My last stop is Rabbani’s carved statue. A spider has spun its web across the face—made its home on his wooden nose. I laugh. The cold has left my bones and warmth has entered in. The magic of this place is outdoors and indoors—a meeting of nature, art and the creative outpourings of community.

Statue carved by Rabbani Kenyon. All photos © Sondra Sula.