My sacred view
includes young redwoods,
arms reaching up, up,
joyful tips embracing sky.
One is praying:
its lithe top branches
sealed together like clasped hands.
Holiness emanates from their trunks,
works its way out
through flat, short needles
onto pearled grass,
curls around manzanita’s
smooth auburn wood
swells over the windowsill
and spreads upon a floral bedspread
on which I sit
cross-legged
in silent worship.
The communion is palpable,
penetrating
and warm as the sun.
An exchange is happening
between outer and inner:
osmosis.
I am the view.
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.
As my husband and I enter the botanical gardens we are greeted by the lush purple-blues and hot pinks of hydrangea bushes. And what’s that between them…a rooster? Yes, the neighbor’s chickens are on the loose, once again, shredding and devouring nearby kale leaves.
There’s always a surprise here, whether it’s an unexpected carpet of flowers at my feet, or a dangling red lantern flower hanging from a tree above my head.
Anthers dance on a projectile of odd burgundy flowers, their yellow felt slippers curving and leaping down the stem.
Bees aren’t choosy about how large or small the bloom is as long as they can pack their pouches with pollen.
Dahlias curl into hypnotic spirals. A fly stops to rest on a petal. I flop onto the emerald grass—I’m dizzy with cacophonous colors and shifting shapes.
I eventually rise and discover a double calla lily—it normally has a single creamy petal. I call my husband over to take a peek. We clasp hands. One has become two and two are one. Vibrant life abounds.
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.
Winter on the Mendocino coast is unlike any previous winter I’ve experienced. Blankets of snow are replaced by buckets of rain, and slippery ice by slick mud. Temperatures hover above freezing rather than below, so litter is never swept under the rug of pristine white snowflakes until spring.
A trinity of leaves strewn over the pygmy-poor sand overlap, like family. One is heart-shaped and facing down so that its back veins protrude, forming a miniature tree.
I pass what I presume to be car parts. I am mesmerized by the way four compartments hold water and forest detritus in a rusted engine block as if this were their intended function. The inner workings of a wheel appear to be a clock telling of timelessness.
A pale greenish yellow plastic disc hidden in grass emits a yo-yo-like charm. Even though it is most likely the wheel off a cart, it reminds me how children, when unwrapping presents, often play with the boxes. How they can make dolls out of hollyhock flowers, clothespins or corn husks.
I am offered more presents as I round a bend: a halved pine cone, an axe-chewed bough—its tip an orange flame, a wooden crown fashioned by termites.
My final gifts stand under a small redwood whose needled arms hover as if in blessing. They are fairy-tale mushrooms, otherwise known as amanita muscaria, packaged in brilliant red studded with white. Their graceful gills rise upward to receive their blessing. I, too, have received mine.
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.
As I came across several different landscapes during my walk, I realized how appropriately they illustrated various forms of my spiritual practice.
Next, I came to a meadow filled with flowers including the cheerful, multicolored wild radish. The confetti-like colors and open stance brought to mind wordless, exuberant worship when joy fills my body and seeps out in unfettered praise.
Soon I found myself on the beach examining a group of seaweed pods punctuated by a frilly exclamation point. I’m a person who yearns to gather with others in a structured community at a set time each week—it adds a touch of excitement to my spiritual life as one can never predict what may happen when expectant people join forces.
As I approached the shore, sand gave way to stones that offered up intriguing finds from kelp roots to driftwood to crab legs. When I delve deeply into meditation or dialogue prayer, unexpected gems rise to the surface for examination, which often lead to growth.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 