sacred space...
Thursday, April 07, 2005 by niebuhrian
Bushes burn brightly.
This is sacred space they scream. Remove your shoes and tread carefully! When the door is shut, the vale closed, we have entered the holy of holies. There is nothing profane in this place, all is worthwhile, all is divine and wholly holy.
White-washed walls wail woefully.
Oh, the stories they would tell. These walls, with ears to hear, weep for the tales of those who enter. They hear anger and hate, guilt and sorrow, love and hope. For each of these stories the walls bleed tears for the lives that bear them. They stare and expect that help will come soon.
Chairs creak comfortably and casually.
Casually or cautiously they enter. Seeking comfort they scan for something that will keep them from crashing to the floor. They shore themselves up, these burden-bearing chairs, for they know the weight that is carried by those who dare enter, they know the strains and toils are great. When chosen the pillows fluff and the cushions melt and mould so that comfort may be found.
Stories of success and sorrow simmer sumptuously.
The words leap around the room like bubbles on a windy day. They swirl and dip and dive seeking to find a home where they can rest and pop. Alone, they are nothing; but together they form narratives and stories, pieces and portions of lives lived. When they dance with one another, they become facts and figures, descriptions and feelings, content and character. They beg to be picked, chosen for examination. Momentary and fleeting, they must be handled with care, held and caressed gently.
Tales taunt the ticklish and terrified.
Legends of laughter and tales of woe spring to life when these words are strung together. They tell of their maker, of what happens when worlds collide, past meets present meets future. They tell of beliefs and dreams and nightmares. Mysteries wander the room hoping to be solved, yet grateful just to be known.
Experiences elicit enumeration.
Sometimes the people accompany their stories. At that moment rich deposits of life open and in them run deep veins of gold and silver and platinum. When the people are a part of the experience, then they become real and can stand with and apart from what swirls in the room.
Somehow this room breathes life into the lifeless, hope into the hopeless. Those who walk out are different from when they arrived. There is magic and mystery hidden deep in the cracked plaster walls. Something seeps into the air that causes growth and healing to occur. For those of us who witness these mysterious events, there is much to tell and yet no words to describe it; but we know that it is sacred and sacramental, and that when these things happen, we are all better for it…
This is sacred space they scream. Remove your shoes and tread carefully! When the door is shut, the vale closed, we have entered the holy of holies. There is nothing profane in this place, all is worthwhile, all is divine and wholly holy.
White-washed walls wail woefully.
Oh, the stories they would tell. These walls, with ears to hear, weep for the tales of those who enter. They hear anger and hate, guilt and sorrow, love and hope. For each of these stories the walls bleed tears for the lives that bear them. They stare and expect that help will come soon.
Chairs creak comfortably and casually.
Casually or cautiously they enter. Seeking comfort they scan for something that will keep them from crashing to the floor. They shore themselves up, these burden-bearing chairs, for they know the weight that is carried by those who dare enter, they know the strains and toils are great. When chosen the pillows fluff and the cushions melt and mould so that comfort may be found.
Stories of success and sorrow simmer sumptuously.
The words leap around the room like bubbles on a windy day. They swirl and dip and dive seeking to find a home where they can rest and pop. Alone, they are nothing; but together they form narratives and stories, pieces and portions of lives lived. When they dance with one another, they become facts and figures, descriptions and feelings, content and character. They beg to be picked, chosen for examination. Momentary and fleeting, they must be handled with care, held and caressed gently.
Tales taunt the ticklish and terrified.
Legends of laughter and tales of woe spring to life when these words are strung together. They tell of their maker, of what happens when worlds collide, past meets present meets future. They tell of beliefs and dreams and nightmares. Mysteries wander the room hoping to be solved, yet grateful just to be known.
Experiences elicit enumeration.
Sometimes the people accompany their stories. At that moment rich deposits of life open and in them run deep veins of gold and silver and platinum. When the people are a part of the experience, then they become real and can stand with and apart from what swirls in the room.
Somehow this room breathes life into the lifeless, hope into the hopeless. Those who walk out are different from when they arrived. There is magic and mystery hidden deep in the cracked plaster walls. Something seeps into the air that causes growth and healing to occur. For those of us who witness these mysterious events, there is much to tell and yet no words to describe it; but we know that it is sacred and sacramental, and that when these things happen, we are all better for it…
