Not out of reverence, though I'm feeling a good measure of that, too.
It's Sunday, and I'm standing in a cathedral with the highest ceiling I have ever seen.
I'm hot. Sweaty. Breath fills my ears. My entire being bursts with gratitude.
I'm alone, except for the dog. But I have a hunch she's praising all creation in her animal way. We're the same, like that.
Out here there are no walls. No words. No wisdom but my own and whatever is blowing in the wind. The divine hums in my ears.
I unzip my jacket and hike back down the hill. The wind rifles through my hair and the open halves of my jacket billow wide, like a pair of wings.
I'm no angel and I'm not anywhere near a church. But I'm keeping holy the Sabbath.
Out here
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| wrong season, but you get the idea |
