Sacred spaces matter.
I sit here at my red writing desk, most of the surrounding neighborhood and city of Franklin likely still asleep. Music that inspires me is flowing from my Spotify account. My two favorite candles are lit. A little incense is burning itself out, tickling my senses.
I look out the window that faces east, and notice through the thick, sprawling branches and leaves of my backyard apple tree that the clouds are turning orange and pink as the new day loves its way into being.
Here’s what is awesome: Everything about my new home writing studio/office is intentional. Nothing is in here by accident. Not even the cats, who choose to hang out with me.
I want more and more of my life to be the same way, as it becomes a sacred space in and of itself. My physical surroundings are simply a metaphor for what I’m yielding to as a spiritual being having an organic experience.
And I long to more easily notice the sacred in every other living being.
