Holy

I know that today is "Holy Thursday."  I grew up Catholic.  I left the Church years ago, but I still remember a lot of the rituals and beliefs.  As this particular Thursday was just like any other Thursday to me, I began to contemplate the word "holy."  So, of course, I had to look it up, to see if there was a definition devoid of religious dogma.  The second definition at dictionary.com was this:  "endowed or invested with extreme purity or sublimity."  Okay, I can buy that.  So the bigger question is:  What is holy?

My first thought is of an afternoon in July 2001 when my family and I rode mules down into Bryce Canyon in Utah.  Although it is hard to articulate, I have always felt that that day was the most perfect day that I have ever lived inside of.  The sky was perfect, the air was purer than any air I have ever breathed, and the stillness and peace inside the canyon was emotive and memorable.  The experience was holy. There is no other way to say it.

Another experience that comes to mind was a visit to the Redwoods in Northern California in 2008.  Along with two longtime girlfriends, I walked through the Jeremiah Stout grove as if I were walking in a dream.  I remember not wanting to leave.  I craved the peace of that grove, wanted it to be a part of my every waking day.  It was holy.

More recently, I have become aware of more subtle expressions of that which is holy.  A hummingbird contemplating the brightness of a flower, the tentative sproutings of seeds that I've planted in trays in my greenhouse, last year's bird nest evicted from an eave of my log home, the purr of my cat who seems to have recovered from a diabetes diagnosis, the anticipated arrival of asparagus spears from the ground, the brilliant alarm of birdsong at dawn.

All of it is holy.  And I have come to this conclusion:  do not ever let anyone else tell you what is holy.  Find it for yourself.  Your discovery makes it holy.  Find it.  And then fall in love with it.