Sacred space, when analog time holds no meaning,
life suspends itself like a hammock between two rooted trees swaying in the breeze between here and there,
between before and after,
swaying into that intimate space of the present.
When all you can do is breathe, deep breaths, shallow breaths, breaths…because no one can prepare you for the threshold you are crossing over,
they can only silently, reverently, hold a hand,
offer a gaze,
provide a subtle gesture to let you know that you do not walk alone;
the oils you were baptized with, blessed with, live in that garden of your body’s memory.
The hands that laid upon your own still lay there caressing you.
No, no one can do what your life asks of you.
They can just lay down on the tall grass next to you and sigh,
watching with you as the clouds overhead pass,
and notice as the ant climbs that blade of grass near your face and the tall strand curves under its presence,
much like the arc of God’s arms cradle our weight in his embrace as we strive to climb nearer to his heart.
And when we rise together from the summer’s green grass
and look back at the matted imprints our body’s left behind
we know we were there
in that sacred space of raw, real life that brings us to our knees
only to know what it is like to rise rooted again.
(Poem, prayer inspired by the Kiemde family.)