How do you find your #sacred? What does #sacred mean to you? We asked you to share a recent moment when you found your sacred; here are a few responses…

I find my sacred in a four-part outdoor scene: First, I sit on bare or vegetated ground. Second, my back is flush against a big strong tree. Third, the sun is full on my face. Finally, I recite dozens of affirmations such as “I am a part of the divine light of the universe” or simply “amen” or “peace.” The tree connects the heavens with the Earth, and, in a sense, I am trying to be one with all three. —Woody Woodsum

Finding #sacred in nature and writing:


She bent to the trees:
“Listen, listen.”
Her wiry hair circled in the breeze
and her sleeve shivered restlessly.
Ear to oak, eyes upward.
Slowly, silently,
the mossy bark breathed
new life into her tired soul.
Warm cheek against quivering trunk.

The arms of her ancestors
and her grandchildren
clung to that single spot
in the forest;
their hopes danced in her veins.

“Go tell the others,”
whispered a low-hanging branch.
“Bring them, one by one,
so they, in solitude,
can hear too.”

Letting go the moment,
the place,
she reluctantly left the embrace
to do as she was told.
—Katie Sullivan Caswell Hughbanks

One of the things I love about the Catholic celebration of Easter is that it is not just a day but a season that lasts until Pentecost, 50 days in all. So the images and symbols of Easter are still fresh and ripening in my mind even now…

Vernal Melody

On my walk down our country road,
wind pulling at my hat,
sun peeking in and out,
as the clouds chase each other
across the sky.
I encounter symphonies of song
emanating from every scraggly tree
whose branches are only now
beginning to leaf out.
Trills and whistles and squawks
all blending together in a
vernal melody.
There is a narrow lake channel
that in summer will be covered in algae,
but now mirrors the trees and sky.
Platoons of feathered families
swim down the water way.
The splash and flash of wings
signals a graceful take off or landing.
Explosions of pink and white blossoms
on backdrops of ash and brown
covered limbs line the bank.
Across the road hundreds of
little petaled suns and fluffy
almost translucent puff
balls wave to and fro
amidst the tall grass ripe for mowing.
All of these applauding the new
life springing forth from the
dormancy of winter.
All communicating to me,
He is Risen!
Sprung forth from the grave of death.
—Diantha L. Zschoch