We speak of sacred things
the moments that matter most,
like an early morning walk in the park
as the light streams through the tallest pines,
and being anointed with oil on the forehead
by men with AIDS gnawing at their souls,
and a friend’s unyielding compassion
as her husband finally came to his death,
and the pleasure of heart
from teaching a family tradition into the grandkids.
We speak of painful passages
which are most assuredly also sacred,
like a desperate need to find beauty again
after a move into a caregiving home
with an elder whose animals soil the floors,
and fears of becoming a burden ourselves someday,
and the delicate hearing needed
to catch our soul’s true voice
when it contradicts what the whole family wants.
We speak of what we cherish,
like sharing silence in the gathered community,
and how the tiniest breeze dances among the cypress fronds,
a gift of barely perceivable wonder
offered only to mindful eyes,
and a memory of that fifth grade teacher
whose care saved the life of a latch-key girl.
We close the door
on the week’s sacred conversation
with slow hugs that say, “You matter,”
and looks that want to hold the memory
of the space where we speak of sacred things.