Churches keep their secrets hidden piecemeal burned inside their bricks. Confessions and sorrows, ecstasies and promises, all kept within the walls of buildings that were consecrated by men hundreds of years ago.
Those rust, copper and sand coloured bricks have heard my secrets, fears, prayers and sheltered my heart. Ingrained in them are my memories.
Me as a small person running barefoot down the aisle. Burying my soul in the coffin of a friend. Weeping with the promise of the future that newlyweds bring.
Churches have listened silently to my outpourings of expression that could never possibly be said or written in ink, but are whispered to the walls.
Sometimes churches are cold and smelling of incense. The echo of an organ bouncing off the walls. Week old flowers in chipped vases. Strange though it may be, it all means home to me, to a child raised in these old buildings.
Walking in the woods is like being in a church. There a kind of silence that only a holy place has. Not complete silence, but the kind that comes from respect of your surroundings. Trees that have been growing longer than you have and animals hidden away. Water running in the distance, wind and rain bruising the leaves.
Holy places are where you find them. It only needs your soul to tell you what is worthy of holiness to you. Perhaps holiness is in your lover’s arms or in the chair where you nurse your child. Maybe it’s on top of a mountain or buried underneath with the glowworms and stalactites.
If you can find a holy place and you feel safe, calm and whole, then it can refresh your soul and when you go back to the ordinary you can more easily find holiness in anything.