The sanctuary of my blood, harboring the ancient lineage of my tribe and my species.

The sanctuary of my hidden thoughts, burrowed far beneath pine needles s old they are barely more than the earth eating the roots of the trees.

The sanctuary of friendship.

The sanctuary of home.

Of the sacred.

Finding the sacred is the lasting quest. Without understanding that our quarry is our salvation, we hunt for a more interesting life, more money, more recognition, more spirituality, more wisdom. When we spear it, encircle it, lock it away, display it, and plumb it, the "it" is still separate from us and we must turn from our brief victory toward the road again.

And that is the journey of being human. So let is not despair over being a late bloomer, or over not wanting what we wish we wanted. Let us not despise ourselves for the insignificance of our goal, for who are we to define our goal? Each goal that we can name is, after all, just a step, even if we are very sure that it is the destination.

Even though we use different maps, we all stop at some point  and more than once on our spiral road  at the table where we dine on the knowledge that our divine self is the only game in town, the only destination, and that every little gnat, traffic accident and promotion that "befalls" us is a gesture of that divine self.

And then we go on our way again, forgetting, so we can be on our way, going through each of the turn-styles through which we believe we must manoever.

(c)Leiah Bowden, 2003; originally published on

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