A Sacred Space

 

“There is an Indian proverb that says everyone is a house with four rooms:  physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person.”― Rumer Godden 

At 7:45 am, the car in reverse, something catches my eye in the review mirror as the garage door opens. It’s a bird’s nest in mid-creation; thin twigs and strands of field grass have tumbled down. A brief sadness floats through me, wishing she had chosen a sturdier place for her home, her work now dismantled.   

The fallen nest is like living abroad with its moments of feeling unmoored. I relate to her temporal housing, like a sandcastle eroding with a vanishing wave, or a hermit crab shedding its shell. International moves and occasional cultural mishaps have taught me to create a safe refuge; not just a house, but a home. 

Post errands, I step with a mug of tea into the light-filled room that buoys my spirit. Through the open window, soft light spills onto the tiles and a gentle breeze rustles the palms. The curtains billow like sails, curling around the bookshelf holding crooked stacks of travel journals and stories of empowered women. 

Taking centering breaths, I sense the cosmic connection in this room; a haven for soul crafting and building castles in the sky. “A woman needs a room of her own,” Virginia Woolf said. This is where I begin my morning ritual of meditation and writing. I call it my sanctuary, a space to hear my thoughts and seek inspiration. 

Each time we change houses, I claim a space as mine, surrounding myself with favorite photos, art, and travel mementos that feel like me; a snapshot of the world from my perspective. 

Like the concept of “Wonder Rooms” (from the German word  Wunderkammern) in the Victorian Era, when cabinets of curiosities were popular, I display my most cherished objects: rosewood tea boxes with stationery collected from museums and hotels, the mint and gold silk carpet I hand-carried home years ago from Marrakesh, a special hand-painted porcelain globe.  I light a candle, which stands proudly in its decorative stand from Kusadasi, relishing memories of standing in the Blue Mosque and exploring markets across Europe. 

A nest made of Vetiver root from Swaziland holds shells and feathers, and an Italian glass dish cradles healing stones and talisman. A dented singing bowl rests alongside a bottle of ink from Paris. A lantern with stars and moons illumines the corner of the room.   

I roll out my yoga mat, spritzing a blend of essential oils into the air.  Sanity returns and I feel myself expand in this sacred space where I rekindle dreams and am restored.

“I have sometimes thought that a woman’s nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing-room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go… but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.” – Edith Wharton from her story, “Fullness of Life:”

Do you have a sacred space or nook? 

What are the precious objects that make you feel grounded? 

Namaste, 

Tracy 

The Reclaiming

 

Hurricane Iota hit Honduras the week my son and I returned from the U.S. after a long evacuation. Eight months of creating a home away from home, where there was love and green space and freedom, but without my husband, without a sense of normal, and not knowing when we’d be reunited.

The night we landed in Tegucigalpa, there was wind and torrential rain, but also peace: we were together. The roof leaked in several places, like tears running down the walls. Walls I had not lived in for quite some time, within which I could not find things. Where is the pasta strainer?

I opened drawers and cabinets, rearranged furniture. I put on my favorite fuzzy socks, straightened books, and washed blankets, seeking coziness and order. Re-establishing my presence, reclaiming space here.

Tracita! Bienvenida!” said the store clerk I hadn’t seen since winter. “Donde esta?” she inquired with wide eyes behind thick glasses. The answer felt too big to fit in my mouth, so I said simply, “Away, but I’m here now.”

On the first day of sun, I gathered groceries. I cooked all morning, stacking copper pots in the sink, stocking the fridge with nourishing food. It felt healing and made the house smell good. I missed those copper pots, missed cooking in my kitchen.

We set the table, lit candles, and fostered togetherness, not taking it for granted. Unity. Connection. Hugs. Cocooning ourselves; not hard to do in an era of Covid, but now welcome.

There are a few things I had forgotten about living here:

  • the need to gird my loins while avoiding errant mopeds on the road
  • don’t drink the tap water
  • fireworks-loud ones, late at night
  • how fortified the city is with its high walls with barbed wire

And yet so many things to love:

  • morning coffee and conversation on the patio
  • rediscovering our belongings and creative spaces
  • the palm tree and hummingbird in our garden
  • roadside tiendas selling vibrant flowers, fresh pineapples, and avocados
  • how good it feels to sit at my desk, surrounded by writing instruments, books, and journals

 

….and a million little things about home that hold my heart.

 Love & Light, 

“Tracita” (little Tracy).

 

 

 

 

 

Savoring the Small Things During the Pandemic

“It was the small things that helped, taken one by one and savored.” -British Writer Rumer Godden

Hello. When media referred to 2020 as the new roaring twenties, I don’t think any of us expected a decade full of promise to unfold like this.

We’ve come together as a global community, and yet, we are in isolation; individual trees standing in a forest, bracing ourselves on a tidal wave of fear, flux, and uncertainty. There are victories, of course, and countless heroes to hail, but losses, anxiety, and frustration, too. As a Steel Magnolia southern gal who is good at holding it together, I did. Until I didn’t.

My COVID-19  journey began in Panama when Honduras shuttered itself on short notice. Overnight, exiled from my life. Air, sea, and land borders closed; no loophole, no way back- to my child, my husband, my dog, my house. In disbelief, I bought a one-way ticket to the States, praying for the world, praying for this to be over. What was happening? No one really knew. “It’s unprecedented,” I kept hearing in a sea of disturbing news about lack of ventilators, bankruptcies, and death statistics, like a bad science fiction film.

In a sundress and flip-flop clad feet, I landed woefully unprepared onto Atlanta soil that was cold and rainy. Hartsfield International Airport, one of the busiest in the world, was apocalyptic; tomb-like, except for officials wearing masks and gloves, urging us to social distance and move rapidly. Passport control and baggage claim took an uncanny eighteen minutes.

Phone calls were made to friends and family who, ultimately, could not take me in, could not hug me when I desperately needed it most. I understood but was lost and floating. This was not like coming home. Unprecedented, indeed.

I am forever grateful to dear friends who risked their health to welcome me into their house, providing me with warm clothes, a homemade meal, a place to sleep. For days, cracked and frazzled, I fell apart, letting the tears flow freely. I gave myself permission to not be strong, to not be okay, to surrender to a situation that was never in my control anyway.

Pacing like a wolf, irrationally pondering what laws I could break to get back to my family, I could not sleep, could not concentrate, or get my bearings. After ten days of conversations about Ramsay maybe flying alone, emergency flights that were canceled, and what to do with the dog, a C-130 aircraft got out of Honduras, thanks to effortful coordination by our Embassy community.

I helped Brad and Ramsay pack over the phone the night before. Just knowing my clothes were nestled next to theirs in a shared suitcase made me happier somehow. Brad texted just before take-off: “Engines turning. Doors closed. En route to Norfolk!”  And then, hours later, “Just landed. Everyone cheered. Grateful Crowd.”

After two more connecting flights for them, I fell to my knees at the small, local airport as I held my child, sobbing, and hugged my husband, wanting to tie them to my body to keep them close. A Fort Benning soldier watching us put a hand to his heart and smiled through his tears. Ramsay excitedly told me about the military flight. “We sat on those things, like backpack strings- they were seats! And to get on, the whole back of the plane opened up and it was so wide, I bet four cars could park in there!” 

I woke up in the night and saw them both sleeping there. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks. I wrote in my journal later,  “it’s like they were teetering on a tight rope, dangling, and I was holding my breath. Now they’re here. Thank you, God. I’ve never been happier to look for frogs at the crack of dawn than with Rams this morning.”

Shaken up, we focused on being together, safe, and healthy, not taking it for granted, as Brad would have to return. We crafted a temporary plan. Like so many families, we are now learning to adapt to living apart in two countries. We are learning the ropes for online school, discovering what works in quarantine and doesn’t, trusting our own wisdom amid constantly changing dynamics. We attempt to be kinder and more patient with ourselves and others, remembering that each day is a gift.  One never knows what twists and turns are up ahead.

After several weeks, our hearts and bodies are slowly healing with rest, healthy eating,  and embracing the positives. We are more careful and conscious of the information we absorb. And the silver lining is that we are:

  • living more in the present
  • practicing gratitude in earnest
  • enjoying quality time with my mother
  • reading more books
  • sitting on the porch, slowing down and not glorifying “being busy”
  • playing more board games
  • finding reasons to laugh
  • taking more walks, bike rides, and online yoga classes
  • making more art
  • observing the beauty of Spring and savoring the small things

“On the other side of your fear is your freedom.”- American writer Jen Sincero

What are your coping tools and strategies on this unprecedented journey?

Sending you peace, along with prayers for health and well-being.

Tracy