Searching for Sacred

I did some math the other day. I have been with my husband for almost a fourth of my life. For the girl who never thought she would get married, this 23% has been amazing. I have a good marriage, in part because I am married to a good man. He is quiet, safe, and consistent. People refer to him as a “calm presence.” He has a way of comforting people without saying a single word. I knew I was going to marry him after we sat for an hour of silence under a tree listening to live folk music. There was no awkward silence, only an assurance that we were connected on a deep and meaningful level. While we are both introverts and find comfort and renewal in the silence, we are also vastly different. I am an ambitious dreamer with great aspirations for my life. I feel a pull toward a life beyond myself. I dream big and in times of enthusiasm I run after things with full speed, not always considering the path of half-done projects I have littered along the way. My husband is one who is...

I have a tattoo. I am not exactly the sort that fits the stereotype of an inked person. One, I am clean cut. I prefer shirts with collars tucked into pants complete with a belt. Years of private school dress code has stuck with me. My clothing is boring – if I wear a striped shirt I am being bold. And I freak out if people write on my skin with pen or marker. I like things untainted, pure, and orderly. Nine years later, I still love my tattoo. I love what it symbolizes. The ink on my skin is the symbol for life. To the best of my knowledge, it literally means, “to live.” There is a story behind my marking. Twenty-one years ago, I no longer wanted to live. I believed the world would be better off without me. Call it adolescent angst; call it depression. I called it a desperate need to get away from my life. I am fairly certain I did not want to die, but I certainly did not want to live either. I wanted the pain ripped out of my insides. I wanted the hurt to stop. I wanted to be...

I am reading St. Therese of Lisieux’s, A Story of a Soul . St. Therese, also known as the “Little Flower of Jesus,” entered the Carmelite Order at the young age of fifteen. The Order did not allow girls her age to enter, so boldly St. Therese went straight to the Bishop, and then the Pope to seek special permission. She had guts. But she also had great wisdom beyond her years. She wrote her spiritual autobiography for the Carmelite Mother prior to her early death at the age of twenty-four. The more I read, the more I am struck by her humility. I am baffled by her passivity. Rather than engage in power struggles over what most would deem her rights, she surrenders to the aggressor and lets them win the argument. If people ‘steal’ her thoughts and insights and claim them as their own, she does not attempt to reclaim the credit. St. Therese holds a belief similar to the Buddhist philosophy of indifference – none of it is mine to begin with; I own nothing, therefore I have nothing to l...