Holy Ground

I can't really say that any ground is holier than any other. As far as I'm concerned, it is all holy, sacred, beautiful.

So, if I were to obey the above sign, which is posted in the entry to the chapel of the Carmelite Hermitage where I just spent a week, I would never wear shoes. Which is fine with me, because I, Shoeless Carol, am not enamored with cumbersome things on my feet.

This sign isn't just talkin' to anyone named Moses, though. Everyone is asked take off their shoes before entering the chapel. I'm guessing that the reason has a little to do with the holiness factor and much to do with the fact that out in this desert land, it's pretty impossible to enter a building without bringing in at least a few ounces of sand with you. It's holy sand, but still...



This is the third year that I have done retreat at this Hermitage. I'm not Catholic and I don't attempt any Catholic practice while I'm there. Any Catholic symbols, candles, writings or photos around me are incorporated easily and wonderfully into the beauty of my whole experience.

For some reason this time, I felt drawn to attend the Sunday mass, even though I had been keeping to total solitude for a couple of days. Oddly enough, it didn't seem that attending mass would break my sense of solitude. There was something that was calling to me and I'm all about listening to the call.

The service was so precious! About 25 people were there. Our hymnbook was a little notebook of photocopied words - no notes. It was fun to follow along when I had no idea where "along" was leading me. Oh, and it was all a Capella, so I didn't even have an organ interlude to get me going!

The young woman next to me had on an above-the-knee-length gray plaid skirt and white knee socks. In the winter. In Colorado. At 8,000 feet. Makes me shiver just to think about it.

One of the men across from me had an almost belly-button-length gray beard and he wore gray sweatpants, with navy blue cut-off sweats over them.

Another man, who was probably in his mid 60s, wore a suit. When communion time came, he walked up to the front in his nice suit, his well-groomed hair, and some big, honkin', blue, down-stuffed slippers (Remember, no shoes on this holy ground).

When he walked, the swoosh, swoosh of the slippers sliding against each other added to the sweet disconnect of "dapper" and "lounge".

I don't remember much about the sermon (is that what they call it in a Catholic church?), even though I enjoyed it immensely. Here is what I remember most:

Listen.

and

We can live in prison, even if we are not physically imprisoned.

Amen.



After mass, I put on my shoes, walked the holy road back to my little hermitage and listened. For a very long time.