Holy Ground

I walk a path unknown,

but really more familiar,

bare foot in the grass,

cold beneath my feet,

sneakers crunching over gravel,

in the heat of summer,

weathered paths,

pulling me,

away from the world,

and closer to God,

to holiness and wholeness.

Memories Underfoot.

My feet remember walking.

Walking bare-foot through a labyrinth in the cold.

It was a chilly morning.

We'd gotten lost on the way there,

missed a road and had to turn around

after calling someone for directions,

but that was exactly the kind of adventure we needed.

We had a place to go,

and a deadline for getting back,

but the point was more about the wandering,

than the destination.

There was irony

in getting lost going to a labrynth,

a maze we could follow

to lose our own path and follow God's.

Eventually we arrived.

Despite shivering a little in the cold

I couldn't resist

taking off my shoes.

Something about bare feet

touching the ground

calls me to be present

in a way I can't be fully present

without feeling the ground beneath me.

The grass was cold and damp that day,

softly cushioning my feet,

a striking contrast from the crunch

of hot black sharp stones underfoot

at the last labyrinth I walked.

It was strange

not to hear the footsteps

of the person walking with me

and yet,

I could sense where she was

in the winding path around me.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Write about memories underfoot.

Unwinding

Come to the center,
distractions fade,
sitting in,
the shadow of God,
walked a path,
closer to you,
now it's time,
to unwind,
retrace the steps,
away from the center,
and yet remain,
centered with God.

Walking the Labyrinth

Faded paint,
soft echoes,
of stories told,
memories caught,
upon cold stone.

Quiet voices,
whispers on the wind,
creating anew,
todays stories.

Worn soft,
threads of time,
holding us together,
tying past to present.

Handprints left,
to mark this place,
a space to be,
alive with God.