The Holy in the Here and Now
Someone recently mentioned to me that dogs are more in tune with the earth than we humans. Think about it: they sense moods; they know when a storm is coming. In a car with the window down, they sniff out every scent—apparently with great joy. They know when their beloved human is due to arrive or even when someone unexpected is about to come up the drive.
Chalk it up to heightened sensory skills if you want. But the bottom line is dogs aren’t distracted by the sometimes inane things we allow to get in the way of capturing the moment. They don’t share our incessant ability to fret over the past and agonize about the future. They’re all about the present.
It’s a lucky person who can see what is holy in the here and now:
a child’s laughter,
daffodils and cardinals,
redbuds and moss,
the wingbeat of bats,
the architecture of a tree,
a baby’s toes,
cloud shadows drifting across mountains,
the poetry of a shovel’s utility,
dew drops on a spider web,
the songs of spring peepers after an evening shower,
little red wagons,
a seed’s unfurling tiny leaves as they break through the soil,
baseball and kite-flying,
a cow’s bellow or the dignity of a donkey,
food from the field,
a friend’s voice,
leaf mold and mushrooms on the forest floor,
a letter in the mail,
embers of an evening campfire,
grapes fresh off the vine,
the kindness of a stranger,
Spanish moss dripping from oak branches,
a pat on the back,
a smile across the room,
a snowflake caught on the tongue,
a mockingbird’s repertoire or a magpie’s iridescence.
The holy: it’s where we choose to look and how we choose to see.