A thin moment in time

 The heron drops in every morning, settling on a log or rocks or a pile of floating dried reeds. It stays for hours, preening itself, hunting for fish and frogs, settling now and then for water bugs. I spend hours watching it, taking photos, awed by its beauty. If I move in too close it flies away. Apparently there is a demarcation zone of safety between the heron and people, a peaceful cohabitation can be maintained if I don’t move past a particular point between. There is a thin line between what it deems is safe and when I have moved too close. 

Jan Richardson’s reflection on St. Brigid this morning considers the thin places between this realm and the realm of God. She writes that whenever humans cross into a thin place we become keenly aware of God’s presence, a presence that resides more within us than without. The thin place opens us up to this place within ourselves. 

Every morning I wake to watch the sunrise, coffee in hand, the glow of pink and blue and green, a softness, a thin place. When I planned this portion of my sabbatical on the last day of 2019 I knew I needed a place to practice the art of solitude. I wanted to spend long hours alone, in silence, to read and write, to paint, and to open my awareness beyond the intensity of parish ministry. Parish ministry is intense and I tend to compartmentalize my life, focusing narrowly on the day, the hour, the person, the congregation, the work. I need much more time to be still, to do “nothing”. This sabbatical time has been a lot of nothing, and yet in that nothingness much has happened. I knew I needed this, I am so grateful I have found it. 

When the veil drops, when the morning light or the evening light encounters the earth at sharp angles, my senses awaken. My breathing slows and deepens. I am amazed. I wonder if I lived here would I become accustomed to this beauty and miss the liminal space when it cracks open and the veil drops?