Sacred Process

At thirteen, I began to unwind myself from organized religion, not because I lacked belief in an unseen and unprovable world, but in part because the rituals and dogma of any one faith seemed too narrow in scope, too pale and detached from the reality of experience.

One of the ideas that has sharpened over the course of the years is an understanding of a personal sacredness to actions, to the process. The process of my relationships with family, kindred friendships, and my significant other are sacred to me. Often, activities I share with them, as well as those I don’t share, are sacred to me. Working with food, working in my garden, creating art, creating fire, sex, swimming, dancing, all are, or can be, holy.

No, I’m not out on the dance floor getting down with Buddha and Jesus does not appear in my tomatoes. The best way I can explain it is, if I’m doing it right, there is a belovedness and connectedness and balance between mind and body and soul, between myself and my environment, and between all my senses. The process becomes transcendent, a sacred act and a deadly serious joy; the means sometimes trumping the ends.

What the fuck is all of this rambling about? As I smell Spring in the air, I begin to think longingly of a garden that is a few months away. The feel of earth between my fingers, planting, tending, and harvesting, are all part of a sacred process to me. When seedlings begin to shoot up and it is time to thin, I find it difficult to kill these tiny little plants. When it is time to uproot, I find it a terrible thing to dispose of the roots. November found me standing with root balls in dirt-caked hands, momentarily entranced (some of my neighbors asked if everything was okay – just fine, weird girl staring at dirt clods). This year I saved the roots from some of my plants so that I could create images that might capture a little bit of the beauty that lives underground, unseen…

I have a lot of time to think when I’m hunched over my camera.