sacred wonder:
a study of (a) being under construction
being
noun
existence.
the nature or essence of a person.
a real or imaginary living creature or entity, especially an intelligent one.
verb
present participle of be.
Welcome. Step inside and lower your voice. Because this place listens. It hears the whispers and the unspoken. It especially reads between the lines. And as you may have noticed, there is much under construction. So please walk gently.
We will begin our journey at a space that you may find a bit unconventional. Perhaps even counterintuitive.
You’ll probably wonder, “why not begin with the head?” Well, truth be told, we recently discovered its security breach, where it left the being vulnerable to an influx of lies. We worked ourselves into a flurry trying to remove the lies, but in the end, burning them was the only feasible solution.
the shoulders.
You’ll notice the grooves first. That is the resting place of history and effort. Worn. From decades of holding still. Being relied upon. Staying ready.
If you feel so inclined,
take a breath here.
It reminds the shoulders to lower; that they are safe here.
They are learning how light they can be when they stop bracing for impact. When they release the fear of being labeled “sensitive”. When they are no longer convinced they are at war—the psychological kind. When they are freed from the obligation to smile or walk gracefully or bear a suit of armor and a barrage of burdens. When they are freed of weight wearing them down. When they stop forging walls that become prisons in a feeble attempt to never let life, or another, break them. And to do all of this while making it look effortless, fashionable even.
Are you ready to continue? Perfect.
But trust me, you will have to re-visit.
the chest.
Next, we will make our way down the spiral staircase to the chest. Where breath shortened itself out of habit and the heart’s beat meant sleep didn’t always equate to rest.
It’s a bit narrow at first but hug the walls and you’ll be just fine.
I’ll tell you a secret—we used to preserve any emotional wounds with a little brine. Convinced that we’d prevent pain if we allowed the wounds to remind.
But now, as you’ll see, there is breath at the end, just beyond, where the light shines. There, you’ll find a wealth of knowledge—learned, imparted… everything collected over time.
As we journey downward, I’d like to invite you to…
place a hand here…
feel how the ribs are learning to expand again.
not in a huff of anger or defiance
but full-bodied, full-bellied breaths
and that
is trust returning slowly within.
Forgive me, if you will, for what I’m about to say. But trust me, I hate the iceberg cliché as much as the next, but the surface is truly but a fraction of what lies beneath. And we’ll soon arrive at the one place we’re forbidden to curate or polish for approval. It is a place where everything fits, where it all belongs. And though outside access is currently prohibited, I asked if we could make an exception. This, you must see.
the heart.
Truth be told, how it navigates life is an art – some days like stone to water, and others a bit resistant.
It is quite extraordinary, really.
As you enter, you’ll see the walls are not white. They are warm, like the color of late afternoon. Light enters slowly here through rose gold-tinted flesh. And it smells of burned amber and cinnamon raisin bread baked fresh. Grab a pair of headphones for an immersive experience of the sacred wonder guided by the being itself.
“Welcome, come in, come in. I’m glad to have you, even if I feel a bit unveiled.
This place is full of questions I’ve asked myself, answers as they arrived,
incomplete and always complex,
and glimpses of the many facets of myself—
whether true or not.
A monument to both uncertainty and identity.
Let’s begin.
To your left, a series of unfinished sketches.
You may think they are mistakes
But they are not… they are studies in becoming.
The selves I’ve tried on before I learned which one fit, left room to breathe.
Just ahead, you should see a long corridor of mirrors.
Some reflect me as I was taught to be, by self and others.
Head held high. Upright. Composed. Useful.
Some are distorted; others bear smudge or blur.
Stand still long enough, and you’ll see which reflection remains.
This next room you’ll find has quite an open layout.
Smells like sunshine and lemon too, even if it is a bit cool.
Still. Stale. That is memory.
Like pressed flowers between book pages.
Like long forgotten coffee and laughter from kitchens whose shadows grow faint.
Please don’t rush.
You can see where love bruised and stained.
Where silence petrified.
Where hope learned to cower or crouch instead of leap.
Sorrow lives here, and every once and a while you’ll find it staring out the window from its chair.
We’ll exit this room and enter the hall that leads to a door.
Of papered walls with delicate flowers and threadbare floors.
And along the walls, portraits of my people, known or not, those who came before.
No filters. No captions. No explanations. But evidence.
Of eyes and spirits that have seen and survived, and some who found deliverance.
If you feel watched, that is both guidance and reverence.
Continuing through the door, we are now entering the chamber
where the walls pulse from blood’s flow through veins and arteries.
We’re making our way to the sacred wonder’s crown jewel.
The depository.
Careful—the floors creak with honesty.
This is where the pieces once treasured and those nearly broken are kept.
Hope—with a hairline crack—just about to shatter.
Fumbled faith—with worn fingerprints from a desperate grip.
Dreams that found themselves stuck in a whisper and never proclaimed.
Touch them gently, if you’d like; they are stronger than they look.
And at the center of this exhibit:
No frame, no glass, just breath.
This is the newest installation.
It changes daily.
Sometimes it is joy.
Sometimes it is rest.
Sometimes it is simply the courage to remain… stable.”
Now, before we move on,
Notice the exit sign. It is handwritten—
It reads: “If you see this, please know you, too, are seen.”
I always like to pause here and give you a moment to reflect.
How are you feeling?
Is there anything coming up or being brought to light?
These are questions not meant to be answered aloud.
We will continue whenever you’re ready. Because the heart can be a bit heavy. But please, if you feel the need, go back, walk through again. Linger with the messages placed throughout when they touch something deep within. I’ll be here when you need me.
Shall we continue? Good.
the stomach.
Continuing downward. This is the library.
Where the stomach holds shelves of stories and archives –
Of those spoken, and bits and remnants of those swallowed.
Each a narrative collected, internalized.
There are books here, too, that bear no title.
We’ve been told they are current revelations being written or yet to arrive.
I’d like to join you from here if you don’t mind.
Of course.
What an honor to have you with us.
I’d like to introduce you to the being.
Could I share something before you carry on?
Please do.
Here in the stomach, not many people notice there’s an echo:
voiceless questions, assumptions, conclusions, and warnings,
and instincts trained to quiet themselves, be silent and hollow.
If you look closely, you may even notice there are spaces
where digestion moves slower as it churns with questions of tomorrow.
There are piles of pretense from every instance I pretended to be okay
and cracks and crevices from those unfelt feelings burrowing deep, refusing to allow me
to self-betray.
You know, I’ve recently learned that in all my years, whether I’ve noticed it or not,
if my spirit is restless, then so is my body, my system.
That, too, is manifestation.
For the body is meant to be home to knowing, discernment, and intuition.
Like my grandma’s “I-feel-it-in-my-spirit” gut feeling.
And that may be a perfect segue into what you’ll see next.
Wow. That is sobering.
To hear the myriad of thoughts we keep within.
Well, I appreciate the insight.
So, thank you.
Now, if you’ll follow me,
here, notice the way the walls arch and ripple,
where this body made space, beseeched the belly to protrude.
This belly is proof that “a wall is just a wall… it can be broken down.”
In other words, some limits were meant to be broken through.
For that is birth, after all.
There is another thought I’d like to add.
The world has taught us to place so much importance on the body,
when it is but a form our spirit is tethered to.
And the belly is not a place that celebrates the glamorous or the superficial;
it bears much spiritual significance.
This is a place far from practical,
a place where, if desired, you uncover your access to ancient wisdom.
It is a well that sits deep and deeper still within each of us, and all it asks is this:
Trust its guidance in discerning what is nourishing and authentic from the corrupting and artificial.
I’ll stop there because I specifically told myself I wouldn’t bore you.
But that’s just a bit of my thought process from behind the scenes.
You’ve been generous enough to offer yourself as the subject of this self-study. Your thoughts, your faults, your hurt, your pain. If only more of us found ourselves more courageous, perhaps the world would stand a chance… could be saved.
If I’m being transparent, then I must admit that my motives were purely self-centered.
Only once it was complete did I consider its benefit beyond myself.
Well, I, for one, am grateful.
It has begun removing the veil over more than a few truths in my life.
And when you, too, leave, you’ll find it impossible to unhear now that you’ve learned to listen…
impossible to unsee what lies beyond this realm.
I’m sad to say that our journey has nearly reached its end.
We’ll make our way to the final exhibit.
the hips. the legs. and the feet.
This one you will find a bit unorthodox.
But just promise me you’ll give it a try.
Now, close your eyes.
Do you feel that?
Imagination is not responsible here.
Just for a moment, however brief, focus on what you feel.
Hips don’t lie because they can’t.
Their curves are intimately memorized.
They sashay; they swerve. They make you lean deep.
Here, you find memory of many motions.
Of walking in such a way that did not command attention.
Of standing strong, steady, and silent even though no one asked.
Of ancestors swaying amongst midnight fires and across oceans.
These hips have held rhythm and dance since a people’s inception.
They are monument. They inherit convention. And they forge connection.
These legs carry lineage. That is the continuum.
And these thighs, the manifestation.
Every step, a price, an inheritance.
Dirt-trudged boots dragged in determination.
Here, strength is no longer performative;
it is the foundation.
Not built of stone but sinew and bone.
Here, strength is salvation.
And as timing is often sovereign,
we arrive at the feet during their cleansing.
This is sanctification.
A declaration.
That this being is holy.
Even in a space where religion bears no significance.
These feet are grounded in spirit.
These feet do not honor force nor urgency but presence.
As they dig deep into the dirt of the Earth,
without apology, still with reverence.
These feet now know that they are allowed to take up space.
To walk paths unforged,
To break free of generational chains.
These feet know the freedom every part of this body worked so desperately to reclaim.
So, before you leave,
I thank you for walking slowly.
I thank you for not asking what anything is worth.
Nothing here was made to impress.
Everything is here as it is.
Because it is pure, and that can only mean that it is true.
And because it honors both origin and the threshold that leads to ascension.
And if you carry anything with you when you go,
Let it be this:
This body is not a monument to survival.
It is a living place.
A home reclaimed.
Room by room.
After all that tried to hold it back, to keep it down.
So walk out slowly and carry yourself differently.
The rest of the journey is lighter from here.
And as you leave, may you find it impossible to ignore every thought, every word, every breath, every memory, and every whisper.
So please hold these words in your heart
and walk gently.
“I thank my body for surviving,
but now that I know what is at stake, I teach it how to live.
Not erasure.
Not denial.
But change in perspective.
Better yet, re-vision.
I am beginning to understand that the body is a temple.
So, I’m learning to stand inside myself,
seek solace and sanctuary,
and I pray it is transcendental.”
