Holy Hours

Holy hours;

really, if my only practice was rising early in the morning, well before the sun even hints of its appearance, and simply appreciating the quiet that these hours offer, listening to the day beginning to unfold from the still heavy depth of the night’s silent hold — if this is all I ever held to be sacred it would be enough to know a true sense of God. Everything happens so slowly through this time, a pace that so easily matches the inner stillness that I feel, as if indeed these are holy hours hushed by the very presence of God. If I did only this, not even a formal sitting of quiet meditation, but just enjoying a first cup of coffee while the morning tends to the details of its rise — my everyday would be blessed from its beginning, unfolding too at a quiet pace completely of it’s own.

indeed, these are holy hours.

here’s my sense of God, not an entity removed from the world, but a presence felt within my bones that assures me that I belong to those holy hours, that each morning has the potential to dawn with a new understanding of my own unique expression given to the world. My sense of God is of life, my own, entwined with yours, as well as that which allows us to maneuver as form through the spaciousness of our origins. God is the creation of the day from the dark depth of night, silence and then opening note of song by earliest bird to sing, the warmth and bitter taste of coffee that meets my lips with first sip. In these holy hours everything is God and I seem more likely to remember this presence through the course of…