When you live in a house for many years, sometimes your eyes become so accustomed to the view, to the relationships between objects, that you forget why you acquired and put the things in their order.
I find myself much affected by visionary and tactile impressions; to see parallels between the designs on the dishes and mugs I use and the fabric pattern on my big armchair gives me pleasure. I picked things because they connect me to meanings I want to remember.
In my house are many sacred shapes; arrangements of round baskets to hold offerings and vows, circles and sunfaces to bring wholeness, spirals to remind me of evolution’s movement, snakes, dragons and wavy branches that speak of the organic, curving way to travel through space, the muted colors of the sunrise sky and clouds, of grass and leaves, birds and feathers that speak high truth, old bones that reveal the core of matter, and ancient rocks from across the world that bring all places into me so earth is Home.
I remind myself of the sacred, in every way, and still some days, I forget to just BE it. I forget that the objects in my home look to me as their next incarnation, their hope for the future, their path back to God.