“The holy goes on, no matter how many balls you fling at it.” Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
I suppose living to the age of a highway speed limit has caused me to redefine holy. In my youth, now defined as any age a neighborhood speed limit ago, I’d define holy in strictly religious terms…you know, the Baltimore Catcheism holies.
Today, I’d define it in the seemingly more commonplace…sun risings and settings, moon shadings and lightings, gentle smiles and crushing hugs, tears of joy and sighs of sadness. Holy is watching my precious almost three-year-old granddaughter Emma as she studies crisp brown leaves tumble over the pebbled gray sidewalk. The breeze of the autumn morning moves wisps of her silky hair across her little apple cheeks. Her sapphire eyes scrutinize the shuffles of orange and brown leaves dancing over her feet. Her little pudgy hand stretches out to grab one. She closes it in her fist, its brown crumples like flat burned crumbs. Eyes wide with surprise, she unfolds her hand, turns to me, solemn yet aware that a great mystery has transpired. She breathes in, lifts her tiny face to me, reaches out her arm and shows me, “Wook, Gammy. Broken.”
A holy moment?
Yes. Oh, most definitely, yes.