Meditation feels to me like crossing over a threshold. I step from the wind of cause and effect into shelter: The sudden quiet; a deep spontaneous breath; a sigh of relief.
When I was a little girl, and often, even as a teenager, I’d cross a similar threshold into the welcoming arms of San Francisco’s tiny chapels and magnificent churches. I felt like I was entering the secret heart of the City, its bubbling life muted by a consensual hush and the ancient comfort of jewel-stained glass. A solid wood door would whisper closed, and Life’s Sound and Light show paused for a brief intermission.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a spotlight, the roar of my team in victory and the ripe buzz of a big city. I just crave the silence too.
As church doors get locked and loud selfies with the Mother of God banish the spirits I knew, a part of me mourns their passing.
But just this morning, I remembered, again, the way to the threshold within me.