I rise today with the intent of writing my first thoughts. I pick up Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening and the September 22 entry asks me to consider a sacred moment.

I look up the word sacred. Again.

Sacred etymology: late 14c., "hallowed, consecrated, or made holy by association with divinity or divine things.”

I chose Sacred (or it chose me) as one of three words for me to carry through the year. I’ve identified many moments during 2022 where the other two, Discipline and Reciprocity have been realized, recognized, placed inside direct experience. Sacred is tougher for me.

I’ve been worried about the word sacred ever since I wrote it down. The word’s association with the church brings up memories for me. Fear. Anger. Betrayal.

I celebrated September 21, equinox, the beginning of the new year in Celtic tradition, in a glorious mess of deconstruction. I found myself navigating fierce anger, a pulse of fear, the shadow of memory from childhood. I stormed about the house at one point “tidying up because it would give me a sense of control over something.” The flow of anger felt so powerful. I wanted to hold onto it.

Anger: Tight jaw, jutting out jaw. Heat all through my body, pooling in my hands and feet. Face, hot. Face, rigid and set. Eyes, unseeing. Heart, shut down. Hearing, limited. Gut, full of flame.

Did I transform into a dragon-of-sorts, protecting something sacred? What was the sacred thing?

The more I talked, the more confused I became. The anger deepened. I could feel the desire to make strong declarations about you=this or me=this. I knew I was headed for real danger. For the kind of danger where you’re blasting out your fiery breath. I could see who I was in danger of becoming. Suddenly, I wanted the anger gone. I wanted to escape and take it with me. I wanted to run. I wanted to shout, “I’m really going now. I really am. I won’t be coming back.” I kept moving. I gathered things. A bag. A book. I fell into patterns I thought I left behind.

And then, I stopped.

I vowed to stay in the spot I was in until the anger dissipated. I became curious about it.

The dragon-of-sorts sought a way through the rough seas, the volcano, the earthquake, the hurricane.

I cried when love broke through the protective barriers I’d set up. When my perspective grew wider, my eyes and ears opened, my jaw relaxed, the heat and tension flowed, I felt my heart. I could communicate again. Through love. Fierce love.

A story of the people and the events might be helpful to illustrate my point, but I also want to point out how narrative can create the conditions for a circling dragon that never leaves. With narrative, I can attach blame or place undeserved disposition (temperament) on a person.

Emotion felt in the larger context is a different awareness than emotion felt in the individual.

I wonder if yesterday, a day for endings and new beginnings was a test for the dragon-of-sorts. Did the dragon attempt to allow whatever emotion existed to be felt, to rise and fall, to erupt and ebb? Is the dragon a reflection of the wider context? And, what is the dragon protecting?

Love? I wonder.

Is love the sacred thing?