By: Danielle Schroeder
There are some souls who inherently long for the sacred.
There is religion in the councils of constellations and the seas on lunar planes.
And perhaps worship of the humane is only understood by those who seek it. Acolytes
understand that chapels reside in open spaces of a sought deity. The ravens that cry thrones
and kingdoms perch upon electric wires, blessing the understood with understanding cries. And
fanfares and overtures manifest in cacophonous climaxes that cadence through hair down to
The peaks of gentle giant mountains are the altars upon which we bow in devotion; it is the only
physical location upon which lying prostrate into the mineral soil is effective because the clouds
are prostrate next to you.
And yet there are religions that can’t be taught or advertised. Or even spoken about. The
unspoken silences are the steeples that a pilgrim travels to find. Look for the stained-glass
windows; colored stories that sabotage all manners of dull normalcy.
There is divine in the devotion.