Holy Ground

“How hard it is to escape from places! However carefully one goes, they hold you—you leave bits of yourself fluttering on the fences, little rags and shreds of your very life."
-Katherine Mansfield, 1888-1923

I have been thinking lately of places that have touched my life. Holy ground, really. Places that, even though I have not been there in years are as fresh as when I was living there. Places where some bush burned and some voice spoke and life glistened and wonder happened. One of my favorite places is a park down Mercer Street in Princeton, New Jersey. My son, knowing my love of that place took pictures and gave them to me the next Christmas. Here is a poem I wrote about that special place.

Sometimes in the middle of the madness—
I remember a park.

The trees are old as God
And the fields are green as green
And here and there are benches for stopping.

The park isn’t big.
It covers, maybe a block
Or two.
But there the birds sing
And the squirrels play—
And on that spot I found great peace.

Sometimes, in the middle of this madness,
I remember a park.

I wonder what it is in the middle of your madness that brings you peace.