Ozark Holy Week
Not too long ago, my Holy Weeks were times of deep reflection, Catholic rituals, hymns, incense, prayer and reflection. My faith was important and meaningful to me, and Holy Week was one of my favorite times on the liturgical calendar - I loved the somber, quiet, and deeply personal reflection that I felt called to undertake during Lent and in the days leading up to Easter.
Over the years, Catholicism started to feel less and less like the spiritual home I was craving. I slowly distanced myself from the Church, though many of my core values I can trace back to my Catholic upbringing and education: radical love, community, care for the earth and my fellow humans. The values are still in my heart, but the dogma of the Church, along with a desire to seek out communities that are not only accepting of myself and my queer siblings, but also empowering, encouraging, and celebratory of us, led to step back from the faith in which I was raised and seek spiritual fulfillment on my own.
I’m still not sure exactly what words best describe my spirituality, if there are any that would truly encapsulate how I understand myself in relation to the forces of the universe around me and beyond, but this Holy Week, I found myself in a place that felt safe and sacred and full of love and care.
One of the most joyful and quintessentially human experiences is to be in nature and in community with others. This past week, I found myself doing just that, and it was one the most peaceful, rewarding, and holy experiences.
In nature, surrounded by animals, plants, and people as they all slowly re-awaken after winter’s chill, my chosen family and I gathered to share stories, food, resources, knowledge, rituals and appreciation for the world. Actually, a lot of the same elements I used to love about Holy Week as a Catholic were there with us in the Ozark hills. The incense of campfires, the hymns of birds in the morning air, the communal breaking of bread, the intentional space for reflection, meditation, prayer, and connection with others and a universal life source all fit perfectly into our days.
We connect with the elements so strongly when we can be truly immersed in them.
We were grounded by earth - the ground we slept on and the dust on our boots, the dirt under our fingernails and the mud between our toes. We climbed rocks more ancient than we know - finding hand and foot holds in pockets of sandstone that have been home to countless critters and insects.
We were lifted up by the air. The wind that rustled tree leaves and carried birds through the sky above us also fed our fires, tangled our hair, and challenged us, asking “are you sure you want to set up your tent here?”
We were sustained by water. It filled our bottles and kept our bodies hydrated on hikes and climbs. It left us as beads of sweat, cooling us as our muscles worked hard to pull us up cliffs and boulders. It bubbled up from the earth and formed waterfalls and clear, cool streams that soothed our tired feet.
We were warmed by fire. Our campfires and stoves that boiled water for coffee in the mornings also warmed us in the chilly evenings. The sun kissed our faces and our souls. We stared at stars billions of miles and light years away at night.
And there was a fifth element surrounding and connecting us all this weekend while we were climbing and camping and communing together: the love and humanity that binds all humans to one another and to the other four elements. It’s like the dark matter that holds our humanity intact, keeping us from falling apart and floating through space and time without purpose or intention.
On Saturday afternoon, I lay in a hammock between two redbud trees, swaying gently and staring up at the tiny fuchsia blossoms against a clear blue sky. A slight breeze rusted the branches, and a soft constant hum of bees reveling in the pollen lulled me into a calm and peaceful meditation. I listened as my loved ones encouraged each other as they climbed, or sat and talked together on the rocks. The day felt so beautiful and sacred, and I marveled at how my holy rituals have changed from the steadfast pews of a church to the constant motion and change of the forest.
