Morgan Freeman in the Sacred Tall Grass

Blog #6 -- Monica Rae

June 15th, 2020

When I was a child, I understood the word ‘sacred' to be related to religion. Sacred was untouchable and far away from where I was. As an Irish Catholic I was baptized, received first communion in a white dress with peach lace and picked the name, Cecilia, as my confirmation name. I cried the first time I confessed my sins to our local priest, and I felt holy reference for the walls and routines of the faith I was taught early on.

When I moved to Sioux Falls over 20 years ago, I was without family and the comforts of home. I found refuge in my Catholic roots as I entered the back door of St. Joseph’s Cathedral in downtown Sioux Falls. Entering quietly, I made the sign of the cross with holy water and found my way into the small room to light a candle for each petition.

…Cue the camera…

A chorus of angels is singing in the background as Morgan Freeman approaches the highest place of worship in Europe, a cathedral in France, dated back to the 12th or 13th century. Actor and storyteller, Morgan Freeman is the host for the series called “The Story of God,” and I’ve sat attentive as he visits sacred spaces, exploring the driving force of faiths throughout the world. Historical references and thought-provoking questions are intertwined with every handshake and shared meal. And Freeman ends each episode with a simple, yet profound lesson.

Many of the people Freeman interviews have experienced a spiritual awakening because of hardship, poverty, loneliness, or abuse. This wall of hell is broken by light, revealing the beauty of hope. A universal change occurs when grace pours over the soul of the bruised, stopping the beat of modern life and transporting one outside the limits of time.

Like many people I have endured unwanted hardships. But it wasn’t one moment that changed me—rather a revelation, over time, of the presence of wholeness I was already surrounded by.

“No, Hazel….STOP!!” my daughter screamed as her 2 year old dog chewed on our mallard ducks like they were balls with a squeak toy inside.

I could hear it from the bathroom window. Without hesitation I dashed to the duck habitat unsure of what I’d find. Blood was covering my pajamas as my tears covered a dying duck we had named Mabel, lying in my arms. The remaining mallard traumatized from the experience, frozen in fear.

Twenty-four hours later I placed an order for 3 more ducks.

But, why?

I know the pain is inevitable. I’m going to outlive each one of these creatures.

Since moving to the country 5 years ago close to a dozen animals have been buried. Cemetery markers are hidden under grass, garden veggies and tree stumps. One might think the sight of blood and seizures and holding suffering animals in my arms would be a kind of deterrent!!

But it’s not.

In fact, with each life I’m taught the same lesson over and over again! The repetition wringing out my soul’s complacency.

I’ve mourned the lives of animals that came before him, but there is one, a yellow Labrador retriever named Harlee, that has become my greatest animal muse. I met him when he was days old. Puppy ripples covered his face and big black eyes looked deep into my soul.

You wouldn’t know it from his stoic nature as he enters his older years, but there was a time he was afraid of stairs. So, daunted by the sight of the wooden steps as a puppy I would pick him up by his wrinkles and carry him inside. I would clean up his messes and give him a bath—the quietness would surround us as he sat in the tub. Both of us wet and nervous and bonded somehow. Maybe he knew I needed him as much as he needed me.

Of course, the puppy years are like human toddler years on steroids as potty training was a 24-hour race to keep the house from smelling like a doggie daycare. Like a teething toddler, he enjoyed trying new textures such as heating pads, whole socks, loaves of bread, his bed, blankets, shoes, Polly pockets, bananas from the counter and cantaloupes from the garden. He removed tags from all the dish and bath towels he could get a hold of and thought any open door was an invitation for a marathon. He has made himself known to the neighbors, running through yards, barking at strangers and licking babies…never aware of his size. To this day his shoe fetish has led to a separate entrance for shoe removal for all visitors, as one too many have left with half a pair!

Buddy, one of my many nicknames for Harlee, shares with me his excitement for mundane routines as he assumes his contented position by my feet whenever I eat, on the floor next to my bed as I write, and outside beside me, as I dig in dirt or shovel snow. Bathing him requires a sponge bath because he’s afraid of water and brushing him is like shearing a sheep that never stops growing hair.

He is a part of these fellow captives of the splendor of earth that are so happily instinctual and unburdened by the human tendencies of vanity and greed.

Animals submit to natural selection; contributing to the circle of life that takes place here on earth. And while each species evolves along with their particular branch of life, they all serve a purpose to the wholeness.

After a long day of work in the city nearby, I am welcomed home by the sound of cats’ meows, dogs and ducks and Harlee’s tail wagging high in anticipation of our ritual greeting of affection. After I put my purse down and feed him his three scoops, which only takes him seconds to scarf down, we go together to tend to the ducks we keep outside.

Years have passed now—he no longer runs to fetch his toys to play—he leaves that to the younger dog. Instead he stands beside me, ready to follow and provide support somehow. I sit in the grass, his eyes glossed over in pleasure as he licks the side of my ear. He’s smiling; I know without even looking at him. The sun starts to move slightly behind the evergreen trees, the bunnies are trying to hide behind the swaying tall grass and the bees have finished their day’s work in the daisy patch.

The 'sacred' I was once certain I couldn’t touch, has been made tangible! And Morgan Freeman’s voice rings in my ears narrating the sanctuary of instinctual beauty that surrounds me…

DEDICATION: I dedicate this blog to my parents who filled my childhood home with a constant influx of animals… the beginning of a journey that has led me to find refuge in the untamed and sacred power of nature.