Every year I go to a retreat. A men's retreat that is deeply spiritual and affirming. It only lasts for a weekend and the men mostly come from New York, New England and Pennsylvania. I am one of four or five Canadians that make the trip down to the Berkshires. Men sing, laugh, pray and me, well my favourite part is that I get to play my drums. Doumbek , and Djembe. When we are wrapping up with a closing ceremony on Sunday afternoon one of the founders, a lovely gentle but fiercely spirited man reminds us that when we leave we will be going back in to our 'regular' lives. Many of us will be filled with energy and touched by the sacred fire of connection. To each other , ourselves and the heaven that is all around us. As we float trough the door on Sunday evening we are reminded that those who we will encounter were not there. Were not singing, praying and even dancing (for some) No, they were cleaning cat litter, washing some clothes and putting up with the negihbour who frankly isn't very neighbourly. It seems a pity that the space between the sacred and the profane is so large. That spirituality has been put into a brick and mortar box that we visit on occasion. Or relegated to a momentary feeling of calm as you walk beneath the budding trees of spring. They say that God is in the laundry. Perhaps when we get home we can fold that laundry together.
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