Despite the bustle and fervor of the streets of Quito, the crowds on the streets, the jammed up traffic, the vendors hawking their goods on every corner, I feel a sense of connection with history and humanity every time I go to colonial Quito. In a sense, it is one way I rejuvenate my spirit and reconnect with myself.
I take comfort in the centuries-old churches lining every street.
I take comfort in the tomblike silence of a cathedral, unreachable form the noise and chaos outside.
I take comfort in the age-old rituals, rituals that have been performed, over and over, for hundreds of years I like the image that overcomes me as a sit in a pew and look up at the ornately gilded altar, the image of all the people who have come before me, seeking solace, strength, wisdom, comfort, love.
Lately I don’t feel very spiritual, however.
I haven’t been nurturing my spirit as much as I should.
I used to find my spirit in books, poetry, music and art. I want to get back to that. I want to find my spirit in the creative, in the place where our human journeys connect, that place where we are awe-inspired and know that we must be part of something bigger than ourselves, whatever that may be.
It’s hard not to sense my spirit when I look up and see something crafted with faith and love, something made by human hands in honor of the divine.
It’s hard not to sense my spirit when I look up at a crystal blue sky with an immaculately white puffy cloud floating by.
It’s hard not to sense my spirit when I look up at a starry, starry night, the wind rustling the leaves in the nearby trees.
I need to look up more.
At the ceiling of a five hundred-year-old church.
At the sky on a sunny day.
At the stars in my backyard.
Look up.
(My promises: read more poetry, spend more time with art, go downtown and connect more with the beauty in my city.)
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