In the old days, the people of Abraham called Jerusalem “the center of the world”. It was the axis of their universe around which every map encircled. In a way, they were right. Though it is not Jerusalem itself in a literal geographical sense that is the center, it is a spiritual place of being which, for a people, is loved above all else: the epicenter of the holy. It is the aliveness of a place.
In my life, the center of the universe is the house where I have slept and dreamt since I was a child, the mountain where I scattered your ashes, the coffee shop where we talked for happy hours of beautiful things. The center of my universe is the sacred fire of my people, the grey sidewalk where I first met you and I knew I already loved you, the welcoming door that is opened to friends with the sounds of greetings and love. Our land, your bed, these bodies, the garden of dark soil, the place where the clear water flows from the sky. This subtle cathedral, the infinite. On the map of our hearts, all the stars surely wheel around here. This is the center of the world.