One evening, while cruising the wine-dark sea off Psathura, a deserted island in Northern Greece, I thought that an epiphany was at hand. This may have had something to do with the heat and the ouzo, however, because that epiphany proved as evanescent as the breeze and remained unknown.
What happened in Psathura isn’t unique though, this sort of encounter with the world’s majesty that transcends the everyday and seems sublime. It’s happened to me at other times as well: in the Rocky Mountains, and on the Sea of Cortez, and upon the wavering greens of Western Ireland. It’s occurred on bicycles and horses and surf boards.
It’s likely to have happened to everyone who chances upon this post.
I thought of these encounters when I heard this quote from the Kentucky poet Wendell Berry: “There are no sacred and unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places.”
Those few words have changed my way of thinking. Like our innocence, every place we encounter is indeed sacred unless proven otherwise, and we trespass upon the sanctified daily. It’s a humbling, lifting and affirming way of passing through the world.
And I’m beginning to think that was the epiphany that hung in the breeze off Psathura.