quiet-time

When is the last time you sat quietly in a holy space and took in the atmosphere?
When I was a teen, I regularly practiced the pipe organ in my church. Most often, I rode my bike there, let myself in the parking lot door with my mom's key, locked the door behind me, and entered the world of quiet. Before lifting the wooden roll-top that enclosed the double-manual keyboards, I would take a few moments to inhale the smell of carpet, wood, candle wax, floor polish, and last Sunday's altar flowers. Sometimes I would slide into any pew that I wished and let my soul unwind. In a little while, the felted-breath of organ pedal would work its way over and under each pew and through the votived chandeliers that hung tenuously from the cracked and peach-colored ceilings. But first I needed a wedge of peace, a serving of silence, a slice of beauty that came from my surroundings.
The only other place I feel this way is in a museum. Or in the piney woods. Or floating in my kayak.