The Holy Ground Beneath My Feet

Lately, I have not grown louder.

I have grown quieter.

There has been more listening than speaking, more wandering than producing, more prayer than planning. It began unexpectedly with the Book of Exodus open on my lap and a quiet stirring in my spirit that I could not rush past. As I followed Moses into the desert again, I found myself being led inward. Slowly. Gently. Without explanation.

And then, as if by a hand I recognised without seeing, I was drawn back to The Interior Castle.

It feels no accident that this movement coincides with the beginning of Advent.

Advent is not loud.

It does not demand.

It waits.

It draws us into the long ache of expectation, into the still ache of promise. It teaches us how to prepare without striving and how to hope without grasping. And this year, Advent is calling me inward, not toward productivity, but toward presence.

When Moses approached the burning bush, he was told to remove his sandals. He was standing on holy ground not because the place itself was impressive, but because God was near. Lately, I have felt that same instruction whispered into my own life:

Slow down.

Pay attention.

You are already standing on holy ground.

The interior journey is like that. It is not marked by spectacle. It is marked by warmth. A quiet warmth that settles somewhere behind the ribs. A warmth that does not demand proof. You simply know when you are near the centre.

Saint Teresa described the soul as a castle with many rooms. Some bright with welcome. Some crowded with noise. Some long locked by fear or distraction. The early rooms of prayer, she says, are not places of rapture they are places of return. Return to self. Return to truth. Return to a God who waits with inexhaustible patience.

I recognise those early rooms well.

They are the rooms where I resist stillness.

Where distraction feels safer than depth.

Where I think I must bring something impressive to God.

And yet, every time I return, I find that I am not asked for performance, I am asked only for presence.

This season in the studio has reflected that inward movement. My brush is slower. My hands linger. The work is being formed less for display and more as a form of listening. I am not trying to make grand statements. I am tending small flames.

Perhaps that is all Advent ever asks of us.

To tend what is small.

To trust what is hidden.

To prepare a place inside where light may arrive quietly.

If you are also finding yourself drawn inward this season and if your soul feels quieter than your circumstances I want you to know that this is not absence. This is invitation.

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are being led closer.

And this, too, is holy ground.

xox