Holy is snuggling into my husband's back as he stirs something on the stove.
Holy is looking into the eyes of Cheyenne, our miniature dachshund. Pure love and adoration shining back.
Holy is holding my mom's hand. It's soft and warm as she talks about dying and her desires. She's letting go. I'm holding on. Her hand, so warm.
Holy is standing on the deck and having a hawk flying circles above, break out and dive directly towards me as it lets out its cry.
Holy is the early morning light, wiping out the darkness, foreshadowing the rising of the sun.
Holy is lying on the earth and feeling caressed.
Holy is seeing and being seen for who we truly are.
Holy is the thrill of watching my daughter uncover beauty in an old house.
Holy is a routine that cares for me as well as others.

What is holy? What is sacred?
Loving, sharing, connecting. Helping another. We are all holy. Every last one of us. No matter what we've done or where we've been. We are holy. We are sacred. Our bodies are sacred. Our minds are holy. Our desires, our fears are holy. Holding hands, healing, offering solace, being of service - all holy. Beating our rage into the streets, crying out loud - holy. Overwhelm, depression, desire to die, all holy. If we could only accept our holiness. 

Holy is not just some religious thing, controlled by priests and rabbis and men or women of the cloth. Holy is not only found in a church or synagogue. Holy is found everywhere we open our eyes and accept it. It's found in the celebrations and in the groping in the dark. Holy is found in our bodies and our minds.

Lovemaking is holy. Rage is holy. Grief and pain are holy. We are holy. All parts of us. 

Being holy isn't some demand that we live a pure life. Being holy only asks that we be honest, that we own our lives and our actions. That we own our loving and our raging. Our disappointments and our successes. Holy only asks that we live with purpose. Not the "big purpose" that always seems so elusive, but with choice.