I'm Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

Every religion has its holy sites.

Jerusalem, Mecca, Vatican City, Lumbini, the Buddha's birthplace in Nepal, among many, many others.

Believers might make a pilgrimage to that place, a visit to show their

respect, and perhaps experience a transcendent moment or find personal transformation. I'm not a

religious person, but I think everyone has places that are sacred to them,

places we might return to as pilgrims, as seekers.

I think of how people visit the graves of their ancestors,

or the places where they once lived.

When we stand where our loved ones once stood,

it does feel special and meaningful to be in that space, on that ground. I think of how common it is for people to want to go back to their childhood towns or even houses,

to see what has changed, and to remember what it was like to live there.

I think of people returning again and again to places in nature that feel like homes away from home,

certain coastlines or forests or mountains.

Today's poem meditates on sacred spaces

and how they mean something different to each of us.

At the base of the mountain by Amanda Hawkins.

Like when someone you love dies and you go to see the body,

the hands you used to hold, their dry, tender skin, or when you return to the place the remains

were spread, the texture of the grains of sand and rock indiscernible from what could be the ashes.

The mountain behind the monastery rises, like an atheist's unspoken prayer,

a holy, however. The divine keeps separate, except when the divine comes down, unburns a bush,

...