For Sandra Bradley—my friend, spiritual mentor, and channel of timeless wisdom—whose words in Vallarta Mirror kindle hope and reflection—I lovingly dedicate this piece. May its verses resonate with your gentle guidance and joyful spirit…and honor the miracles your teachings inspire. E.Z.
The holiest place on earth is where an ancient hatred becomes a present love—A Course in Miracles
There is a place the world cannot enter.
A silence too sacred for headlines to shatter.
A space no scream of war can reach,
where no tyranny, no tragedy, no trending post can find us.
It is here.
Here—
where a mother’s lips press softly to the crown of her child.
Where time holds its breath,
and love—
uncomplicated, unconfused—
wraps itself around the moment like a shawl of light.
This is where miracles begin.
Not in the clamor of courts or the towers of kings,
but in kitchens
where soup simmers,
in gardens
where soil meets fingers,
in living rooms
where books are read aloud to someone sleepy and small.
The world is spinning wild, yes—
but we are not bound to its chaos.
We were not made from fury.
We are not sculpted from fear.
“There is no order of difficulty in miracles.”
And this—
this moment—
this breath—
this baby—
is one.
The story is old,
though we keep telling ourselves it’s new.
The uniforms change.
The rhetoric evolves.
But the fear—
the tearing apart—
the vanishing—
follows the same choreography.
If you listen closely,
the past is whispering:
This has happened before.
The holiest place on earth
is where an ancient hatred
becomes a present love.
That is our task now.
To remember.
To repair.
To resist—without becoming the thing we fight.
The world is noisy with forgetting,
but love remembers.
It remembers who we are.
It remembers our sanity.
When we kiss a baby,
We kiss the future healed.
We touch the holy.
We reclaim the garden
from which we never truly fell.
So let’s come back.
Come back to the things that matter most.
Not because they are quaint,
but because they are powerful.
To hold a child is to hold a world reborn.
To walk in beauty is to make war with nothing.
To light a candle in the dark is to declare:
“This ends with me.
This fear.
This madness.
It ends with me.”
And from me,
from us,
from you—
light pours.
We are not the caterpillar breaking.
We are the imaginal cell remembering.
The blueprint of the butterfly,
still pulsing in the muck.
We are not helpless.
We are habit shifters,
Truth-tellers,
wound healers.
Not saints—
Just ordinary ones
remembering how to be whole.
When we choose not to hate,
We unravel centuries.
When we forgive ourselves,
We clear the air for generations
Love does not wait for
permission.
It moves like water,
carving mercy into stone.
Faith is not blind.
It is visionary.
It sees through the nightmare
into the dawn.
And the dawn is not out there.
It’s in here.
In the quiet place where the world cannot follow.
In the miracle that is love—expressed.
Again… And again… And again.
