By Cathy Hird

The lake where we often kayak can be still as a mirror. The water reflects the trees that lean over it, the clouds of the sky. As we move through yellow and white water lilies, we can see fish and turtles swimming beneath us. The sparkling peace-filled beauty moves us. It is a place where we sense the wonder of creation and the Creator.

In Celtic tradition, a place like this is called a "thin place." There is a Celtic saying that the divine is never more than three steps away, but there are places where the veil is so thin we can almost touch what is transcendent, the divine energy that suffuses all creation.

I am wondering what places have this character for you. I am also thinking about thin places in the city, spots we can go to right here to find the veil lifted so that we can see what is beyond.

To help with these questions, I want to talk about what makes a place "thin."

Beauty speaks to our spirits: the sunset at Sauble, the rocks of the escarpment, the hills around us in the fall. Rocks carved by water speak of time, and storms remind us of the power of nature. Flowers in the spring and the return of birds tell of the cycle of life. The land around us helps us sense the divine energy that is just beyond our reach.

When a place becomes a destination for spiritual seekers, when many people travel there over the years, that history draws us out of ourselves and into something more. If pilgrims have travelled to a place for generations, their steps seem to echo in us when we walk the same path. For Christians, Iona in Northern Scotland and the Camino de Campostela are such places. For spiritual seekers of other traditions, the destination might be the wailing wall in Jerusalem, Bodh Gaya (the birth place of the Buddha), Mecca.

Sometimes it is social history that infuses a place with meaning. The fields of Flanders speak of sacrifice and loss. People return to an ancestral home in order to reconnect with their history, those who have gone, those who forged a family tradition. There are aboriginal lands where people have lived for so long that it is alive with their story, places like Haida Gwaii.

I suspect that when we think of "thin places" we mostly think of places that are wild or far away. We go out on the lake or into the forest to sense the peace and life that is beyond our own. We travel to far-off places to find a story that lifts us out of our daily life. But I wonder, do we have to leave home to find hope, peace, vision?

A walk through Harrison Park can put us in touch with the transcendence of nature. People have seen fishers in those woods, a wild and powerful creature. I have stood on the bridge above Inglis Falls listening to the voice of water and more.

We can walk to the cenotaph, listen to the gentle flow of the fountain, gaze at the dove sculpted with wings outstretched, remember the courage, the loss, the desire for peace.

The steps of City Hall is a place where people come to make political statements, to call on our community to seek justice and compassion. Sitting on a bench there, we can remember the vision of those who seek the best for us all, and ponder the purpose of our life.

If we sit in a park where children play, we remember our childhood, our children; we sense joy and the journey that is life. Watching teens on a swing letting go of the constricting conventions of their lives, we see freedom.

I have a few favorite places where I go to be enfolded by the presence of what is beyond. Mostly, the places I choose include water. Others will stand on an ancient rock letting wind blow past them and into them. But right here where we live, there are places, moments that show us that there is a divine energy around us, just beyond our reach, a power that is beyond us and in us.

Cathy Hird is a writer, minister and farmer who lives near Walter's Falls.