ENTERING THE TEMPLE was decided on a whim while driving down Sheridan Road with my boyfriend yesterday. The two of us like to drive around the suburbs up north, winding our way down the leafy roads that lead through the splendor of the north shore, the lake lapping to our left.
And that’s when we saw it—the elaborate dome rising out of the clouds in the distance—the Bahai Temple. “Have you ever been inside?” I asked him. And even though we’d driven down these roads many times in our lives—through many lifetimes, actually—he’d never stopped to step inside this holy place that appears out of nowhere along the shore.
So we parked the car and walked through the immaculate gardens and even though there were red-winged blackbirds ready to defend their nests up in the lush tree branches, and even though there were signs everywhere warning us about their proclivity to pounce on humans in defense of said nests, and even though I was slightly scared because I’d been attacked by said red-winged blackbirds before, we made it peacefully through those gardens in the rain and came upon the steep steps, leading up to the temple doors.
And we looked up to marvel at the spectacular dome touching the clouds, all carved and complex with its numerological logic—an ode to the number nine. When we walked inside the temple, a silence fell upon us and hushed us into close attention to the inner realms.
An architecture of wonder—with nowhere to look but up at the glory of god—whose name is inscribed at the very tippy top center of the dome, through which one can see the faint black dashes of birds circling above.
I’d been here a few times before, but it always feels like the first time—because I’m new again, and never the same person twice when I visit this place—and I could feel my shoulders drop and my breath deepen and my body relax into the invitation to be still and present with even the suggestion of the presence of the glory of god.
I stared at the calligraphic expression up above me for a long time. And then it was time to go—back out into the rain, to the world out there waiting for us to slip into routine again—and I took one more look at the image up there and the entirety of the inner space, before I walked out the door and back down the steep steps toward the fountains again. And that was that.
But I have to tell you what I’m noticing—how every time I close my eyes now, I see the inscription "O Thou Glory of Glories" burned into my mind’s heart—like an eye looking back down on me, beaming me with love!
And it feels like a visual medicine, this glorious beauty, this nudge toward the luminous, this orientation toward the divine, in the middle of an ordinary rainy day along the north shore.
So I’m writing this down as a note to self not to forget it—and to remember that this is always available to us, this invitation to look up and seek out the divine beauty in each and every single moment of our short, miraculous lives!
And that’s when we saw it—the elaborate dome rising out of the clouds in the distance—the Bahai Temple. “Have you ever been inside?” I asked him. And even though we’d driven down these roads many times in our lives—through many lifetimes, actually—he’d never stopped to step inside this holy place that appears out of nowhere along the shore.
So we parked the car and walked through the immaculate gardens and even though there were red-winged blackbirds ready to defend their nests up in the lush tree branches, and even though there were signs everywhere warning us about their proclivity to pounce on humans in defense of said nests, and even though I was slightly scared because I’d been attacked by said red-winged blackbirds before, we made it peacefully through those gardens in the rain and came upon the steep steps, leading up to the temple doors.
And we looked up to marvel at the spectacular dome touching the clouds, all carved and complex with its numerological logic—an ode to the number nine. When we walked inside the temple, a silence fell upon us and hushed us into close attention to the inner realms.
An architecture of wonder—with nowhere to look but up at the glory of god—whose name is inscribed at the very tippy top center of the dome, through which one can see the faint black dashes of birds circling above.
I’d been here a few times before, but it always feels like the first time—because I’m new again, and never the same person twice when I visit this place—and I could feel my shoulders drop and my breath deepen and my body relax into the invitation to be still and present with even the suggestion of the presence of the glory of god.
I stared at the calligraphic expression up above me for a long time. And then it was time to go—back out into the rain, to the world out there waiting for us to slip into routine again—and I took one more look at the image up there and the entirety of the inner space, before I walked out the door and back down the steep steps toward the fountains again. And that was that.
But I have to tell you what I’m noticing—how every time I close my eyes now, I see the inscription "O Thou Glory of Glories" burned into my mind’s heart—like an eye looking back down on me, beaming me with love!
And it feels like a visual medicine, this glorious beauty, this nudge toward the luminous, this orientation toward the divine, in the middle of an ordinary rainy day along the north shore.
So I’m writing this down as a note to self not to forget it—and to remember that this is always available to us, this invitation to look up and seek out the divine beauty in each and every single moment of our short, miraculous lives!
