Rev. Vicky's Message September 18, 2025

As I sit here writing this message on the deck in my backyard which overlooks a canyon surrounded by tall Monterey pines, I can feel the warm sun beating down on my shoulders, but also a cool breeze coming off of the bay. I can hear the sounds of birds twittering in the trees above me and tiny creatures rustling in the leaf cover down on the ground.

It is late summer—our clearest skies and warmest sunlight of the whole year—and yet, leaves are already falling off of deciduous trees, and the afternoon air carries a subtle chill that tells me autumn is coming. The occasional honey bee still comes over from next door where my neighbor keeps hives, looking for a late summer blossom to glean nectar from. The hummingbirds whizz by me as I type—voooommm! My geriatric cat Stevie lazes on the lower deck sporting dried bits of wild grass stuck to his fur as he rolls around in late summer afternoon bliss.

This is my place, my home for just under 30 years now, my little slice of heaven in this big world. And it is sacred—as sacred as any other place because it is wild, it is natural.

For years, I have battled against the forest which is constantly seeking to take my yard back, hacking at the wild blackberries that surreptitiously snake over my fence, clearing away the deluge of pine needles that create a green-yellow carpet covering my whole yard, and hiring someone to pull out the prolific poison oak which spreads like wildfire and coats my kitties’ fur with oil that gives me an awful rash. The forest and its inhabitants want my land back: the woodpeckers peck at my awnings, birds nest in my air vents, the wild turkeys stand on my roof, and inevitably a heavily pregnant rodent of some sort takes up residence in my crawlspace as the temperature drops, using my basement as her own personal maternity ward.

But I don’t fret too much. I try to share my space as much as possible with those who have inhabited this land much, much longer than I have. After all, what better way is there to fall asleep every night than listening to the romantic hoot hoot hootings of great horned owls calling to their mates? I am blessed.

This is my sacred spot but I’m willing to share. When I look out from my workspace in the corner of my small deck, I see God in every leaf and bird and insect. I feel God’s voice in the wind that rustles my hair. I feel God’s warmth in the sun that shines down on me. I hear God’s music in the song of the pygmy nuthatch and the spotted towhee. For me, all of nature is a living, breathing, interconnected, magical, mystical, and miraculous expression of the Divine.

Maybe you, too, have your own special, sacred spot in nature. Maybe your own backyard or neighborhood park or a particular spot along the rec trail doubles as a cathedral or a small chapel where you regularly commune with the God of wild things. This Sunday, in the second lesson of our “Re-Wilding” series—“Re-Wilding Our Spirituality”—we will explore this idea of locating the sacred in nature, and how it aligns with our own foundational Unity principles.

Wild Blessings,

Rev. Michelle