There's the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota, of course, where I first became aware that rocks, trees, and water were much more than rocks, trees, and water.  Spirit infused the landscape and my young soul to overflowing with its beautiful Self there and has never, ever left. 

Like Moses, I take off my shoes when I enter the old house in Spirit Lake which was home to my family for almost a century.  Within its sturdy walls I sense the spirit and stories of the strong Norwegian women whose blood fills my veins and whose stories warm my heart.  Holy Ground, for sure!

Some time ago, a retired plumber friend who had worked on several churches under construction asked me a question I ponder still.  "When does a church become a church," he asked.  "Is it when the foundation is laid or when the stained glass windows are installed?"  "Is it when the walls are erected or the plumbing connected?"  What is it that makes a space "holy?"

I pondered this question Sunday as we moved the entrance to the prairie labyrinth.  The space where so many have paused, marking the beginning of their labyrinth journey, is now just a circle of dirt seeded to grass.  The new entrance, complete with gong, cobblestone circle, and welcoming rock is on top of the hill, several yards from the original entrance.  Is the new entrance "holy ground" even though no one has yet used it to begin a labyrinth journey?  And what about the former entrance?  Holy ground?  Or ordinary?  What do you think?