SANCTUARY

It began as an empty space left by a discarded microwave. A space open between the kitchen cabinets, a space that seemed to clamor for purpose.

Do something with me. I cannot bear this emptiness.

I heard it, and I agreed.

Shelves were ordered from the store as well as paint. The wall was painted. The shelves were installed.

What I had realized as the disappearance of the frogs that used to live out in the garden, and even inside my terrace, had become a need to collect at least the images of those that had abandoned us. Over the years, then, I had accumulated a number of frog figurines. Some were anthropomorphized: sitting on a bench, playing on a seesaw, or acting as waiters carrying covered dishes. Others were simply frogs, reclining peacefully. A few were engaged in prayer. There is even a Buddha frog, if you can imagine such a thing.

There are many ways to keep a collection. One may simply accumulate objects, placing them close together without thought or order. Or one may approach the task with a sense of Feng Shui, measuring space, considering weight and brightness, and observing how one figurine interacts with another. The activity itself becomes a ritual.

One grows absorbed in it. After a while, one almost becomes part of the collection. A frog is moved a few inches to the left. Another is elevated. A larger piece is given room to breathe. Distances are adjusted. Balance emerges. The activity becomes a ritual. When the work is finished, the collection seems to breathe more easily. The figurines appear relaxed. The chi flows evenly and does not stagnate.

And above all, the Divine—the Creator who delights in harmony and order—is pleased.