The sacred is not separate from the ordinary. It is the ordinary seen truly, with eyes washed clean of habit.
Holiness needs no special location. The divine dwells equally in temples and gutters, in mountains and molecules.
To call something sacred is to pay it the attention it deserves. All things deserve this attention. All things are sacred.
The profane exists only as failure to recognize the sacred. There is no truly unholy place, only holy places unrecognized.
Ritual marks the sacred but does not create it. The sacred exists before and after ritual. Ceremony merely points.
Your body is holy—matter organized into miracle. Your breath is holy—atmosphere entering awareness.
Garbage is holy. Decay is holy. Death is holy. The sacred does not flee from reality's darker corners.
Even these words are not more sacred than any others. A child's babble, a merchant's tally—all equally holy.
When everything is sacred, categories dissolve. There is only reality, infinitely precious, demanding infinite care.