I believe that the world is a mysterious place, that all life is a mystery. And in its mystery, it can be a cruel, indifferent and lonely place. In the spirit of defining mystery, humans have created narratives. And in our endeavors to explain our place on the planet or to escape our loneliness, we have created lasting myths and beliefs to bolster our courage and quell our fears.
In this remote land in central Kansas, a small church still stands as a symbol of one bastion of faith. The statues are a remnant of this belief in a myth from early western civilization passed on through generations to early pioneers in central North America. They were the late arrivers who came with their beliefs well after the native peoples who once inhabited these lands. (The history of their arrival is the story of displacement of peoples here long before them.)
I believe that all lands are sacred. Yet, not sacred in the sense of connected to god, but to its connection to the ancestral heart-beat of humans who lived here once surrounded by wildness. In my mind, the myths are crumbling; and while we make an effort to repair them, they will eventually be gone. I trust that the mystery will remain and a deep abiding reverence for the mystery of place will long outlive all of us.
The Eye of the Whirlwind