BEGINNINGS
I’m not much of a cook. Neither was my mother. And that’s how it all began. When I was twenty-two and about to get married, she gave me a recipe book, the kind with blank pages to write down or paste in all your best recipes. Mom had written down hers to get things started, but she only had two: roast beef and chicken. Like I said, she wasn’t much of a cook. Still, she made a great roast, and here were her notes on just how to do it: Set oven at 450. Season roast with salt and garlic. Sear for 30 min., lower temp to 350, cook for 1 hour.
That was it. Nice and simple. The chicken recipe was pretty much the same.
So I got married, made roast beef and chicken, and if a friend ever cooked something tasty, I found out how and wrote it down in the book.
It was several pages in and one month later that I found more notes from Mom: Wash your delicates with Ivory Snow in cold water.
That’s no recipe, I thought. Then I thought, Why not? Mom was passing on whatever she hoped would prepare me for a good marriage, a good life.
Well, both marriage and life turned out to be much harder than I ever imagined. I didn’t know that after eight years and two children I’d be getting divorced. Or that the existential angst that looked so cool in French movies would be painful, not fun. Or that moments of great happiness and meaning could be swallowed by moments of fear. I didn’t know that outside of movies and books, this was life, and I often wished I had recipes telling me what to do, how to live, which path to take.
Meanwhile, my own path became one of exploring: a little this, a little that, whatever seemed to work. It could be whatever lowered the pain or anxiety I sometimes found in living, or whatever brought the greatest joy and lifted me to a higher level. I studied yoga and meditation, tried therapy and drugs, went to rallies and retreats. And my spiritual path became a smorgasbord that merged Eastern and Western religions, Native traditions, and my mom.
I also, over time, grew up, met and married my beloved John, and moved to the foothills of Boulder, Colorado.
It was many years later—after my children were married, after I’d sat and held hands with a friend who was dying, and after my highs and lows had somewhat smoothed out—that I saw an intriguing exercise in a book. It was titled “Find Your Highest Purpose.” Now, I’m a real patsy for these kinds of quizzes. They’re the esoteric version of the “What Kind of Guy Is Right for You?” quizzes I took endlessly as a teen.
So I closed my eyes as the book suggested, recalled three times when I felt passionate about something I did, looked for the common threads—the essence of my passion—opened my eyes, and wrote down “My highest purpose is . . .” And something inside me let me fill in the rest: “. . . to live a sacred life.”
Well that was a surprise. But then I wrote more, as I imagined what it would look like and how it would feel:
A simple life, filled with love, awe, and a deep sense of connection. A happy life, touched with grace and blessings. A life in which I know what I’m here to do—and do it.
And finally, as the book directed, I summed it all up in a way I’d remember:
My highest purpose is to live a sacred life, connected to others, nature, and the divine through love, gratefulness, and acts of service.
It wasn’t long after I did this that I got a call from Carol, the editor of a magazine I sometimes wrote for. She asked me if I’d write an article on creating a sacred space in your home. Well, sure, I said, hearing the drum roll of synchronicity.
My research began with friends who had shrines or meditation rooms and ended with a Native American Feng Shui master who happened to live nearby. We sat by a fountain in her living room—painted the colors of earth and sky and enriched with carvings of wood and stone—while she spoke about the power of color and the four elements and how they can bring magic and nature into your house and your life.
Her words touched me, and so did her home. Walking back to my street, I felt lighter, in a way I remembered but hadn’t been for some time. I began to write the article in my head—“How to Create a Sacred Space”—when suddenly I had an inspiration, a voice from above: Rivvy, write a book—How to Create a Sacred LIFE! Of course, I responded. Will do. And it was soon after then that I began to remember and encounter all the people and experiences that make up this book.
That’s how it works. The first step toward any goal is setting the intention; it’s your prayer and personal GPS.
I remember being startled the first time my son’s car spoke. Tony entered his destination and presto! This strange but knowing voice told him how to reach it. “Turn left at the light and go straight for three miles . . .” If I needed more proof, this was it: Let the universe know your intention, and you’ll be guided all the way there.
Why me? Why you?
And you don’t have to be perfect to live sacred.
Why me? Well, my English friend Helen, who served faithfully as my first reader, seemed to nail it. She stopped by one day when I was in a Jewish mood, worrying about everything I could think of, from getting a new bed to dying. “Rivvy,” Helen said, “read your book!” Then she added, with
