The Sacred Mountain and the Temple

We’re neurologically, physiologically predisposed to engage our senses, experience a fullness, in natural settings—overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean but also startled, cleansed, awakened by so many minute details—a nook in the woods, a perch by the river, the enclosure of a cave, the prominence of a mountain peak. Getting there is part of making room for the shift in awareness, part of the preparation—the exertion, the effort, quickening the pulse, breaking a sweat in the climb—clearing away heaviness, stagnation, the goop that otherwise mires us in confusion or resentment. Immersion in a stream or the ocean is often part of this clearing process. Simply exercising may accomplish some of this physiologically, but jogging on a treadmill (especially with headphones piping in the morning stock market report) isn’t really reaching it.

Human-made religious structures, the most basic, intuitive varieties at least, begin with making altars and offerings. These gestures of relatedness and gratitude (or possibly of appeasement—feeding a hungry beast so it doesn’t make your life yet more difficult) can be a way of thanking the place for being welcoming—a gracious host—and attempting to give something back. This in turn becomes a mandate in many cultures to become gracious hosts to our own guests, this being the most direct means of returning the favor that is simply the fact of our existence—the original act of generosity.