El Calafate
Written January 23, 2013
Everything feels holier here than I expected it to feel, and, somehow, I feel holy, too. It's the type of holiness I've only ever known on street benches in the middle of the night and in the subtle hints of unleaded gasoline in open-air garages. But it's here, too, on the southern tip of the world.
I can feel it as the wind whips strands of hair around my rosed cheeks. I can feel it in the sounds of calving glacier signaling that I've just missed seeing it again. I can feel it in the matted fur of countless stray dogs. I can feel it more than I can feel most things.
It's a type of holiness that makes you remember how easy it is to believe in God, and I want this feeling to be my religion. I want it to guide my choices and my heart and my tongue, because it's so gloriously natural. I want my faith to feel more natural. I want my faith to echo moss-coated tree limbs, pebbled paths, and air so cold it gets caught in your sinuses before it reaches your lungs. I want to feel as holy as this place feels, and I want to take that feeling with me when I go.
