Reflection One in a Seven-Part Series on Encountering Transcendence in the Present Moment
This morning, I rose to the sun climbing quietly over the seaport of Sitka Sound, Alaska. The light spilled across the water with that particular kind of reverence only found at the edge of the world. I greeted the sunrise in equal measure with excitement and expectation, for today I will visit Shiskinoon—the sapling fort—where Tlingit warriors made their final brave stand against the encroaching Russian forces. If ever there is a thin place, this is it.
Thin spaces, as they are sometimes called, are those rare and luminous thresholds where the veil between the physical and the spiritual wears dangerously thin—as if the two realms had grown weary of separation and decided, for a moment, to overlap. We do not find these places on maps (though occasionally, I’ll grant, a good map may lead you there). More often they ambush you mid-step, in the hush of a forest clearing, or—if you’re particularly lucky—while standing on ancestral land still echoing with courage and grief.
To brave such a space is not merely to stumble upon it—which we often do, usually while looking for the nearest coffee—but to remain there, soul alert, ego slightly embarrassed, and heart inconveniently open. It is, in a way, like showing up to a formal banquet in one’s dressing gown and slippers: humbling, oddly liberating, and utterly unprepared for the depth of what is about to unfold.
At Shiskinoon, I expect no mystical pyrotechnics, no booming voices from the heavens. But I do expect silence. The kind of silence that listens back. The kind that soaks into your bones and whispers, “This mattered.” That is the nature of a thin space—not to dazzle, but to disturb, to disorient, and ultimately, to draw us back to the truth we’d misplaced somewhere beneath the daily grind.
Braving such a place is not for the faint of heart. It is for those willing to be undone. To be changed not by some grand revelation, but by the quiet insistence of presence. By a land that remembers. By a spirit that endures.
Let us not be fooled by the gentleness of these encounters. Thin spaces rarely announce themselves with fanfare. They arrive quietly, like breath over still water, asking only that we pause long enough to notice.
Tomorrow, we shall consider the peculiar phenomenon of “Interruptions by Light”—those luminous intrusions that catch us off guard and suggest, ever so gently, that perhaps we are being watched with affection.
But for now, dear friends, take a moment. Breathe. Stand still, if only for the span of a single heartbeat. You may find yourself nearer to the eternal than you dared to believe.
This morning’s description of Sitka Sound and Shiskinoon is so vivid, it feels like I’m standing there with you. The idea of “thin spaces” is fascinating—those moments where the world feels almost too real, too alive. I’ve never been to Alaska, but your words make me feel the weight of its history and the quiet power of its landscapes. Do you think these thin spaces are universal, or are they tied to specific places with deep cultural or spiritual significance? I wonder if we’ve all experienced something like this, even if we didn’t have the words to describe it. Your reflection on silence that “listens back” is haunting—it makes me think about how often we miss these moments in our busy lives. What do you think it takes to truly open ourselves to these experiences, to let them change us? I’d love to hear more about your journey and how Shiskinoon left its mark on you.
Thank you so much for your kind and considered response—it truly means a great deal. I’m deeply moved that the imagery transported you, even if only in spirit, to Sitka Sound and the sacred grounds of Shiskinoon. It’s a place that hums with presence—so much so that silence there doesn’t feel empty, but inhabited.
You’ve asked such rich questions, and I’ll do my best to honour them.
To your first: Are thin spaces universal?
I do believe they are. While some landscapes—like Shiskinoon, steeped in ancestral memory and layered with history—resonate with a particularly concentrated sense of the sacred, I think thin spaces are not solely geographic. They are also experiential. They may be found in the hush of dawn before the world wakes, or in a child’s laugh that breaks open your heart, or even in the unbearable stillness after a loss.
Some places carry collective reverence that helps draw us into that sacred attention more easily, but the potential is all around us, quietly waiting. In fact, I suspect many of us have stood in a thin place without knowing the name for it. As you said so beautifully, “moments where the world feels almost too real, too alive”—yes, exactly that.
As for what it takes to truly open ourselves to these experiences, I think it begins with the simplest—and most difficult—of acts: slowing down. We are so accustomed to living in reaction, in planning, in performance. But the thin spaces invite us to surrender our agendas. They require a softening, an un-clenching of the mental fist that tries to hold everything in place.
It’s a kind of listening, really. But not just with the ears. With the whole self. I wrote in the reflection that the silence “listens back”—and I meant that. These encounters don’t simply reveal something about the world; they also reflect something back to us, something we may not have known we were longing for.
As for Shiskinoon… it did leave a mark. Standing on that sacred ground, I felt the weight of courage and the ache of resistance. I thought of the Tlingit warriors who held their ground with nothing but wooden palisades and unbreakable resolve, and I couldn’t help but wonder: where do I take such a stand in my own life? And more humbling still—where have I failed to?
What remains with me most is a feeling—not quite sadness, not quite awe, but something deeper and quieter. A kind of reverence born not only of history, but of presence. The land remembers, and I was given the gift of remembering, too. I will never forget the sense I had that there was a particular Raven that met me on the trail leading from the historical park and led me through the downtown area all the way to the site of the Shiskinoon, that was a special moment that I only saw because I took the time to notice this Raven always ahead of us and never out of sight!
Thank you again for reading so deeply. I carry this journey in my bones now, and I’m grateful for the chance to share it with companions along the way like yourself.