As I drove down the New York State Thruway, headed toward what promised to be an inspiring event on the legacy of Trappist Fr. Thomas Keating and the Centering Prayer movement, I was anything but centered or prayerful.

The state of the world and the state of my own interior life felt chaotic, divided, depressing. Despite the welcome sunshine after a stretch of gray upstate weather, I felt smothered in a blanket of melancholy verging on hopelessness. Why am I even going to this event? I wondered as the miles passed by and I listened to Keating’s Open Mind, Open Heart audiobook in an attempt to get my head into the “right” place.

When I pulled up to the Garrison Institute, a former Capuchin Seminary on the banks of the Hudson River, I felt my shoulders relax away from my ears and my breath deepen as the reality of spending the next 36 hours steeped in spiritual riches loosened the grip of darkness and anxiety.

As I unpacked my bags, I could feel a sacred energy moving about the place, a sense that spiritual seekers were beginning to amass, bringing not only their travel essentials but a hunger for the holy. When I settled into contemplation in my room, I moved so quickly and deeply into prayer that I knew it wasn’t anything I had done, but rather the collective of this group and its intention.

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I’m a wannabe hiker. And a wannabe camper and kayaker, for that matter. Although I’ve done a little of all of those things, I’m no expert.

A writing colleague who knew I was clamoring for a hike messaged me one night and asked if I wanted to join her for a beginner trip to Huckleberry Point in the Catskills. With a little appointment juggling and a lot of assistance from my husband, Dennis, I said yes, packed a lunch, and dusted off my hiking boots.

My friend Jill had offered to drive so she could drop her son off at a gathering at a nearby lake. She bypassed the fast-moving Thruway and opted instead for winding back roads. We could arrive 10 minutes faster, or we could be surrounded by beauty, she explained, adding, “I’ll take beauty.” As we hugged the mountains and drove through quaint towns, I wondered how it was possible I’d lived in the region for almost 14 years and had never taken this route.

Finally we arrived at Colgate Lake, only to find that her son’s friends were running an hour late. We couldn’t leave him there alone, so our only option was to stay put. I imagined how I might have handled the situation if it were my son whose friends had thrown off the schedule. At the very least I would have been annoyed. But Jill calmly moved the car, settled in and made her son—and me—feel grateful rather than upset.

We had an hour to sit lakeside with mountains all around us, not a bad Plan B, but I probably wouldn’t have appreciated it quite so much if not for Jill’s peaceful surrender to what was rather than what should be.

The bright blue sky above, the dragonflies skimming the water, the other families boating and swimming—how could a hike get better than this? I felt a shift somewhere deep inside as I began to realize what a blessing this hike day was turning out to be, even if we never reached Huckleberry Point. But we did.

When we finally headed out along the hiking trail, I felt soothed by the meditative rhythm. The trail required a certain amount of concentration to step over and around rocks. The climb required occasional stretches of silence to conserve energy and not struggle to talk. The deliberate and slow movement reminded me of the walks I’d taken on silent retreat, only this time I didn’t have to force myself to slow down; nature did that for me.

About an hour into our hike, we met two women walking in the other direction. We asked if they had reached Huckleberry Point. No, they said, but that was OK by them because it wasn’t about the view. Excuse me? It’s not about the view? Of course it’s about the view. For the rest of our hike, as I wondered if we, too, might have to turn back before we reached the summit, I mulled over this prospect. How would I feel if I hiked for three hours round trip and never got the payoff?

About an hour later, we reached Huckleberry Point, with its stunning view of distant mountain peaks and rivers and lakes. We ate our lunch on a rock ledge and watched a vulture circling far below us and clouds passing by at eye level. At that moment I started to plan my next hike, not because I necessarily need to climb up to a spectacular view but because I need to climb down into that space in my soul that still clings too tight to all the things I think I should do rather than the things I could do, if only I gave myself permission.

The next time you go for a drive, take the long route. Choose form over function, beauty over speed, and deep satisfaction over fleeting reward. Hope for the view but take joy in the journey.

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But, as is often the case, life — and other work — got in the way, and I stopped practicing what I preach. Now, as I find myself in the renewed chaos of a summer with both work and kids at home, I’m realizing I need to get back down the simple-to-do but difficult-to-remember practice of praying through my days. I know from first-hand experience how this prayer routine can transform hearts and lives. I wrote Everyday Divine right on the heels of my other book that year, Cravings, and rather than being totally overwhelmed by what was a completely insane work schedule, I was fairly calm and centered. That’s because I was actually doing the stuff I was writing about in my books, and all of it kept me spiritually grounded and focused.

So this summer I’ll be renewing my efforts to spread the word about everyday prayer and finding your connection to the divine in the onion you’re chopping, the garden you’re weeding, the vacation laundry you’re folding. Keep an eye out for photo memes with little reminders to stop looking for extra time for prayer and start turning everyday activities into moving meditations.

Here’s a little encouragement from Chapter 1 of Everyday Divine to get you started:

“When you begin to see prayer not as something that happens outside your everyday actions but as the thread that weaves together the disparate parts of your life tapestry, you soon discover a connection to the divine that never dissipates, never wavers, even when the world outside is pounding on the door to your soul demanding to be let in. You can have it all despite the seemingly obvious contradictions — a still point while in constant motion, silence in the midst of never-ending noise, sacred vibrations running through the most mundane moments.”

Keep checking back here for everyday prayer practices, as well as on my Facebook author page, on my Twitter feed (MaryDTP), and even on Instagram (CurlytopDTP) and Pinterest (MaryDTP).

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I haven’t taken time for homegrown yoga or silent prayer lately — for too many reasons to list, none of them good enough — so it seemed especially coincidental that I was raising my arms in praise of God’s creation under the watchful eyes of Brother Sun and Sister Moon on the feast of the saint who made them famous in poem and prayer.

Even my sun porch sacred space — a simple wooden tray with a battery-powered candle, incense burner, and a single holy image (rotating depending on my mood or the day) amid dried sunflowers, seeds, and pine cones — seemed in sync with the feast day. And as I sat down on my meditation cushion in silence, the rain tapping on the roof overhead provided the perfect soundtrack and the towering oaks and pines outside a glorious backdrop.

I found myself smiling, aware that my decision to put aside piles of work for a rare session of yoga and meditation when I really didn’t have a minute to spare, must have been a little nudge from the Spirit. Everything in me had been fighting against this yoga prayer practice today, and yet I threw down my mat, lit my incense, shrugged off my back pain, and entered into that beautiful silent space that occurs when mindful physical motion gives way to the stillness of spiritual contemplation.

On top of that, my back is feeling much better, so it was a win-win.

Here’s St. Francis’ Canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon for a little inspiration on this fall night. Why not read it outside under the stars, or clouds?

Most High, all-powerful, all-good Lord, All praise is Yours, all glory, all honour and all blessings.

To you alone, Most High, do they belong, and no mortal lips are worthy to pronounce Your Name.

Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures,
especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour,
Of You Most High, he bears the likeness.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
In the heavens you have made them bright, precious and fair.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all weather’s moods,
by which You cherish all that You have made.

Praised be You my Lord through Sister Water,
So useful, humble, precious and pure.

Praised be You my Lord through Brother Fire,
through whom You light the night and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.

Praised be You my Lord through our Sister,
Mother Earth
who sustains and governs us,
producing varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
Praise be You my Lord through those who grant pardon for love of You and bear sickness and trial.

Blessed are those who endure in peace, By You Most High, they will be crowned.

Praised be You, my Lord through Sister Death,
from whom no-one living can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin! Blessed are they whom death will find doing Your most holy will, for the second death shall do them no harm.

Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks,
And serve Him with great humility.
— St. Francis of Assisi

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Summer doesn’t feel complete if I don’t get to the ocean at least once, not necessarily for the swimming but for the sound of the waves, the feel of the sand, the endless stretch of sky meeting water somewhere beyond my view. Even with its noisy boardwalk and deep-fried everything, smokers at every turn, and the occasional loud college kids waking up the beach complex at 1 a.m., the Jersey Shore can be a place for mindfulness, contemplation, solitude, and silence.

When I took Olivia for a walk down the crowded beach in search of pretty shells,  it took on the feel of a meditation as I focused my attention on the sand right in front of me. Step by step, wave by wave, everything else faded away and it was just me and my girl in a quiet and beautiful world. A similar thing happened when Chiara and I went tide-pooling, wading into the shallows left behind as the tide went out in search of hermit crabs and minnows looking for a way back to sea. There was something deeply spiritual about our mutual excitement over finding one small crab scurrying near our feet or one giant horseshoe crab moving slowly through the sand.

Even Raging Waters water park on the boardwalk became an opportunity for quiet contemplation as I sat facing the ocean with dozens of children splashing around behind me in the kiddie section. From my vantage point, all I could see was ocean and sand, a roller coaster in stillness in the distance, and an occasional parasailor quietly floating across the bright blue sky. The sight of parents and children carting coolers and sand buckets to the beach below filled my heart with joy as I thought about all the families around me just trying to create a few special memories here on the sands of the Atlantic coast.

We’ve got a few more days in sunny, sandy New Jersey, and I’m looking forward to discovering more stolen moments of mindfulness amid the shrieks and squeals of the real Jersey Shore.

Here are a few more photos from our trip so far:

In the gardens at Hereford Lighthouse, just a short walk down the sea wall from our condo.

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