I was helping a friend teach a class on conflict resolution this weekend at a convent. The sisters were hosting the event; most of the participants were social workers. The convent sits on a hill overlooking a river town. Friday evening, the weather was warm and breezy; fitting for the eve of spring. We met at 5:30. For the next hour, in this bright cheery room on the hill, the sun set outside the windows through the trees of a forest. And I, not "on" yet, tracked it. In that space, on that night, I felt totally at peace. Was it the room? Was it the sisters who pass their days in prayer and peacework? Was it the sunset or the passing of winter? I can't say. But it was holy ground.

Years ago, I was training another group of folks in conflict resolution in a Friend's Meeting in Pendleton, Indiana. It was a week night in October, and once again, the class began at sunset. The meeting space was very old, probably more than a hundred years, wooden-framed, far off the beaten path. Then, too, I walked into an atmosphere of sacredness. I've never forgotten it. Peace permeating the very atmosphere in that room. I've always wanted to go back, to take it in, to sit in silence in a room where so many had sought the Light in silence before me.

I'm home, in my soon to be office, and I think about peace and spiritual practice. How does this space become holy? Is it me, or what I do? Is it candles and rocks, a zen fountain? Is there a way to weave peace into a room?