I’m in Portland, Oregon, attending the National Education Association Representative Assembly, a gathering of 7,000 Educators in the largest democratic body in the world. I’m here with Maureen, the DSEA Retired President, Kelli, my wife and DSEA Retired Vice President, and 50 Delaware State Education Association Delegates. Our purpose is to help direct the future goals of the NEA for the coming year in these turbulent times. Its intense and sometimes grueling work meshing diverse perspectives into democratically determined singular goals.
Last night we had a quiet dinner with our friends, Kurt & Mary, overlooking Portland. A time of quiet conversation, reconnection, and renewal. I got to wondering.
The school year is just over and in the midst of this seeming chaos I wondered how these educators would regain the renewal needed to approach the coming school year.
A few weeks after the school year ends, and the RA, ends, there’s a particular hush that will settle. Teachers, students, and even families feel it — that sudden shift from constant motion to unexpected quiet. For so many years, my own rhythm was shaped by the school calendar. Even now, more than a decade into retirement, I still feel that seasonal echo in my bones.
Summer always whispered: Now I can breathe. Now I can return to myself. Now I can relax.
Why Sacred Spaces Matter
We live in a culture that celebrates productivity, even in rest. We fill summer with to-do lists, activities, learning experiences, and travel plans, eager to make the most of our “free time.” But what if the most important thing we could do in these months is create space that is less about doing and more about being?
In psychology, John Bargh and colleagues have shown how much our environment shapes our thoughts and behaviors, often without us realizing it. The spaces we occupy influence not only our mood, but also our sense of self and what we believe is possible. Perhaps that’s why we love getting away, “vacating the normal hectic pace.”
A sacred space doesn’t require candles or special cushions (though those are welcome). It’s any place where we can exhale — where we remember who we are beneath the roles and responsibilities.
My Porch and My Path
For me, as I’ve mentioned, sacred space often looks like my front porch. A quiet evening, a cigar, a glass of scotch, and the simple act of watching the light shift across the yard. It’s a space where my mind softens, where the pace of the year no longer dictates my worth.
Other times, it’s a walk in nature. Each step becomes a kind of moving prayer, a quiet invitation to listen more than speak. The Welcoming Prayer, which I practice, helps me notice what’s stirring inside and gently offer it up.
Even during my teaching years, I found small sacred spaces. Sometimes it was as simple as gazing out the classroom window, catching a moment of stillness before returning to the lesson. Those brief moments reminded me that I wasn’t just a teacher — I was a whole person, invited to be present in each breath.
Students Need Sacred Space, Too
Our students need these spaces as much as we do. A corner of the library, a shaded bench, or a quiet afternoon at home — these are places where they learn to listen to themselves outside of grades and expectations.
As educators and mentors, we can encourage them to notice and nurture these spaces. We can model what it looks like to pause, to breathe, and to reflect rather than react.
A Spiritual Invitation
Creating sacred space is not just psychological; it’s deeply spiritual. It is, in its essence, an act of trust — trusting that we don’t need to earn rest, that we don’t have to constantly perform to be loved or worthy.
It’s an echo of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
That stillness is where we meet our truest self, and perhaps, where we are met most deeply by Spirit.
I wonder –
Where in your life do you find or create sacred space?
What does it look like to truly be rather than do during this season?
How might you invite your students (or your younger self) to discover these spaces?
What would it look like to carry this practice of stillness into the next school year — or into your next chapter of life?
Summer doesn’t have to be filled to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most transformative thing we can do is step onto the porch, listen to the birds, breathe deep, and remember: I am enough, exactly as I am.
