Last night, standing in my own backyard, I watched one of the largest auroral storms on record spill across the sky—curtains of color folding and unfolding like the world briefly remembered its own magic. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen the northern lights; I’ve chased them in other corners of the world, letting their shimmer speak a language older than any map. But something about seeing them here, at home, reminded me that awe doesn’t ask for a passport—only our willingness to look up and believe that the universe is still capable of astonishing us.

That trust—in the universe, in the quiet laws of physics and the brilliance of science that helps us understand them—becomes its own kind of sacred practice. It’s the same reverence that rises in ancient temples, at stone circles, inside shadowed caves built millennia before our questions had names. Sacred spaces aren’t just relics of the past; they’re invitations. They open something in us that daily life can keep sealed shut.

Since ancient times, humans have shaped the land in partnership with what they perceived as the Earth’s currents and benevolent forces of light. They built monuments that could withstand centuries of wind and forgetting, sites that hold wisdom, energy, and illumination for any traveler willing to listen. Some go seeking healing, some for clarity, some simply to stand where time feels porous and the veil between worlds thins.

And while we lift our eyes toward places like Stonehenge, other sacred spaces hum quietly in the margins: the Halliggye Fogou caves in Cornwall, the pyramids of Meroe in Sudan, the serpentine mound curled into the Ohio soil, aligned with solstice light and mystery. These places remind us that reverence isn’t reserved for remote horizons. Often, the most vital sacred sites are the ones we can reach without crossing an ocean: a hill we climb on hard days, a trail that knows our footsteps, a tree-lined walk that steadies our breath. Awe lives there too.

The places that call to you—whether carved by ancient hands or formed by years of your own footsteps—do so because they hold something meant for you. When you visit, whether it’s a pilgrimage to a faraway site or a simple return to your favorite path, reaffirm your intention to receive whatever wisdom waits there. Let your openness forge a lasting relationship with these spaces, so their peace, power, and clarity travel with you long after you’ve left.

The universe is always whispering. Sometimes through a stone laid a thousand years ago. Sometimes through a familiar trail in late afternoon light. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, through a sky on fire right above your head in your own backyard.