At this sweet moment—whichever it is—you’re in a cathedral. So am I. Always. Spires of trees may not embrace you as you read this; the soft prayers of stream whispers may be too far beyond walls for hearing. Still we can listen for them, seek them, remember them. We can recognize the clarity that comes from moments in pure wilderness, and learn to hold that clarity inside. We can use our connectedness to recognize that, despite the layers of concrete and pain we have layered over the land, nature still reaches us. In even the urban settings which often contain and confine us, there is nature to be found in every sight, every breath. That breath you’re taking right now—which you could live only seconds if disconnected from—is in turn connected to the entire protective atmosphere that embraces the planet. So, too, the sip of water from your glass is connected to every ocean beyond the walls. Even the dust that now settles on your floor is a reminder of connection to nature, for it’s a trace of the elemental ground of home. And in that nature is clear guidance to our questions. Calm answers to silent prayers.

We are always in the cathedral because we’re an integral element of it. Nature is something we are; not just something with which we relate. In the beauty of following nature as a spiritual path comes an ability to recognize that: to feel nature’s order in ourselves as well as in every surrounding.

For me, it’s easier to feel the whole earth as a divine sanctuary while at the base of a redwood whose patience has lasted a thousand years, than at the end of a traffic jam that seems as if it will last the same. It’s easier to flow with the spirit of water at the bedside of a river whose commitment to flow never ceases or tires, than it is at a drinking fountain in the lobby of a sterile city hall.

Yet I’ve learned that with practice, nature’s vision and reverence can be brought forth via even the smallest, driest urban leaf. It’s entirely contained within the fewest lingering drops of dew on back alley windows.

In even the most barriered, forsaken, desperate building, there is still that breath of air to be drawn. And on each breath is a remembrance which is always available: Breathing in, the wind is a part of me. Breathing out, I am a part of the wind. I use it to bring awareness back to the truth of our constant presence in the cathedral. To our integral part in its being.

I find that connecting to nature’s spiritual presence only while in wilderness is akin to only seeking connection with a higher spirit while in church. For those who choose it, that Sunday hour may be vital. It may be restorative and centrally grounding. But it’s only one hour of the week. It’s the thoughts and deeds of the other hours that put the faith into practice.

It’s the ability to see high spirit and beauty everywhere that brings the faithful into the realization of their faith’s healing powers. Along other paths, it’s one definition of a saint: those who can see beauty in anyone, anywhere, and dare to look that beauty straight in the naked eye; to face the pain that’s inevitably within the beauty. I think it no different in looking at nature. Our own darkest, most violent sides, are a part of nature too. We are always in the cathedral. We are stones in the cathedral’s floor, ourselves.