She found the "holy" not in stained glass or stone spires, but in the patience of old oaks and the reckless joy of a spring creek. To step into the forest was, for her, to enter a state of grace. The dappled light filtering through the canopy became the stained glass; the silence between bird calls was the prayer.
In her quiet way, Paula believed that holiness was a verb. It was the act of kneeling in the damp soil to free a trapped root, of cupping a dying bee in her hands and offering it the last drop of sugar water from her thermos. She saw divinity in decay—the way a fallen log returned to the earth, cradling ferns and fungi in a final, generous act of creation.
In a world that had forgotten how to be still, Paula was a guardian of the sacred ordinary. She taught that you don't need a temple to find the holy. You just need to step outside, pay attention, and let the wild wash over you like a blessing.