Sacred spaces can be created in any environment.

“Sacred spaces can be created in any environment.” — Christy Turlington

In the hush of ancient temples, beneath the vaulted skies of forgotten lands, humanity first learned the mystery of the sacred space. It was there, where light met stone and silence met breath, that men and women realized holiness did not dwell only in gods or idols, but in the stillness between their own heartbeats. Yet Christy Turlington, in her wisdom, reminds us that we need not journey to the mountains or the cathedrals to find the divine. “Sacred spaces can be created in any environment.” Her words echo like an old truth reborn — that sanctity is not found in the place, but in the presence we bring to it.

To the ancients, the sacred was not limited to shrines. A mother’s embrace, a craftsman’s workshop, a battlefield where honor was upheld — all were holy when the soul entered fully. The Greeks called this katharsis, the purification of the spirit through devotion. The monks of the East found it in the sweeping of courtyards, the pouring of tea, the tending of gardens. The humble act became a form of prayer. For wherever the heart is wholly present, the sacred awakens. Turlington’s words call us to reclaim that forgotten understanding — that we are the architects of holiness, the builders of unseen temples.

Consider the story of Viktor Frankl, the great psychiatrist imprisoned in the Nazi concentration camps. Amid despair and cruelty, he found that a man could still create meaning — a moment of dignity, a small act of kindness — even in hell itself. In those fleeting moments, he built a sacred space within the wasteland. He wrote later, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.” In his choice to love, to hope, to remain human, Frankl transformed a place of death into a temple of the spirit. Truly, a sacred space can be created anywhere — even in suffering.

The truth of Turlington’s words lies in the realization that sacredness is not bestowed — it is cultivated. It is born of intention, of awareness, of reverence for the moment. One may sit in a crowded city and still feel the stillness of eternity if the heart turns inward. The warrior finds it before battle, the artist finds it before creation, the parent finds it in the quiet gaze of a child. We do not need marble altars or incense to touch the divine. We need only to pause, breathe, and remember that life itself is the altar — and we are its priests.

But many walk the earth unaware of this power. They believe holiness belongs to the distant, the grand, the unattainable. They chase peace in temples while ignoring the sacredness of their own kitchen table. Yet if the spirit is awake, the sacred reveals itself in the rhythm of the rain, in the laughter of friends, in the act of honest work. The sacred is not a place we visit; it is a way of seeing. The blind look upon dust, but the wise behold divinity in the same grain of earth.

The lesson is this: do not wait for perfect silence to pray; create it in the noise. Do not seek the mountain to find peace; bring peace to the valley. Begin where you are — light a candle, breathe deeply, and treat the space before you as a holy ground. Speak with kindness, move with care, act with intention. In doing so, you consecrate the ordinary. You make of the everyday a temple of presence.

For in the end, sacred spaces are not built of stone or gold, but of attention, gratitude, and love. The ancients built pyramids to touch the heavens; today, we can touch the heavens by opening our hearts in the smallest of places. Let your home, your work, your very breath become a sanctuary. Wherever you stand — be there fully. Wherever you walk — bless the ground beneath your feet. Thus shall you learn, as Christy Turlington did, that the sacred is not elsewhere. It is here, now, waiting to be created by you.