The stillness of my house on the day of her return to school. Deep. Abiding. Nourishing. Lonely. Full of the pull of what is possible and the inertia of the possibility of doing nothing. A pilgrimage of sorts. The Great Turning by Mark Nepo
I have returned to this cabin year after
year. To sit before this very window and
wait for the same trees to sway when no
one’s looking. As if this year, I might
listen better and hear more.
Something in us wants to make a
pilgrimage of everything. As if there is
always more. Always some stretch of wonder
we turn away from at the last second. Because
we can’t hold our breath any longer. Because
we can’t keep awake long enough. Because
we can hold our heart like a hand over
the open flame of truth only so long.
And so, we must go back.
Somehow, in God’s time, what we need
is just beyond what we can manage. And
what is fleeting to the eye and lasting to the
soul calls to us while we sleep. It waits
beneath the noise for our return.
It doesn’t matter where we return to.
Any opening will do. A cold snowy morn
off the old highway. Or a patch of heather
bending to a yellow wind. Or the shimmering
sea along the coast of your eyes which I have
always known but never seen until today.
Something in us wants to return
without repeating, the way the earth
turns on a fire no one can see.
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