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I looked to the hills,
the mountains called out to me.
A spirit of wandering invaded my soul,
but with no spirit of fear in it,
rather a longing
for pilgrimmage.
A stranger to everyone,
I sometimes don't recognize myself,
when such longings find me
and I give them shelter.
They come
and beckon me onward.
They say, "You don't belong here."
Often I have let these voices
move me to self-pity
instead of energize me
to seek that far country,
that fair country,
which is my own
and which owns me.
No, the longing and its voice
calls me outward and onward
and I may need to pack and prepare
for this journey today,
but I do not need to hide and escape
like some criminal or refugee
running for my life
in fear and anguish.
That's not leaving at all
but just delving deeper
into what
I need to leave behind.
I take in hand my staff,
the discplines that discipline me
for the long walk
by steadying my legs
and strengthening my hands
for a better place,
a richer country
with less things and worries
and more heart and hope.
It's not really a place at all
but finding my place.
The song of mountains and hills
calls out to me
and reminds me
that my place is elsewhere
not forever running away from
what is in front of me,
but running further on
a path set before me,
where the air crackles
with possibility,
where the ground itself moves
me forward,
and the sky announces,
"I am not ashamed of you
or ashamed to be yours."
Pilgrimmage
means there's a place ahead for me
in the here and now,
means I am a stranger
but not an outcast,
means there's a journey,
but not an escape,
means a city prepared for me
not one I have to build,
but one I need seek and discover.
