The word pilgrimage has come up a lot lately. A sacred voyage.
Often described as a voyage to another place, somewhere away, somewhere immersed in an alternative reality. To find communion with oneself, out of everyday disparity.
And what a valid way to reconnect, and explore, a different cosmology of people and places foreign. To tap into something that has been uncommon. A new dimension and way of gaining clarity. Of an issue. A wound needing healing. A clean depth of feeling. A more peaceful way of being.
Yet, what if all of life is a holy endeavour, a sacred pilgrimage, an opus dei. A meaningful, symbolic, purposeful harmonic. Where every experience can be opened like a gift of potential musicality. A divinely orchestrated dance of poetry. Every day. Joyful pleasure and practicality.
And, with every journey, a plethora, an orchestra, a walk with nature. An experience of the wild and tame. A gentle experiment. A passionate contentment. An ordinary extraordinary. And vice versa. So much to see. Heartfelt. Mindful. Soulfully clear.
No matter where we go, or where we stay, our inner castle is always right here. And every exchange a rich wholesome sphere.
I have been revisiting Robert Bly's writing and poetry this weekend. His book Iron John was passed to me yesterday by a dear friend. The author's note and prologue were enough to reconnect me again. To something Robert Bly narrated, that resonated, so strongly way back when.
What is most alive of all is inside your own house. And so you are from one holy city to the next.
And so You Are. Alive. Inside. Holy.
You are your home. Your essence. Always. Wherever you are. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. Moment by moment. Your pilgrimage always emerging. On your life's journey. Passionately from within. A playful poetry. Of the novel, the deeper, the truer thing. Always ready, to begin, and begin, and begin...
Many happy pilgrimage beginnings.
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