So the imperfect pilgrim sits in the solemn solitude of
silence watching the fresh new autumnal breeze loosen the orange yellowed red
leaves. Geese honk heading home as portrayed in Whyte’s wedge wings across the heavens burning their freedom
into his own heart. Squirrels scamper this way and that gathering as many of
the now land based acorns before anyone else notices. Voices from past soccer fields to the words of gatherings of
poets in the woods echo in the distance and Packers and sox still reign supreme. The hands of the flawless Swiss made
watch tired from years of exacting rapid constant movement cease their efforts.
Albums of memories fill the mega-chip banks of his weathered hard drive .Though
expected , the new season seemed to arrive without warning.
He wonders if the second one’s launching has been adequately
prepared and provisioned. Has he taught her enough? Has she listened? How could
have he been more effective in his mentoring and modeling? Are the charts for
the course accurate? Will she be confident when the winds shift and tides come
and go? Will she call if she thinks she’s lost? Did she know how much he loved her and how he tried to show
it? Did he become overconfident with the perceived success of the first one’s
departure from the safe harbor?
The free bird
is taking flight as a certified healer commissioned to join Florence and the
Nightingales serving the broken hearts on the beast infested island of fading monuments.
The pilgrim believes that his prayers have always been
answered and is hopeful that they not be ignored now.They are all that are left.
“Please bless, protect, nourish and guide this young woman’s
path and spirit all ways. Help her know the great love and peace around and
within her.”
The nest empty and the carousel continues to move round. He recalls
the museum man once observing, as they toked cohibas looking to the constellations
one clear night on a plantation dock,
“The universe continues to expand. Every second something is
changing. Something is being born.
Something is dying. Nothing
is ever the same. We can’t stop change. We just need to just be and let go.”
So the imperfect pilgrim sits in the solemn solitude of
silence present to a new chapter, humbled and grateful for the undeserved grace
and gifts. His companion hands him another cup and he responds with a small
hope-filled smile
“Our baby’s gone.”
Poem - The Journey by David Whyte
For Leigh...wishing you the best in all things all ways ! Love you ! xox :)
amdg
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