Since stepping out of the first cave, we have made pilgrimage, trying to find where we are going by opening our hearts to where we began. Yet how can any of us tell where the other has been? You, ahead of me in the checkout line, what have you lost and gained along the way that I will never know?
They say the great flamingos of India prefer to migrate in a cloudless sky. They can travel up to 400 miles a night and when they land, who can know what they have seen?
We all prefer to find our way at night when no one is looking. Like old owls, we bump into each other and squint. And the great savannah elephants of Africa migrate for the scent of a den no longer there.
Like you or me making pilgrimage through our years of dream and grief. Perhaps our entire time on Earth is just a migration between the wonder of beginning and the effort to carry that wonder to the end.
A Question to Walk With: Tell the story of a small migration you have made recently. Where did you start and where did you land? What did the journey do for you?
This excerpt is from my book of poems, The Half-Life of Angels.
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