A New Poem: Pilgrimage

 Just back from Hawaii.  

Pilgrimage

  

The first gate opens

when you set foot

on this land.

You have entered

the ritual by arriving.

The first phase is spent

high up the mountain,

attuning to the land.

 

The second gate opens

when you descend

to the ocean.

The waters of the sacred bay,

rising and falling,

set the pace for your heart.

You ask permission

from the land and the sea.

You bow to the ancient

birthing place and

dolphin home.

 

The third gate opens

when you stand at the edge

of Pele’s home, the caldera

wide and steaming below

ohia and ohelo.

The arduous trek one mile

down the chunky lava path

leads you to the final gate.

Dense green jungle opens out

to expansive, bare caldera.

 

At your chosen spot,

you make your prayers and offerings.

You understand now

that the whole journey has

been the pilgrimage,

not just this culminating ritual.

Passing through all the gates

was necessary and more than

mere preparation.

You cannot know

if your offerings are

accepted and sufficient,

but you have fulfilled

your intention.

 

A vision comes:

you climb out of a

lava tube pool, greeting

the sun and the day,

the ocean and the forest,

the mountain and the sky.

You understand that

you are to carry this image

in your heart, no matter

what you face

on your return.

The ritual has been akin

to one the women of

ancient Greece enacted,

your personal Thesmophoria

in a different spirit-filled land,

a going down and coming up

in worship of the Mystery and

of the sister goddesses of

descent and ascent.

 

It Begins With a Call (Part 27): A Healing Pilgrimage

When we left for our trip to Hawaii in November, we decided to look at it as a healing pilgrimage.  Both of us felt stressed and in need of a vacation.  Why?  We’re retired, with a good home, family, friends, interests.  But then there’s the state of the country, the world and the earth, and our issues around growing older.  I guess that’s enough.  We are in the heart of the dark of the year, and the whole year has been pretty dark.

In any case, we didn’t even realize how much tension we were holding in our bodies until we got there.  It took a while to let go and really feel like we were there.  Staying at an old favorite place where the ocean pounds against the sea wall constantly, enveloped in those rhythms and sounds, we began to relax.  For the first two weeks, Barry did not have his chronic backache, and I did not have either stomach or lung issues.

Wave after wave,

large and relentless,

roaring as they slap

the sea wall.

They thrum in my body –

            the sound –

            the rising and falling –

            the aliveness.

Like a huge animal,

awake and in motion,

the power of the ocean

cannot be denied.

And yet,

even in its immensity,

it brings rest and peace,

impersonal yet affecting,

mine to revere,

to love,

to treasure.

The blessing of Kona.

I did a two-card SoulCollage® reading and saw that anger is my theme, and that my place is on the edge, in the borderlands.  The message:  You do not “win” by denying the mud realm; neither does it serve you to ignore the Otherworld.

Anger.  My issue from childhood.  My mother called me “Mad dog” when my lower lip protruded in my distress.  Socialization by humiliation. (Oh, Mom, I know you meant well, but this was true for me.)  That little girl, full of fire and outrage, never learned how to relate to it besides being ashamed.  

Pema Chodron advises to stay with our habitual patterns, that they are our way out.  Okay…  The Big Island is definitely the place to work on/with fire!  The whole island is a fire shrine and an edge place.

Several days later into the trip, I did a four-card reading around working with/on the anger, and here is a little story the cards told:  Looking for healing, a woman fittingly goes to the goddess Hygeia.  She discovers that she must temper her fire with earth energy; the earth also knows and houses fire. She also hears that she can be appropriate with her anger if she remembers not only to use earth energy, but also to balance fire with water and with the depths of her knowing soul.  

She may reconfigure that fire of anger by: 1) acknowledging it; 2) asking what is behind or within it; 3) determining its best use or expression.  Finally, she needs to access joy, despite it all, because of it all.

The steps of the healing pilgrimage gleaned thus far: to relax and settle into a more open state; to acknowledge what needs healing; to look deeper, through writing and through dreaming.

We Are All Pilgrims

So, here at the crossroads.

Do you know Rob Brezsny's horoscopes?  Both Barry's and mine were amazing this week.  His was all about envisioning a new building he is going to (!).  Here's mine:

ARIES (March 21-April 19): Swans, geese, and ducks molt all their flight 
feathers at once, which means they may be unable to fly for several 
weeks afterwards. We humans don't do anything like that in a literal way, 
but we have a psychological analog: times when we shed outworn self-
images. I suspect you're coming up on such a transition, Aries. While 
you're going through it, you may want to lie low. Anything resembling 
flight -- launching new ventures, making big decisions, embarking on great 
adventures -- should probably be postponed until the metamorphosis is 
complete and your feathers grow back.

I really have no choice but to lie low.  Unable to fly... or walk.  

A few weeks ago I started a poem.  I think it still needs work, but this morning I found myself drawn back to it.

We Are All Pilgrims





We are all pilgrims.

Some worship at the temple of materialism.

Some linger in the warm pools of Aphrodite.

Others trek to mountain peaks

or hidden springs,

seeking the source 

of mystery itself.

But we all journey somewhere.

We are all pilgrims.









The roads we travel –

the dusty miles, 

the rain-soaked muddy roads,

the twisting uphill trails -

drag on, so arduous and long, 

with no endpoint in sight.









But then, one day,

you look into a mirror, or

catch your reflection 

in still water,

and you see 

that you have grown old.

Suddenly, a different destination nears.








You cry out –

I’m not ready!

Now you understand that 

it was never arriving 

that mattered.

You know –

deeply and without doubt –

that the pilgrimage itself

was the point.

All of those hours lost 

in complaint, confusion and misery –

you realize that they were

opportunities ignored and departed.







Even now,

walking the great camino,

you rouse – repeatedly – 

from unconscious moments.

You desperately want

to stay open-eyed 

and grateful.

But even our failures are the journey.

And we are all pilgrims.















The "you" here is, of course, me talking to me.






















It is so hard to feel gratitude when you're having a rough time.  I'm trying to - as the saying goes - sit in the tension of the opposites.  I drew a SoulCollage card this morning for the next quarter, as I do on every solstice and equinox, and it came up a very challenging one (the printer is in storage or I'd scan it and post here).  The images are of a crying soldier, a little boy with a toy gun and a snake.  It was hard receiving this one, but I decided that part of my current challenge is to look at the old, painful stories, 

honor them, and lay them down, or offer them up, or...whatever I can do with/about them.

















Here is where Hecate comes in. The pilgrimage brought me to this crossroads, and here I am.  Waiting.

Waiting to heal.  Waiting for the house to sell.  Waiting to move. Waiting for my feathers to grow back, according to my horoscope.  Waiting, waiting, waiting.  THIS is my journey right now.