Thank you for this heartfelt, beautiful post. I feel confirmed as I've had similar feelings before journeys large and small - the questioning of why I ever thought this was a good idea, then going and as you say, the road takes you, the flow of life moves you along and (most) of your worries are left behind and you are immersed in the present.
Thank you, too, for carrying my intentions. I will keep that generous offering in my heart to do the same on my next pilgrimage. May these words bless you on your journey.
For Memorial Day I share this poem by British nature writer and poet Edward Thomas, who speaks poignantly of war in the distance, and who died shortly after this was published, in the battle at Arras, France (WWI).
Hello Jeffrey,
Thank you for this heartfelt, beautiful post. I feel confirmed as I've had similar feelings before journeys large and small - the questioning of why I ever thought this was a good idea, then going and as you say, the road takes you, the flow of life moves you along and (most) of your worries are left behind and you are immersed in the present.
Thank you, too, for carrying my intentions. I will keep that generous offering in my heart to do the same on my next pilgrimage. May these words bless you on your journey.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you,
Deep peace of the quiet earth,
Deep peace of the rolling wave to you,
Deep peace of the flowing air.
May peace, may peace, may peace fill your soul,
Let peace, let peace, let peace make you whole.
-Sara Thomsen, adapted from the Gaelic
For Memorial Day I share this poem by British nature writer and poet Edward Thomas, who speaks poignantly of war in the distance, and who died shortly after this was published, in the battle at Arras, France (WWI).
Roads
I love roads:
The goddesses that dwell
Far along invisible
Are my favorite gods.
Roads go on
While we forget, and are
Forgotten like a star
That shoots and is gone.
On this earth 'tis sure
We men have not made
Anything that doth fade
So soon, so long endure:
The hill road wet with rain
In the sun would not gleam
Like a winding stream
If we trod it not again.
They are lonely
While we sleep, lonelier
For lack of the traveller
Who is now a dream only.
From dawn's twilight
And all the clouds like sheep
On the mountains of sleep
They wind into the night.
The next turn may reveal
Heaven: upon the crest
The close pine clump, at rest
And black, may Hell conceal.
Often footsore, never
Yet of the road I weary,
Though long and steep and dreary,
As it winds on for ever.
Helen of the roads,
The mountain ways of Wales
And the Mabinogion tales,
Is one of the true gods,
Abiding in the trees,
The threes and fours so wise,
The larger companies,
That by the roadside be,
And beneath the rafter
Else uninhabited
Excepting by the dead;
And it is her laughter
At morn and night I hear
When the thrush cock sings
Bright irrelevant things,
And when the chanticleer
Calls back to their own night
Troops that make loneliness
With their light footsteps’ press,
As Helen’s own are light.
Now all roads lead to France
And heavy is the tread
Of the living; but the dead
Returning lightly dance:
Whatever the road bring
To me or take from me,
They keep me company
With their pattering,
Crowding the solitude
Of the loops over the downs,
Hushing the roar of towns
and their brief multitude. See less