Nobody gets to go on a pilgrimage every day
but I manage at least one a week
because I have a Camino (conveniently) in my back yard, a Holy Land on my doorstep (so to speak)
And I lived here for 20 years
before the (now obvious) trail was revealed to me
The hidden path to worship, or wonder, or fellowship, or (sometimes) even grace
My feet and I find our way (almost) silently along the sacred track
carpeted with the leaves of a hundred Aprils
into a chapel of branches, crafted from a thousand greens:
ancient milkwood, wild fig, old man’s beard, tree orchids and (impossibly glossy) ferns
Emerging occasionally, a glimpse of the sea or sky,
like a blessing
or the high
sweet note of a soprano voice
The subtle presence of other seekers, pilgrims, wanderers (wonderers?), pathfinders
is everywhere
The soft footed lynx, duiker, porcupine and genet
all leave their barely discernable trace
And the jeweled flash of a loerie (imagined or real?)
‘til I see a ruby feather on the path,
a gift of utter grace
And the forest makes its own incense:
salty air, rich earth, decaying leaves, the rank smell of animal
and
(in summer anyway) the wild, sweet fragrance of the Amathungulu flower
If I were to name this scent,
it would have to be “(Indecently) Sensual”
And the music here, (well its more like a chant)
and only one notch up from blessed silence:
the rhythmic thrum of cicadas,
the distant roar of an ocean,
the drumming of blood and heart in my ears
To hear, inhale, touch and see this place is not enough
breathe it instead through pores and with my lungs,
I sense all of it
With all of me
Emerging from the forest at my trig beacon (of Hope )
at the top of my world,
I am startled to find myself on holy ground
And astonished by joy.
Every time.
