Finisterre impacted me anew, though I have heard and read it before. Retirement is my frontier at this point, and I have glimpsed it yes, drawing me onward, but completely unknowing as to what is next. It is almost as if tearing up and throwing all around my kitchen the pages of my journals a few months back is similar to the burning of the letters on the shore. Not a planned ritual, but one of deep letting go. I suspect other rituals will surface out of my depths, perhaps before I realize their meaning.

The names I will leave to the wind, the waves, the sun and the moon – minister, teacher director, leader – temporary names, though I did not know. it They have mostly served me well, and I hope I have served others well through their guises. I will leave at this frontier point work shoes and clothes, which never quite fit or reflected who I am. Costumes of the trade. I will be left wearing only my rags of love, having poured myself out in these many years.

Others have wondered what I will “do” next. I say to them and to myself that I need that arrival point, that Frontier, to let it go, to breathe in deeply the space of the days and the space of my being, before I will even begin to know. The more profound question is rather who and how I will be. Feeling a bit too worn to imagine, I send my shadow across the waters for the moon’s gracious accompaniment. I sense lightness and freedom on my horizon.

Recently a friend reminded me of the names I was given by the Universe and by a favorite teacher, at the age of 10: writer, poet. I cried at having lost them, forgotten them. I have yet to know whether they are left at some distant shore for good. Showing up to my life, hearing my heart, honoring my truth – these are all the plans (hopes) I carry with me. May I carry them lightly, with curiosity and expansiveness.

I have been struggling with the notion that a Pilgrimage is something we choose. But I sense that I’ve been on less journeys I’ve chosen than those that have been initiated by circumstances. Moving so often as a child. Painful and difficult for a shy introvert. I imagine that each time I survived it, made a few friends and moved forward, I found out I could. There was always the element of never being quite sure of anything, though. Trust did not come easily.

When Dad died, both of us too young, and me with a newborn at home, I was impelled into a pilgrimage of grief completely unprepared for the torrent and depth of feeling. I was more like him than like my mother or any of my siblings. Probably only with my children have I ever given my heart away like that again.

Giving my heart to my children has broken my heart a few times. Rites of passage; far-away moves; rites of passage of course, but still difficult. They still have my heart, though.

Divorce was a pilgrimage of choice, brought about by very compelling circumstances. But a choice I own as my own. I have lived through it and come out the other side by a good number of years. I’ve learned to advocate for myself often enough, and always for my adult daughters (when it is my place to do that).

Now there is this pilgrimage to and beyond retirement. A choice I made completely on my own, for myself. It is not what some would call the most practical choice, but I heard my truth rise up inside me, saying “enough” and “it is time for your life now.” Dad’s early death is ever on my mind. So is Mom’s struggle with and death from Alzheimer’s. For once in my life, I choose me. I can go to the place of fear, to the place of excitement, and pretty much the places of unknowing. I almost don’t know this “me” who made this decision. Maybe in the end, that is what pilgrimage is … the road to oneself, dressed in well-worn rags of love. One foot in front of the other. This time, willing to be surprised.

I grew up with wonderful lake experiences that shaped my childhood summers. But when I first set eyes on the ocean at the age of 12, there was this Glimpse … the immensity and reflectivity, the endlessness; a meeting place with the sacred, the Universe and myself, I would say now. But then I was stunned into wordlessness and awe. Eternity rose up to meet me. I arrived at an interior space that has never left, but which I have lost sight of, consciousness of, far too frequently. I am always called back, to remember and return. All that I am and have experienced, struggles and brokenness along with wonder and joy, find a home in the Glimpse I first encountered at age 12.

The wonderful art piece by Hilary Paynter reflects all of that, as does Santiago by David. The path hidden but never gone, calling me forward but also into a deeper space of being. Always.

The grace, revelation and support on this page is a marvel and a deep, deep gift. It feels as if we have gathered at the albergue, place of respite, at the end of a day on the path, to share our stories over food and wine, with a trust that only others who walk the path understand. We celebrate the struggles and weariness, stretch our souls as we stretch our sore bodies, and simply in the listening and acknowledging of story, of being, we are seen and strengthened. A holy endeavor. I have never participated in any online forum, and did so only because of the trust I had for this site (and the affordability). We have entrusted ourselves to each other. I am blown away.

Having chosen to retire at the end of this calendar year means letting go of names and roles, director, minister, mentor, teacher, which I have held for a good long while. Over the recent past, so much else has been let go – a family home of 35 years, mother in the ways I have held that name in the past, daughter in the physical world, healthy in some ways that have had to be let go. Along this path, I found David Whyte’s book and CDs of Pilgrim to walk with, to be encouraged by, to adopt this new name Pilgrim for myself. After last week’s word, I am invited to live wholeheartedly this pilgrimage trek into a differing way of life and use of time. I find curiosity where I had little before, about who I shall meet, what is around the next bend, and how I will be. I am intrigued. I am fearful. I want to be brave in ways I have not been before. May I remember to be open to the invitations, to the people along the way, to support both visible and invisible. Thank you for posting here. You invite me to continue. You bring great light.

Wholeheartedness … I remember it, yes, from walking in and loving the trees, from holding and raising babies with more love than I imagined possible, from rivers of poetry that once could not be held back, from a work that was once life-giving. Reading this was a wake up call, and affirmation that one day last month I woke up and knew it was time to retire. I had become a barren landscape, a dry well, with nothing more to give in a place and a church in which I could no longer be authentic … not for a long time, really, but was paying the bills. I am going to start with the woods, and just be, listen, breathe, and open myself to their teaching and invitations.

I was just reading in one of John O’Donohue’s books the impact of the building materials being used today and their deadening effects. This was in contrast to the ancient, memory carrying stone and landscapes of Ireland. You offer a spot-on description of today’s educational environment, which seems to mimic (or drive) the electronic nether-world of flesh and blood young people. Perhaps there are ways to educate, and certainly to have those deep and life-giving conversations with those of use who are young, or at least young at heart, particularly in those outdoor settings you love? May your heart find its true home in the work you are being called to bring into the world!

Sandra, thank you for the courage to write in this shared forum. I am also a very private person, and wrote publicly for the first time in this space. I was 20 years married and have now been nearly 20 years divorced. Neither of these journeys is easy, but there is friendship and grace along the pathway. It seems you are doing the work of paying attention and self-reflection. Your images are beautiful. I had not thought of the scallop shell as symbol of the sun’s rays. That inspires me! Thank you, brave Pilgrim!

The depths of these experiences for you and your family will unfold into your heart and your soul, Cyntcha. Your openness to share them with all of us and allow our support and prayers, silent or written, is appreciated. I also appreciate your daily commitment to photograph and record your daily moments of gratitude. I hope that these caregiving situations and people will offer to you some of these moments of gratitude and support. The little red bird, looking in on you … such a gift. Thank you.

In one of her books, Barbara Brown Taylor asks the question: “What is saving your life today?” On a day/week/etc. when creativity, or even the channel of life seems blocked, that is a question that might open possibility. Is it the sound of birds in spring, a favorite piece of music, a flavor of food, the laughter of a child or an elder? Is it breathing at full depth, saying yes to something life-giving when no seems so much easier? Trees outside my window are moving into leaf, everything in deep stillness awaiting rain, the coffee is on and I am breathing … these are saving my life today, right now, that my creativity might also move from bud to leaf, in her own time. Just think, Ose, there is this community of 4,000 right now saving our lives today!

I hear the pain of your memories, Ann. I spent plenty of time hiding out as a child in a family that just didn’t “get” me. Hiding in the woods, hiding in books, hiding in plain sight. After so very many years, it is amazing how easily I can check back into that space. But sometimes there is a glimmer of understanding in a person’s (or a dog’s!) eyes that they actually see me, and I am reminded that there are companions of light in the world to support us. It can be frightening to show ourselves. We all walk with you in your journey of whole-heartedness. Know that we are not perfect at it. But WE ARE HERE.