The rising hills,
the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
The steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.
In the next century
or the one beyond that
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
stay together,
learn the flowers,
go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
The rising hills,
the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
The steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.
In the next century
or the one beyond that
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
stay together,
learn the flowers,
go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
The time will comewhen, with elationyou will greet yourself arrivingat your own door, in your own mirrorand each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.You will love again the stranger
who was your self. Give wine.
Give bread. Give back your heart to itself,to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignoredfor another, who knows you by heart.Take down the love letters
from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,peel your own image from the mirror.Sit. Feast on your life.
Derek Walcott
The rising hills,
the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
The steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.
In the next century
or the one beyond that
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
stay together,
learn the flowers,
go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
Journey comes from the Middle English journei, meaning day (or day's travel), through the Old French jornee and Vulgar Latin diurnta, then the Late Latin diurnum (meaning day), or perhaps the neuter form of the Latin diurnus, meaning daily or "of a day". The word claims kinship with journal, diurnal, and diary which comes to us from the Latin diārium meaning daily allowance or record. Somewhere in there too and predating 950 CE by a fair interval are the Middle English dæg; and the Germanic tag. At the beginning of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root *dhegh- "to burn".
The word harks back to the long ago time when we moved from place to place on our own two feet and measured our barefoot progress by the amount of daylight involved in doing so. There are some lovely synonyms for this week's word in our language: adventure, campaign, caravan, expedition, exploration, migration, odyssey, passage, peregrination, pilgrimage, quest, ramble, roaming, roving, safari, sally, seeking, sojourn, transmigration, vagabondage, voyage, wandering and wayfaring.
Journeying is not simply getting from one place to another place. When I say the word (and I am fond of it), I don't think of trips to school or marketplace, but of childhood rambles and a clear sense even then that life was an adventure unfolding - that something grand, magical and illuminating awaited behind the next tree or around a bend on the trail ahead. My younger self spent hours watching leaves float down rivers of windfall light, how light turned the whole world dazzling gold as the sun went down at the end of the day. A mere sapling has no words for such things, but feelings of wonder and possibility tugged at my sensibilities,. "Ready or not, here I come, seeking something magical, mysterious and incandescent, I know not what."
From her early adventures, that odd little girl moved on into college, adulthood, work, marriage, parenting, all the inevitable bumps and potholes in the shambolic road of life. Oh, there were snippets of fey knowing here and there, but the midlife journey often seemed to be "arrow straight" and running toward a flat horizon, nary a tree, a hill, a cantrip or a mystery in sight.
I am older now, and I am (hopefully) a little wiser for all my meanderings. In these creaky, eldering days, I think about the wind blowing through the trees of my native place, of sunrises seen from the cliffs above Dalhousie Lake. I think of migrating geese and drifting fogs in early morning, the way clouds seen from heights often seem to form a sparkling road - one spiralling right out into the great beyond. There are glorious sunsets to be seen if one climbs a mountain at twilight, but they can be viewed from the shoreline too, often in the company of herons.
Here I am again, watching leaves float down the river in season, haunting shorelines with a camera and trying to capture that twilight moment when the world seems to be spun out of gold. The childhood sense of journeying and mystery that seemed to vanish during my frantic middling years has returned and so have my dreams. There are islands in the sky at sunrise, tall wooden ships bound for faraway places and unknown adventures in the offing, eldritch musics offered in the voices of the sirens.
Childhood rambles, my university years, and the straightforward thoroughfares of middle life are behind me, and these eldering days are about community, wildness, and grace unfolding. May there be joy and enchantment on your journey. May there be wonder and adventures in your life, and may there be light.
The rising hills,
the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
The steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.
In the next centuryor the one beyond thatthey say,are valleys, pastures,we can meet there in peaceif we make it.
To climb these coming crestsone word to you, toyou and your children:
stay together,learn the flowers,go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
Here is the road: the lightcomes and goes then returns again.Be gentle with your fellow travelers as theymove through the world of stone and stars
whirling with you yet every one alone.The road waits.Do not ask questions but when it invites youto dance at daybreak, say yes.Each step is the journey; a single note the song.
Arlene Gay Levine
(from Bless the Day: Prayers and Poems to Nurture Your Soul)
The rising hills,
the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
The steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.
In the next century
or the one beyond that
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
stay together,
learn the flowers,
go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
There are ways in, journeys to the center of life, through time; through air, matter, dream and thought. The ways are not always mapped or charted, but sometimes being lost, if there is such a thing, is the sweetest place to be. And always, in this search, a person might find that she is already there, at the center of the world. It may be a broken world, but it is glorious nonetheless.
Linda Hogan, The Woman Who Watches Over the World: A Native Memoir
like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
Barbara Crooker, from Radiance
There are ways in, journeys to the center of life, through time; through air, matter, dream and thought. The ways are not always mapped or charted, but sometimes being lost, if there is such a thing, is the sweetest place to be. And always, in this search, a person might find that she is already there, at the center of the world. It may be a broken world, but it is glorious nonetheless.
Linda Hogan, The Woman Who Watches Over the World: A Native Memoir
The rising hills,the slopes,of statisticslie before us.The steep climbof everything, going up,up, as we allgo down.
In the next centuryor the one beyond thatthey say,are valleys, pastures,we can meet there in peaceif we make it.
To climb these coming crestsone word to you, toyou and your children:
stay together,learn the flowers,go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
Here is the road: the light
comes and goes then returns again.
Be gentle with your fellow travelers
as they move through the world of stone and stars
whirling with you yet every one alone.
The road waits.
Do not ask questions but when it invites you
to dance at daybreak, say yes.
Each step is the journey; a single note the song.
Arlene Gay Levine
(From Wishing You Well: Prayers and Poems for Comfort, Healing and Recovery)
The great affair, the love affair with life, is to live as variously as possible, to groom one's curiosity like a high-spirited thoroughbred, climb aboard, and gallop over the thick, sun-struck hills every day. Where there is no risk, the emotional terrain is flat and unyielding, and, despite all its dimensions, valleys, pinnacles, and detours, life will seem to have none of its magnificent geography, only a length. It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between.
Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses
This is the season of last things, and how poignant they are in their shapes and vibrant tints, in every fiber of their joyous and unfettered being.
Hardy roses in the garden sport the last buds of the season, and the last tomatoes are ripening in a pool of sunlight on the old oak table in the dining room. The last wild grapes of the season dangle in village hedgerows, soon to be picked by frugal villagers and turned into jelly and wine. Scarlet Virginia creepers wrap old wooden fences in the village, and the last crimson berries sway on our hawthorn, most of them already carried off by squirrels. Leaves flutter through the air like birds, coming to rest on veranda railings and the chilly dark earth below in the garden.
I love autumn, but this season always takes some getting used to, and I am working on it again this time around. There have been many farewells to departing (or hibernating) wild kin during the last few weeks, and I have tried to remember to say thanks to the myriad entities who enriched our lives this year and are now passing away.
Bees, bumbles, dragonflies and cicadas, veggies, roses and berries - wherever their dancing particles alight in their journey, and whatever they come to be the next time around, may they all be well and happy.
There are ways in, journeys to the center of life, through time; through air, matter, dream and thought. The ways are not always mapped or charted, but sometimes being lost, if there is such a thing, is the sweetest place to be. And always, in this search, a person might find that she is already there, at the center of the world. It may be a broken world, but it is glorious nonetheless.
Linda Hogan, The Woman Who Watches Over the World: A Native Memoir
... human spirit is one of the most striking realizations of wildness. It is as eccentrically beautiful as an ice crystal, as liquidly life-generous as water, as inspired as air. Kerneled up within us all, an intimate wildness, sweet as a nut. To the rebel soul in everyone, then, the right to wear feathers, drink stars and ask for the moon. For us all, the growl of the primal salute. For us all, for Scaramouche and Feste, for the scamp, tramp and artist, for the furious adolescent, the traveling player and the pissed-off gypsy, for the bleeding woman, and for the man in a suit, his eyes kind and tired, gazing with sad envy at the hippie chick with the rucksack. For us all, every dawn, the lucky skies and the pipes. Anyone can hear them if they listen: our ears are sharp enough to it. Our strings are tuned to the same pitch as the Earth, our rhythms are as graceful and ineluctable as the four quartets of the moon. We are—every one of us—a force of nature, though sometimes it is necessary to relearn consciously what we have never forgotten; the truant art, the nomad heart. Choose your instrument, asking only: can you play it while walking?
Jay Griffiths, Wild: An Elemental Journey
The rising hills, the slopes,of statisticslie before us.The steep climbof everything, going up,up, as we allgo down.
In the next centuryor the one beyond thatthey say,are valleys, pastures,we can meet there in peaceif we make it.
To climb these coming crestsone word to you, toyou and your children:
stay together,learn the flowers,go light.
Gary Snyder, from Turtle Island
