Writing Group, May 2025
A thousand-mile journey
begins with the first step,
and this climb is no exception
my creaking knees warm with each step.
This pilgrimage will take me
over the Mount of Tears
to a church, thousands of years old
which holds the power to heal.
Dense neighborhoods give way to fields
that turn into the high ground
where the elders were sent
when the time came, as the tales go
The population changes as I move
from anonymous city hustle to
the subject of curiosity
in the sparse hinterlands.
"I'm on a pilgrimage" I say,
tipping my cap and adjusting my pack.
Their eyes brighten, "fare thee well, traveler!"
I hear, accompanied by advice and food.
A week in, I come to a spot where
legend says elders are hoisted by eagles.
I stop and shout a word of thanks before
hearing the sobs of a small child.
He hears me and emerges from a shelter
no more than three years old. "What have
you done to deserve this?" I ask.
He motions to my bread, which I hand over.
As he greedily devours foodstuffs
I consider his fate. "You must be considerably
wicked" I say, "to be left here alone.
Pray to the gods for forgiveness.
and good luck to you," I bid farewell
his sobs fading as I climb anew.
Thoughts of his parents’ decisions
brings a dark cloud over my day.
Nearing the peak of Mt. Tears
the weather turns fierce
and I head to an overhang
where other pilgrims are huddled.
"Hello fellow travelers," I say
to no reply. As I get close it's
clear by their blank stares that
life passed from them some time ago.
Their packs are empty except
for booklets written in ancient text
"If only you could explain this," I say,
"I'd like to know if you come or if you go."
The morning breaks taking the storm with it
leaving the path slippery as I descend
thinking about the corpses and if
they might have been elders sent away.
The pilgrim’s marks are hard to follow
after hundreds of years of neglect.
I watch a bird soar out of sight.
What if my destination isn’t there?
At a rise in the road, I see a village
and pass others on the road.
I ask about the church and get happy news.
It still stands.
It is only a night and a day
before I ascend the steps to
the massive ancient, gilded doors
behind which I find my destination.
The first time I see her,
I am transfixed. Her skin intact
her mouth slightly open, a thousand years old
surrounded by flowers and candlelight.
I kneel and gaze. Asking for help,
a sign I've led a good enough life
What’s that? A movement?
Her eyes, did they open? Flutter?
My heart is in my throat as I look
to my fellow pilgrims. "Did you see?"
I whisper, but no one replies.
We rise to let the next group in.
In my tent, I relive the moment
pouring over every detail. Months of travel.
The season is changing.
I wait for a sign that I’m changed too.
