In April the sweet showers fall,
And pierce the drought of March to the root,
And all the veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower.

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

One schedules the family reunion. The trip is planned for the summer so that they can watch the loggerhead turtle eggs hatch.

Drawn by the moon’s light, the hatchlings will struggle from their nests and toddle towards new life at the ocean’s dangerous edge.

One muses through an ancient graveyard looking for a relative that no one really knew much about.

One journeys to a far-flung Celtic island to see where her ancestors began a family.

One makes the effort, every Sunday, to put on nice clothes and greet her church family. She makes her way with a cane, to the Communion rail, to receive a blessing and some validation for her effort.

One walks the overgrown labyrinth that is paved with gravel and scraggly herbs. She pads quietly over the wide outer circles that curl into the tight inner nucleus.

Once inside, she holds her breath and makes a wish and begins to cry, then blurts out an apology to no one.

What is this?

She quickly retraces her footprints and exits the garden.

One travels to a hometown high school and gathers with a few friends. Over 40 years of remembering depression and trauma, she now finds a communion with her fellow pilgrims who have brought complicated burdens and bittersweet joys from the past, too.

She feels the healing of this reunion.

One visits a columbarium where a brother’s cremains are kept. What is this pilgrimage? What healing is she seeking?

Unknown.

One hikes on the famous El Camino Trail over many long miles and rough terrain. But oh, so many exotic birds!

Binoculars at his chest, he is alert and ready. He ticks off the new species with relish, and wakes each day, excited to add to the years-long list.

One jogs the urban trail, trying to get fit. She fights the repetitive voices in her head that tell her she is too old, too big, just too, too much. She takes another lap and heads back to the car.

One drives cross-country to camp in the National Parks, but is waylaid by a horrific accident on the highway. She seeks to recover, to heal, so to plan other camping adventures without fear.

One makes a journey to and from a retirement home.

It is a loop, and a twist in her gut, a car trip on a road that has no beginning and seems to have no end.

But she knows that there will be an end.

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All of us are pilgrims.

Whether by plan or intention, or naturally, in our regular tasks and routines, we each make pilgrimage.

On our daily rounds we meditate on our predicaments.

Sometimes we count out the rosary beads of anger or anxiety. Or we tally the happiness and pray for more abundance.

We worry over the past. We think of our children. We obsess. We mourn.

And in doing this, I think we simply crave to slow down and to simply feel.

To listen to the ache in our hearts and ask why?

We want to be healed. And in the end we long to thrive.

We want permission to open up our tender senses to the sweet showers of the natural world that is spurring us on.

And we want to bloom.

And so we make pilgrimage.

And so we hope.

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Earlier this month I made a pilgrimage to Wales. I want to share some of it with you … more next time!