Life is not hurrying 
on to a receding future, nor hankering after 
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you. 

R. S. Thomas, The Bright Field

My last post was the final travel entry from the trip to Wales.

Today, I look over the notes, and I see just how much I’ve left out.

How many memories that couldn’t make it to the page.

The small things:

E. wearing a bright smile every single day, as big as her sun hat.

Quiet, all-knowing M.

Talks with R. on the bus – about Catholicism, inclusive language and music.

D’s compassionate nursing of my ailments.

S’s birds-eye view: spotting the commonplace as well as the rare, and sometimes even the magical.

The resilience of P, after a rough walk.

H’s violin.

C’s gentle hands blessing my forehead at the well.

Being a part of a church community, for just a while.

The nuns waving goodbye with such hopeful expressions on their faces.

Feeling uplifted about the world for the first time in so long.

Our leader Tony, the way he circled among us for private talks by the bus, as we set out on the next pilgrimage.

And his leadership during morning devotions with Celtic poetry and personal thoughts.

His expert planning and then his flexibility when needed.

Being guided and cared for.

Sidling up to the hotel bar in St. David’s town, waiting for a few others to chuck their backpacks and join us.

My sister over her martini, so classy and smooth, reviewing the day.

Being included.

The ancient chapel where our guide walked us through the riotous gardens, beckoning us to pick stalks of overgrown rosemary and sweet bay leaves.

Rosemary for remembrance ~ Bay leaf for wisdom, peace and protection.

And once inside, scattering them in the aisles then crushing them with our shoes.

Adding to the thick layers of herbal compost from previous pilgrims who had also traveled there.

Each had carried their own joys, hopes, and sadnesses, like me.

And the sweet aroma mixing with old incense and damp, inviting me to pause, to take it all in – to find worship.

The smell of the humus on top of the old flagstones welcoming me in some deep, earthy way.

To be my whole self.

To be an organic element of that timeworn chapel – my body, my doubting heart, all of it.

Sensing the humble presence of God.

So many little gifts, and now I just have to say goodbye.

To each pilgrim, to both leaders, and especially to my sister, who invited me on this adventure –

Thank you.

I hold my shell and countless memories from our journey together.

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