I have been home for two days now and am slowly working my way back into life in Portland again. I can see that I am doing all that needs to be done–going through mail, getting a calendar set up, meeting with people, calling the plumber, the paper, and the billing agency. At the same time I don’t feel completely here. I am somewhere in a foggy haze between the pilgrimage and my Portland life. My body and mind feel a great relief finally having permission not to have to put the miles in to keep moving forward and not to have to set down shallow roots in dozen of places acrosss the West. Yet, my mind isn’t ready to just pick up the same pacing in a new environment. I do think that is one of the gifts of this time. I experienced the richness of extended periods of reflection and contemplation. I know that I cannot sustain that same level of deep introversion now that I am back. I am also aware that I am not willing to completely give it up. I cannot return home as if nothing happened; I will need to find a way to honor and create the contemplative sacred space in my life without having to escape for weeks on end.
I knew at some point I was going to want to have some physical reminder of this pilgrimage and the spiritual work that I was engaged in during this time. It was in Bandon, Oregon on the coast where I came across a piece of pottery by a local artist that spoke to me immediately. It is a large red clay-colored urn with a number of hands fired onto the sides holding the urn as if to communicate, “You are safe and held in our hands.”
I chose this because the image and feeling of “invisible hands” carried me for much of the trip. In the early weeks when I fell into a deep solitude I had the feeling of being held by hands that emerged out of the leaves, trees, lakes, and mountains. If I had allowed myself to be held my Mother Church up to that point, in these early weeks I felt embraced more by Mother Earth and maybe even Mother God. That feeling only became deeper as I traveled through Bozeman, Montana , where I was born and then into Loveland, Colorado where I needed to reconcile my awkward history with mothers themselves. As I felt the absence of mother figures in my life, I gained a greater reliance in trusting life itself for my basic needs.
There was a point in western Colorado and into Utah where I had accomplished much of what I set out to do. My legs and my will drove me there with purpose. Even though I also needed to take some time in Lake County, California where I was deeply shaped by friends and an emerging church, the ominous presence of the desert between me and them made my knees go weak. I could feel that I would not be able to traverse that wilderness through sheer grit and determination. At one level I felt defeated. At another level that is where I allowed my friends, family and new blogging acquaintances to have a stake in this as well. I had days when I felt like I was doing this for others and I allowed the invisible hands of my community to hold me, support me, and push me along a day at a time. I felt those hands and more than any other time on the pilgrimage it was during the pre-Nevada desert days and during it that I went to the blog comments to look for some good words to remind me of why I was doing this. I felt in many of the comments of the invisible hands to whom I feel linked and connected.
I believe in these invisible hands of love. I could not see them, but I did feel their presence. Even the young woman who totaled her car in front of me in the desert believed that invisible hands had kept her safe and that it was meant to be that I would be on that stretch of the road just as she lost control of her car. Whether all of this is true or not I do not know. But, I do know what I felt. I do know that when I had no more grit in my belly something and somebody else stepped in. God? Spirit? Invisible Hands? I don’t know. I do know that when the reservoir ran dry in me a deeper source filled me back up. And now I have a physical reminder of what was invisible but very real before. I am grateful for both.
So glad you’re back in your home territory with a new you that seems to be fitting you and befitting. And with a new piece of pottery that is a wonderful prayer.
I know that feeling well—-being in a place by choice, and yet not really being fully present. Oft times, for me, this happens after a purely metaphysical experience of contact with Other, Sacred Spirit, Energy Source, God. What I am learning to trust is that I don’t loose that experience by becoming fully present in reality. Somehow, it stays with me in foundational ways—providing support and deep-breath pauses when reality threatens to sweep me off my feet. I know you will experience this in the next few weeks. You will be able to pause and dip into that well of contemplation that embraced you during the past 10 weeks. Now you get to walk, encircled by the arms of The Communal One, while physically linking arms with your life companions. What an awesome place to be, Brian! Keep on walkin’!
The value of the gift is not so much the “invisible” hands on the outside, the value is the emptiness of inside the vessel that holds your experiences from this journey and those to come.
Ah yes, Rachel! The empty space that contains all my experiences was also working on, but I still feel it too deeply to find words. I was so privileged to be able to share this pilgrimage with you and Patrick. I will get back to Boise and catch up sometime! Gratefully, Brian
Brian,
You have an open door to visit with us in Boise anytime!
Patrick & Rachel
You, my friend, are suffering from “jet-lag”. Though you have none of the time-zone (east-west) or seasonal (north-south) issues, 74 days on the road is a long long time. As you get older, it is harder and takes longer to back into the swing of things. After I got back from my three-week trip to the UK this last summer, it took me two weeks to stop waking up in the middle of the night, thinking I’m in a hotel room that I don’t recognize, but that has items similar to my own bedroom (how did the hotel get a hold of that?) Oddly, it is usually several weeks after I get back before I start to miss the relative freedom of exploring a wider world unfamiliar to me, and start to plan my next adventure.