Sunday Scribblings offers a pilgrimage this weekend.
The haze grew no closer. The mountain range lingered above the horizon. Tantalizing white, coating the sharp edges and offering cool air in contrast to the heat ravaged plains over which she slowly limped, staff in hand. It was a gift from the shaman, many pilgrimages ago when Linda had been much younger, more naive and less burdened with ailments. It fit, the staff, it fit into the palm of her right hand as if an extension of her will. For years she had trekked the worn path across the meadows and marshes, drawn to the sacred heights and her mentor. Despite the familiarity and understanding of the pace needed, she always moved faster as the destination beckoned until her muscles ached and her feet blistered. When at last she rested and removed her boots, the fading sunlight cast enormous blue shadows that reached to the end of the world. A deep breath of juniper, Linda laid back on her woven blanket, arms behind her head, the sound of eternity ringing in her ears and a smile in her soul.
By Rose D. Kaye, January 16th, 2009