The world is heavy, and we pilgrims are cold and tired tonight. But we keep walking, because what is a pilgrim but one who puts foot in front of foot even when those feet ache and we're far from home.
So we shuffle forward, not even seeing the world around us because we're focused on the ruts and the dust and wondering how we'll ever wash the dirt off our feet.
Step after step on this dark and weary night, with little hope of reaching hot food, warm fire, and soft bed. Those aren't the tools of our trade, as they say. They aren't things we much hope for anymore.
We have a secret, you and I, one that's been lost in this shuffle of days and feet. If we bring it to mind, now and then, the bringing is not our own but something that is done to us, something that swoops in and captures our thoughts for a moment.
And then it flits away, like the white moths we paused to watch by the river that day, the ones that darted around us so long, we wondered if they'd been sent. Messengers of a sort, to remind us that we are all beautiful and we are all frail.
Tonight, somewhere amidst the shuffling and the longing, we remember again. I can tell you see it, too, because you're looking at me when I remember it, and not at your feet.
The meeting of eyes is enough. Words might take too much effort and we could run out of energy and stop where we stand simply because we cannot continue any longer. It is enough that we remembered for a moment: this world is not the end.
Linking with Emily, a fellow walker on this pilgrim-path.