Trying to Make You a Map

There are those amongst us who have become pilgrims.

I am one, although you cannot tell by looking at me - or by listening to me talk.

Our common objective is the present moment, bright and clear, untended by the past and without regard for the future.

Heaven is a state of being that remains distant but possible, somewhat akin to the optical illusions you enjoyed as a child.

Obviously we are bent on undoing fear.

There aren't many of us - not even enough for a club.

We don't congregate, except when we're sure we won't be seen, and even then we are careful to advance only with cover.

What can you ask of those who are tortured by the fearsome condition known as recollecting God through desire?

It's not arrival that makes one a pilgrim, but the decision to travel.

We give up a lot to get here.

Antique lamps, expensive tables our grandmothers purchased in White River Junction, even the family dog.

Somebody somewhere wants to know you're not just playing.

I, for example, offered up my poetry and so am left now with paltry sentences.

At night, alone, like you, I study the stars for signs.

The old reliance on songs is being reconsidered at the highest level.

Before the sun rises I walk deep into the woods, grateful for the chance to know myself as alien.

We know we are broken.

We are trying to make you a map.

You don't owe us anything.

It is the surest way to love.