In the new light of spring, I have been pondering how to write about the experience of this year, a dropping away from work, a dropping into deeper presence of attention to what it takes to live an ordinary life. I still have nearly half a year, yet
- a few days ago, I came across a short poem by Wendell Berry that made that resonant "whoosh" of recognition:
And the world cannot be discovered
by a journey of miles
no matter how long
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humble and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home,
and learn to be at home.
This what I have been doing:
"learning to be at home" in the ground beneath my feet. I have never been so. Never been so. There is always something more to do, somewhere else to go, someone else to become. In this true sabbath, all else is falling away except the journey inward and how
it lives outward. I will be exploring this more in the future. I am only at a first step.