“Some prized the pilgrimage,
wrapping themselves in new white linen
to ride buses across miles of vacant sand.
When they arrived at Mecca
they would circle the holy places,
on foot, many times…
While for certain cousins and grandmothers
the pilgrimage occurred daily,
lugging water from the spring
or balancing the baskets of grapes.
”
Every year, in the week leading up to the anniversary of when I started therapy, I dig out my day planner from that year and stare at the page where I wrote the appointment down. I stare at my handwriting. I stare at the name written in its slot. For that appointment and the appointment the following week I wrote out her first and last name in full. But after that, for the rest of the appointments from then on, it would be just her first name written in, and then eventually even that shifted to just an initial.
But that first week, my handwriting with her name sits in a busy week typical of my psychology training at the time—days that went from 6 am to 10 pm, and the meeting, like all good shrines in pilgrimages of old, was a miracle. The meeting was offered in the only free hour I had in the week. That open slot stood glittering and was filled with the unknown.
“A pilgrimage is a ‘devotional practice consisting of a prolonged journey… toward a specific destination of significance.”
The act of finding the day planner is one of the simple pilgrimages I make each year—not in physical distance, but instead across time. A chance to connect myself now to the person I was then. A chance to revisit the fear I had and the courage it took to start that journey. The chance to see where I am now and the patience it still takes to weave all the pieces together.
A pilgrimage…
“ “is an inherently transient experience, removing the participant from his or her home environment and identity. The means or motivations in undertaking a pilgrimage might vary, but the act, however performed, blends the physical and the spiritual into a unified experience.”
That one sacred spot in my day planner from years ago marks an ending and a beginning. And it marks a place where there is a clear before and clear after. It marks a place where someone believed in me and the me-that-could heal—and me-that-could-become-whole long before I could. It marks a place where I borrowed enough of that belief to set off on an inherently transient and truly sacred journey. And so my yearly pilgrimage to find the day planner and stare at the handwritten name lets me witness the start of the voyage again—the day I set sail—and remind myself of what that fear felt like, and what that bravery felt like—in near equal measure.
Small pilgrimages, simple pilgrimages, daily pilgrimages—these are the things that I use to ground myself—and connect to myself and something bigger whenever I can. When I work in NYC I make pilgrimages to the same gardens during every trip to see what flowers are blooming. I make trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to visit the same paintings. And when I work in DC I try to visit the Jefferson Memorial to read the inscription that I memorized at 10.
And wherever I have lived, I have created daily pilgrimages to paths, gardens and nature: checking on the growth of the flowers, the changing of the leaves—the level of the water in the river. Pilgrimages are check-ins. They are a chance to say hello to something—to greet something as a stranger—to see that thing again, both as something familiar –and as something new.
A pilgrimage, practiced, no matter how small, is a chance to see the sacred in the ordinary— to see the newest growth in yourself and a chance to greet yourself as a long lost friend.
© 2024 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD