All my belongings are back in boxes.My long winter coats. Silk Indian scarves. Short summer skirts. Leather boots, salsa shoes and my favorite old cotton t-shirts. The odd jewelry collected from countries around the planet that wrapped a time, place or memory around my wrist, finger or neck. My bank statements. My checking books. Renewed credit cards with verification stickers still unpeeled and signature boxes unsigned (some tasks for which I'm happy to have never found the time). Spices, seeds, teas and other treats whose form of bulk are repacked for the next sedentary life period. Hair combs, colors, brushes and clips. Soaps, mascara, and lip gloss sticks. Back into clear plastic bags a fashion-influenced face is zipped.I am not yet catching a flight out of this country (still not for awhile). But today I move out of my den of seven months retreat (and only the distance of a couple miles) to sit a friend's house down the street. And as I strip. The closet. The desk. The bathroom. The kitchen. I come again to the conclusion that pilgrimage has less to do with physical measures of time and distance than it does with change, movement and rotation. And that the path has always had so much more to do with departure, than it ever did destination. The revelations, realizations and enlightenments I forsee I will find, hint at having much less to do with what I bring with me, than that which will be left in these boxes behind.This excerpt came from solbeam's latest post. I couldn't put it any better.
