Maybe the way is a yellow arrow pointing the pilgrim in a direction. Pointing his way to the WAY. The way to where you might ask dear reader, is maybe the way to your WAY. What is asked is, that you lay down the things that you tend to make the way, to step into the WAY.
To pilgrim is to pay attention, to listen, to flow.
Do you see that the world tends to make the things in the way, the way?
What do you stand for?
What do you walk for?
What do you let get in the way, of the way?
The light informs the darkness, step into the unknown light without burden of attachments.
Its maybe is to ask what my fellow pilgrim Becky asked each day on her pilgrimage; “What is my divine appointment today”?
Or maybe to ask how may I be a open anchored light in service?
This way of the divine feminine is a cup, a shell of containment that is held in your heart, so when you step into the WAY your heart overflows and joy seeps out creating light that surrounds your path opening up a river sparkling like the milky way shining through time. Touching all without speaking.
Pilgrim of peace, pilgrim of be-longing, pilgrim of divine flow, pilgrim of heart.
The WAY is out of the way. Exit out of your own way into the WAY, as a shell overflowing with wine pouring forth spilling over, drunk, red juice of the fermented grapes of the WAY plant.
If you dare, you will see the yellow arrow pointing you in the direction, you will take it. Maybe seeing up head others who are your, divine appointments.
A wine font with a shell handle calls you forth to drink, communion with the sacred blood of the womb of the mother. You stop take your backpack off, pull your cup off your pack and pull the lever. Wine pours on the on the cup filling up to overflowing soaking in the ground. The snake is grateful for the ritual of the blood of the mother, is honored and the communion has be consummated. Now the blood, womb and pilgrim meet in the heart. Informed by this land of vineyards each bunch of grapes has the very shape of our lungs, breathing in the air, drinking up the dirt. Fire of the sun browning the skins.
Stop oh pilgrim, the grape harvest is surrounding you, the way slows you, shows you, it is time to celebrate. The village is in the field, they are clipping the lungs from the vine and the sweetness clings on the air as sticky bowed bright light.
You are the WAY and you are on your WAY -pilgrim trust- your be-longing. Trust that the village is awakening and there is nothing in your way to receiving that blood of the lungs of the mother. Just hold out your empty cup, hold out your open heart, put on your backpack and walk.