SIBYL MAGAZINE—February 2017/ A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’

SIBYL MAGAZINE—February 2017/ A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’

A PILGRIM…SEEKING TEMPLES

Sandra Mattucci—A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’

Many faces pass me as I walk.  My thoughts so meaning-filled this day.  The “busy-ness” of life has given way to a quiet awakening within and by day’s end, all the walking took me back…back to its beginnings.  I left behind many earthly ‘things’ when I departed my homeland—a country flowing with milk and honey.  When I arrived in this unknown land, I ‘found’ the true source…the rich Honey Comb.

I was immersed in a sweet essence while I walked, as I glided across the slick cobblestone pavement.  I was mesmerized by the magnificent arch before me—above me a statue of
St James with staff in hand.  I stood—a foreigner, as one in exile embarking on a solitary journey and I heard the invitation to “Come, follow.”  My heart pulsated as I fought to free myself from my ‘false’ self, from the lure of success, from the hunger for recognition, accolades and applause.

The arch I would walk under/through pulled me like a string.  The church to my left whispered, “ENTER.”  I reached for the door handle pushing and pulling wishing it to open.  I felt a certain sadness when I realized the church was locked.  How was I to enter?  I took  a few steps and saw a stout woman holding a skeleton key which dangled from an enormous hoop around her wrist.  She gazed into my eyes.  Speaking not a word, she unlocked the door and beckoned me “WELCOME.”  A latch was lifted.  My heart unleashed a sense of deep gratitude.  Only now do I realize the gifts received.

A walking stick had become for me more than just a stick.  As the pilgrimage began, the stick and I found our way to each other in one of the many shops.  I spent time searching for the ‘right’ one.  This stick caught my eye.  I picked it up—I put it down and it leaned into me.  It became my constant companion.  A simple piece of wood carried me across rough terrains and through all weathers.  Tears bathed my being when I arrived in Santiago and gently placed my companion with all the other sticks.  Before my final release, I did throw it to the ground wondering if it would turn into a snake.  The only hiss came from my lips—blessing to the next pilgrim in need of its assistance.

A key unlocked my heart.  I, the foreigner, was carried by a companion ‘staff.’  A slivered moon illuminated the night sky and I was struck not by the light of the visible curve, but by its shadow in the black sea.  There was my true self in the shadow.  Who I am, who I was becoming, even after all this time—UNKNOWN.  In my silent practice of being, I am trusting what is slowly being revealed.  A new day is dawning and endless sunsets sink into mists of endings.  HERE my true self awakens.

Until March,
Buen Camino

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