C G Jung, lived experiences, nature, poetry, reflections, Self-care

A pilgrimage home

The Self doesn’t take holidays. But sometimes it asks you to walk.

I’ve just returned from two weeks in Tuscany, hiking daily, reading poetry aloud, letting the vive images on the path land without immediately understanding them. Actually ‘understanding’ was something I deliberately did not do. Letting nature, scents, colors, tastes, letting life … have its own impact on me, that was what I deliberately chose.

Our companions on the trail were Rilke, Mary Oliver, John O’Donohue, David Whyte, Neruda and Machado. Each one a different kind of knowing. Each inviting towards the Quiet One inside.

Jung wrote that the psyche speaks first in images, then in feeling, then slowly…in meaning. Poetry is that process made visible.

I return to the work carrying what the path gave to me. A scent of presence, a sharp focus on this step and then this one, and this one. Endurance. We simply keep going. Eyes wide open. For the unending beauty around us. Grief. And being with it – honoring the passing of each day, and also the passing of loved ones and the dance of such pain and sorrow alongside the celebration of life and its impermanence.


With love,

A.

Leave a comment