The soul is always, perhaps, an exile, but occasionally rests in its restlessness, and feels close to the source of Love which nonetheless drives us on and away as Love’s pilgrims.  There is no city that is home for us, no place of permanence, as the broken walls of the places we visited all too clearly testify to anyone, yet they all became listening places, where we could for a moment still and be sung to, like a mother to a distant child.

The first pilgrimage of the year, wandering the English-Welsh borderland hills, renewing and deepening a soul-friendship with a priest friend as we prayed together, going from untethered place to witness place to holy place.  The New Year having passed, the time of rest nearing its end, the sounds of young lives approached, for a renewed cycle of teaching weeks was near, and I needed to pray so that I met the challenges ahead with compassion, insight, and genuine commitment.