At the Water's Edge

There was wind tearing down the treeless pasture, tangling my hair behind me. The ocean wrapped around me on three sides. The sun had set behind me, and my favorite time had risen around me. I love when the world is painted in clear blue and black. They are colors that are of the world, but do not seem to be in it—colors of time not things. The Atlantic Ocean crashed into the twilight-blackened rocks in front of me. The rocks are arranged in a bowl, so when the waves surge in, they start to swirl. This is a place on the edge of a world.

It isn’t really. Really, about ten miles north, you would run into land again, but that lies beyond the horizon. Beyond possibility for me. I am standing on the edge of a world, looking.

Ruth stood in the middle of the road, arguing with Naomi. They had come to the edge of Ruth’s world. She could not take another step without encountering the unknown. Naomi did not want to be responsible for her. Ruth did not want to abandon Naomi.

The unknown is an unsettling place. It does not come with a warranty or an insurance policy. It is risky. Pilgrimage is risky too. You plunge yourself into a transformative experience, but what if nothing changes? What if you are not transformed? What if everything goes back to the way it was?

Pilgrimage asks you to believe in the power of edges.

I have been to the island of Iona, Scotland, three times. While there, every evening that I could scrape together the energy to do so, I took a solo walk to the north shore. I start on the west side and cut through the sheep pasture, across the rocks, to the eastern shore. One year I was able to watch the Flower Moon rise over the eastern channel between Iona and Mull. On this side, the ocean sometimes pretends to be a lake, and I can walk over the stones that line the shore and inhabit the space between the water and the land without wetting my laces. I am neither on land nor in the water. I am living in the space of and. Land and water. I am a being of edges.

Pilgrimage is not guaranteed. You do not know what you may find in the edge-water. Perhaps you will find peace. Perhaps doubt. What if you find healing? Would that be ok? What if you don’t?

I don’t know if you have been writing along with me during this pilgrimage. I wonder if you have. I wonder if you have been brave enough to allow writing to lead you to the edges.

I bet Ruth second-guessed herself. She and Naomi had walked straight off of Ruth’s map, and now she was hungry, Naomi was hungry, and they lacked even the widow’s mite. Her words to her mother-in-law had seemed so brave at the time. Do not ask me to leave you or turn back from following you. Where you go, I will go. Your people will be my people. But would they? Would she be met with grace on this uncertain road? She had insisted on coming, and now she had become another mouth for Naomi to worry about not being able to feed.

The edges of things are perilous places.