Rites of Passage

It is time.

Time to enter the wilderness.

To go with very little,
to leave the familiar behind
the cup of tea,
the shelter,
the small comforts of the known.

A sleeping bag and small tent will be enough.

No compass.
No phone.
No map.

Just the earth beneath you,
the sky above,
and the quiet courage
to step beyond what you know.

Let the fire take
what you no longer need.
Let the old ways loosen their hold.

Step gently into the unknowing.

For here,
beyond the reach of certainty,
something deeper may begin to reveal itself.

Your mind may grow quiet.
Your senses may become tender,
aching for what is familiar.

Let them ache.

Walk beneath the night sky.
Rest in the stillness of day.
Listen to the wind moving through the trees.
Watch the miracle of your breath
entering, leaving,
a quiet tide
within the body of your being.

Four days and four nights
in the wilderness.

Nothing to achieve.
Nothing to become.

Only the invitation
to surrender more deeply.

And perhaps what dies
is not you,
but the small self
you have carried for so long
the old stories,
the shadows of comfort,
the voices that whispered
you were too small.

And perhaps,
through this small opening,
something new can be born.

Like a seed beneath the earth.
Like dawn returning after the longest night.

Through the eye of the needle,
enter softly.

Be willing to be emptied.

And in the great stillness,
listen.
Beneath the noise,
you will hear
the quiet voice of the Holy.

Perhaps you will discover
that what you were seeking
has been waiting for you all along.

Empty yourself gently.

And let yourself be filled

by the Beloved.