At the Threshold

The fire had burned low by the time we gathered again.

The night had been long, and there had been much listening. The Company sat in a loose circle, close enough to share warmth, but open enough to allow for restless littles and Martha Marie’s need for tidying. No one was in a hurry. No one needed to prove they belonged.

It was good to take my place among them, not the leader this time, just there as a weary companion.

For a long while, nothing was said.

The kind of silence that comes when a story has reached its natural pause. Embers glowed beneath the ash, patient and alive. Someone doused the fire, gone until the next nightfall where it would be fanned back to life. Another passed a cup. Small movements. Ordinary kindness.

When the moment felt right, I spoke.

“We made it here together.”

Some had walked since early spring, feeling their way forward one post at a time. Others arrived later, drawn by a phrase, a question, a flicker of recognition. None came by accident. No one arrived too late.

This year was not about mastery.
It was about orientation.

Learning which voices could be trusted.
Which fires were worth tending.
Which paths asked for courage and which asked for rest.

The Company did not need my return as a King to command them.
They needed a witness, willing, invested, authentic.

So here we are.
At the edge of one year.
At the crossroads of another path.

We pack up our camp.

No apparent way forward, we look over what we have,
The tools we’ve carried and learned to use.
A lantern that doesn’t blind.
A rope that holds without binding.
A compass that points us toward the light on the other side of shadow.

Ahead, the road disappears into the trees.
Behind us, the fire smolders.

You are welcome to linger.
You are welcome to step forward.
You are welcome to return when you’re ready.

The light does not demand haste.

It waits, it remembers.

Peace and Light be with you my friends.

Cambio