The Pilgrimage Begins
I have not yet packed my suitcase, and already the pilgrimage has begun.
There’s a peculiar kind of stillness that precedes a sacred journey—a soft hush that asks for reverence before a single foot has crossed a threshold. In the quiet, I feel the stirrings of something ancient moving in me. I am preparing to go to Italy—to Rome, Assisi, Florence, Venice, Monticello—places where stone holds the memory of saints and sinners, mystics and martyrs. Places where I hope to walk not as a tourist, but as a pilgrim.
This isn’t just a trip. It’s a turning toward something holy.
Over the past few years, I’ve found myself circling back to the mysteries I once left behind: the Mass, the rosary, the liturgical seasons that marked time not in quarters or calendars, but in ash and oil, bread and wine. The longing didn’t arrive all at once—it seeped in like water through stone, slow and sure. There are depths within the Catholic imagination that I cannot ignore, especially as someone immersed in dreams, fairytales, and Jungian thought. The archetypal pull of the sacred—of ritual, image, and mystery—is undeniable. It invites not just belief, but transformation. Something is meeting me in the deep longing I was almost too afraid to face. And I recognize the face. And He recognizes me in ways I never thought possible.
And so I go.
I go to kneel at the tombs of saints who dared to love beyond reason. To follow the hard path. To encounter Joy.I go to listen for the whispers of Julian, Clare, Catherine, Francis, and perhaps the Virgin herself—those who lived fierce, holy lives on the margins and at the heart. I go to wander cobbled streets, to pray in the shadow of ancient basilicas, and to touch the stones worn smooth by centuries of devotion.
There’s a particular ache I carry with me: Pope Francis, whose presence I had hoped to feel in Rome, is gone. The conclave will choose his successor. The papal mass I imagined attending now gives way to uncertainty. But perhaps this, too, is part of pilgrimage—the surrender to not knowing, to the unraveling of expectations.
Pilgrimage is not about comfort. It’s about encounter.
I carry with me questions, and I know I will carry home more. But I also carry blessings: the host placed in my hands at Mass, a dream of deep communion I still cannot quite name, and the quiet joy of being invited—unexpectedly—into community.
And so I ready myself.
I pack not just clothes, but prayers. I carry not just a passport, but a heart cracked open. I go not to escape my life, but to meet it more fully.
Italy is calling.
And I am answering. Yes. Yes to it all!
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