Pilgrims

Yesterday, after cake, our family went for a walk in the woods.

My oldest nephew and his dog led the way, pulling my mother along in their wake.  Four-year old nephew is eager to show his aunt the woods and the park near my grandmother’s house. The dog just wants to chase something.

My father is next with his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. My former sister-in-law and her husband follow. It’s been a weekend of visiting relatives in the city and they have a long drive home ahead of them.

After that comes my sister and her husband. They are walking arm in arm, gently bickering about the logistics of their upcoming week.

There’s a significant gap in the procession after that.

Birds sing. The sun shines. The bare trees reach for the cloudless blue sky.

Finally, my youngest nephew and I appear. We are not moving quickly. Perhaps it’s because at three months shy of his second birthday, my nephew is still adapting to walking in snow. Or maybe it’s because of everybody in the family, my nephew and I are the only two with no particular inclination to be anywhere other than here.

My nephew walks slowly, but his slowness doesn’t come from hesitancy. Instead, his movements are filled with a deep completeness, as though the only thing that needs doing is the thing he is doing right now.  Face forward, he makes his way through the trees and snow, taking the world in anew with each step. When the hills get too steep or the ground under the snow becomes too uneven he reaches out with one navy mitten for my hand.

When I breathe in, my lungs fill with sun and snow and sky. Is this what I sit around in darkened meditation halls waiting for?

I emerge from the trees and my family is waiting at the top of a hill. Mom is sitting on a toboggan and bursts down the hill in a cloud of white while my oldest nephew shrieks in delight.

Side by side, my nephew and I walk towards them, making new tracks through a fresh filed of snow.