To Seek the Place of My Resurrection

Is it the place where each
Of my storied selves,
Past and present
Sing as one, joining
In a pure chorus
Of heaven-aching delight?

Or is it in the slow rising
Of my daily bread,
How its becoming more
Than itself conceals
Unleavened secrets
I haven’t yet guessed?

Perhaps it is in the lark’s
Ascending cry, never
Resolved yet soaring,
Piercing the heavens
Until the darkest clouds
Part with praise.

Show me the place
Where the mist is made,
The still yet dancing point
Where eternity kisses time,
Making a holy sacrament
Of the ephemeral
And I will show you the place
Of my resurrection. 

Peregrinatio is a Celtic concept which describes an embodied, holy wandering for the sake of Christ. It is a type of pilgrimage which involves no destination but the intentional entrusting of oneself to the wind and waves of wherever the Spirit sends you. The destination is Christ, and Christ is to be sought wherever the peregrini (wanderer) is led.

Drew and I have been preparing to go to Ireland for several months, so we’ve been reading books on Celtic history and spirituality. In my reading, I discovered the richness of peregrinatio in Esther De Waal’s The Celtic Way of Prayer. She describes peregrinatio as the outward expression of a deep inner journey the wanderer feels compelled to take. De Waal writes of the peregrini,

Ready to go wherever the Spirit might take them, seeing themselves as hospites mundi, “guests of the world,” what they are seeking is the place of their resurrection, the resurrected self, the true self in Christ, which is for all of us our true home.

(p. 2)

What they are seeking is the place of their resurrection. This phrase haunts me, confounds me, compels me. In four days I will be on a plane bound for Ireland, and if I’m honest I’m seeking much more than fun and tourism. I didn’t have word for this inarticulable longing until I read about peregrinatio, which includes the search for one’s truest home. Part of my excitement for going to Ireland is in seeking my family’s Irish roots. When I shared this excitement with a friend, her answer surprised me.

“I’ve moved so many times throughout my life,” I explained to her. “I’ve never been from anywhere. My roots are spread thin and wide across the country.”

“Maybe your roots are in the sacred,” she said.

And my heart leapt and tears rose to my eyes as I realized it was true. I have the tucked the city names of Athlone, Galway, and Dingle into my pocket as treasured clues to my family’s origin, but my true origin is buried deep within the heart wounds of God. I go to seek the place of my resurrection, compelled by love and a growing conviction that the interior journey my soul longs to take needs an embodied expression of that journey. Could I journey-wander to Seattle or Spokane instead? Sure. But we are going to Ireland, and sometimes it is good to leave home to remember where and what and who home is.

November 1st was All Saints Day, the beginning of the Celtic new year. This is the time when the ancient Celts believed that the veil between this world and the next was thinnest. I dreamt of my grandfather last night, saw him smiling and beaming in his favorite plaid shirt in his favorite chair in the house on Flathead Lake. His smile and words and lit-up eyes as I hugged him told me he loved me, and I sensed a love that encompassed all the ages of me, every year he knew me before I knew myself. Through his eyes, I saw myself as a little girl and as my present self at the same time—like two blurred images being drawn together as one—and I loved them both. The veil is indeed thin these days, and through it I can clearly see something of Eternity.

Perhaps the place of our resurrection is as close as our own skin, as near and pressing as a heartbeat.

In these thin-veiled days, we set out—embarking upon this intentional wandering journey of peregrenatio. If you think of it, pray for us. I hope for a re-filling of my soul. I long for an encounter with the lovely one, the Spirit, the wild goose I chase into the darkening days as I seek the place of my resurrection.

I won’t be writing here for a couple of weeks, but when I return I hope to be laden with stories new and old to share with you. Until then, I leave you with a blessing by Irish poet John O’Donohue:

To Come Home to Yourself

May all that unforgiven in you
Be released.

May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.

May all that is unlived in you
Blossom into a future
Graced with love.

Amen.