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07 Feb

Migration’s Rest in Holding

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I watched them soar over the mountain. Their approach filled with longing. Their bodies skimmed the surface of the glass lake without touching. Voices totally silent now. Then their legs descended and they knew migration’s rest. I sat and pondered the morning’s reading as they floated. Rilke writes of the Sacred/Divine/God calling us “beyond the limits of our longing.” The bidding to “just keep going.” But more than calling, the Sacred carries us like migrating wings. The last line reads, “Take my hand.” I pondered how the geese so close to rest and yet they skimmed the surface delaying the longing’s end for a few moments more. Perhaps to savor the gentle hand holding them and bidding them beyond the limits of their longing. That I too may not rush or cling to outcomes, rather, skim the surface and savor the cradling hands.

God, the Sacred, the Divine, speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
“You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.”
~Rilke Book of Hours, I 59

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