Grace in the Pathless Woods
Remember who you are.
A billion years in your marrow,
The iron in your blood forged in a violent, ancient ache.
The furnace of a dying sun was your first cradle,
And yet, you spend your days tracing lines
Drawn by other lost travelers.
Why cling to the residue of vincible explorers
Whose grids were meant to contain the sea,
When you are the tide, the moon, and the salt?
You are your own compass home.
Maps lead to others’ destinations.
Never yours.
Never big enough to hold your ghost.
Burn the maps, darling.
Strike the match.
By lantern light, watch the ink curdle like souring milk,
The edges singe and curl like burning leaves.
Let the ash become the very dust you claim to be.
There is a terrifying, beautiful grace in the pathless woods,
In the silence where the rot and the shoulds
Finally spark fire and blow away
Like the hiss of cinders or shooting stars.
You do not need the waypoints of others
When you, yourSelf, are the journey.
Navigate by the pull of your plexus,
By the wild, unmapped heat of your own starlight.
Step off the edge of the known world.
You won’t fall.
You are already sprouting wings.
So let it be, and so it is.
The idea of 'burning the maps' is so visceral. We spend so much energy trying to fit our complex, 'pathless' lives into the grids and expectations drawn by others. There is a terrifying but necessary grace in realizing that the old waypoints don’t work anymore. Navigating by the 'heat of your own starlight' isn't just poetry; for some of us, it’s the only way to keep moving forward without losing our souls. Thank you for this reminder to trust the journey we are actually on.
Thank you.