The water recedes,
from the stone and pebble beach,
back into the strait.
On Gabriola Island, I lived for several months, in a few locations, the most charming, sheltered in a small structure, with a bunk bed, and wood stove, three thousand miles away from Philadelphia. I felt secure, and as isolated as Thoreau at Walden, so far from everything that I had known in my life. A new chapter began on that island, as my life unfolded in an unexpected way.
The wings of the Shechinah, next took me to find shelter in Sedona, Arizona, where I lay my head down on the red rocks of the desert. Initially sleeping at first in the early days, in my car in Oak Creek Canyon, a tent on Schnebly Hill, and only my street clothes and a leather jacket, with my back up against a brick wall, while my knees were pulled up towards my chest all night for two weeks, as the cool November moon cast its glow upon my place of refuge, hidden amongst the shadows of a church building.
From the States to Canada and back again, only to be redirected, to a city on the edge of the Colorado plateau; miles from home, where familiarity had faded into oblivion. Now, a pilgrim on the earth, like Abraham, who knew that his true home was only with G-d alone. Wherever I may be called eventually to roam next, perhaps, even being uprooted again from this place near the San Francisco Peaks, I will heed the call, going in faith to where I am called.