The Walking Song

I’ve always had a song I’d sing.

A kind of running theme; an undertone of my life.

When I was a child, it was the village folk tunes: the foolish, bawdy ballads and the jubilant jigs of Way Stations.

Like the one the Old Chief sang every morning while he bathed in the river:

It’s hard when you start

without pennies or shoes,

it’s hard when it ends

and there’s nothing to lose.

It’s easy you say,

take my heart take my hand!

It’s easy you say,

come join in the band!”

They were funny songs, determined songs, songs which urged me to live to spite the darkness.

As I grew and progressed along the Way, my song became our hymns; our walking tunes; fire tunes; songs full of hope and wonder that spoke of the land ahead, and the promises of The First.

Like the one my father loved,

Press on, press on, through dark and sorrow,

By He Who Is we’ll see tomorrow,

We’ll reach our home, we’ll see the Light,

With journey’s end along with night.

Those were longing songs, hopeful songs which gave me strength to endure a few more days, a few more steps.

But when did my song become sighs and silence?

I suppose it wasn’t all at once. I was more certain back then. When the Way was new, exciting, when the Light seemed more like a close friend far off rather than a pinprick of impossibility.

Back then, I could mock the villagers for building in the dark, while they mocked me for seeking the Light. We’d mock and laugh, and sing, and drink, and exchange members like bartering goods.

That’s when the Way was easy, when it felt good to follow because I knew there was always another village ahead. Another chance to leave the Way, a chance to settle for the Night and build a life in a village with a Central light. A touchable light, a light that wasn’t some distant dream.

How comfortable they must be: those who’ve built in place. While I press on along the Way, living day by day and trusting The Light to guide me and provide.

If I’m honest, I’ve grown weary of this journey.

It’s only dark and toil and strife

Along the Way of this hard life.

I realize I’ve been looking down at my worn-out shoes and weary feet. I look up to the path ahead expecting to the see the dim, distant Light, but instead there is a warm glow. A village. It’s been a long time since I came to a Way Station. A year or more.

As I approach, I can hear their songs: vibrant and joyous. Perhaps a festival. As I enter the village, they begin a new song:

The world is night and dark abounds,

But not right here so gather ‘round

It’s all light and peace and life

With warming fire and singing fife.

Our fire light’s as rich as gold

Our honey Meade makes young the old

The wolves all run from dancing shadows

The cold North wind dares not to blow

We all live here in light and love

With warming food and roof above

Just look around, just look and see,

To spite the night we all live free

Our fires shine through dark and trees

And wave and call “Come here to me!

Leave the Way of dark and sorrow,

By He Who Is we’ll see tomorrow.

This is our home of love and light,

It’s journey’s end to spite the night.

This is our home of love and light,

It’s journey’s end to spite the night.”

And villagers come near me, welcoming me with Meade and warm food as the people sing.

“Welcome, traveler!” some say,

“Rest and eat!” say others, and press me to sit, “Stay and sing! We have everything we need, and more to spare!”

Could this be my chance to stay? A village full of lights, full of food and comforts: a roof against the rain, a bed fellow against the cold.

“A journey’s end to spite the night,”

Their song echoes in my heart of hearts.

I’m warm for the first time in a long time, and full, and there are others. Happy people, all smiles, and cheer, who’ve built something precious in the night. Something vibrant and comfortable. Certainly, I could stay. I could build something here myself, a life in the light and love of these people.

“A journey’s end to spite the night,”

I could end my journey. My endless walk along the Way, towards that unknown Light, that unknown City. And live here where the light is touchable, here where I can eat and drink my fill. Here I could learn new songs, cheery songs, happy songs of fire-light and love.

But no end of night.

I turn my eyes to the hidden hills, where I know the little light persists. Calm, unremarkable, buried by the golden glow of firelight in the dark unknown beyond the village.

And my heart burns with wonder, and I find myself standing to sing in counter melody to the villagers:

“The fire is warm and safe and light

It shields me against the night,”

And the people cheer, taking my arms but I pull away,

“But oh! to leave the fireside,” I sing a little louder,

“And to wander far and wide

Towards the Light that steady calls

Through night and cold and funeral palls.”

And the people around me pause, and stare, and frown,

“There is a city, or so I’m told,

All full of light and paved with gold

There is no night, no death, no strife,

Just endless song and endless life.”

And they turn on me, and push, and rage, but I turn my eyes to the hills. My new song mounting in my heart, and erupting from my mouth:

“So I’ll press on through night and shadow

By He Who Is I’ll see tomorrow

I’ll reach my home, I’ll see the light

With Journey’s end along with night.

I’ll reach my home, I’ll see the light

With Journey’s end along with night.”

And I run from the fireside back to through darkened Way towards my quiet beacon, my constant friend, my pinprick of impossibility.