The Road a Rose


Christmas is not for this pilgrim. She is seeking surer footing than ritual. Ritual is quicksand in disguise.

Instead she walks towards a solitary peak unknown to the commercial world. The carols hurt her ears, as she longs for a brilliant silence.

Her hands are tucked into her pockets, which are empty.

Her feet are pointed upward while her heart points down in humility.

The heavenly choir has thrown away their sheet music and is humming just for her.

Walmart, Ikea, Best Buy, amazon, what are they to her but remnants of the old world.

Her carol now is being written in water and sand.

She looks not to any group for salvation, least of all the pharisees within.

She is alone but not lonely, for she has thrown away her passport to any worldly port.

Her words have been traded for blocks and blocks of the mystery.

She spools herself into ribbons of road and she walks it endlessly.

Everything is within now. Everything is unrolling and proclaiming freedom.

She will not reach this solitary peak until her death and she has one foot in it already.

Her death will be her new life and then she will discover what she knew all along.

Life and death are to be thrown out the window of the known.

Discovery is alone to the Alone. Crowd-consciousness has bloomed into a single high-desert rose. The thorn has done its work.

Vicki Woodyard

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