As you grasped the bony curve, lifting it from the riverbank
into the shifting, slanting light, it became
the most beautiful thing
you had ever seen.
An antler, dropped by passing caribou,
pressed cool and coarse within your palms.
With this slender bone as needle,
you knitted your heart to this land, to our herd,
to an idea: that this bit of grown rock means something. It is
precious,
invaluable,
irreplaceable.
Years later, it still calls to you of journey
from its place upon your wall,
this reminder of choice,
this find of fierce love,
this talisman of truth.
But today
has been deafening.
Sometimes loss breaks harder
than any bone.
Today, grief has emptied your grip and sapped your step.
Your heart casts long shadows
across the rocks.
Traveler,
there is no shame in losing your way.
We all separate from the herd
from time to time.
Bring this loss with you
as you spin between the shards.
A fracture is an opening,
every break, a beginning,
each step, a return.
Move slowly now
among the sunlit sedge,
climb up the wind scoured moraine.
Our trail is hoof-beaten
and spare, a barely visible trampling
among the rocks.
It is an old, old road.
Look there for the peace
in our pieces:
the thunder of hoof and tundra,
the joy in running, nose to air,
the rush of deep river crossing,
the windy music
of storm-tossed tussocks.
We know the herd,
and change,
and hunger.
These are the elements
of love
and loss,
but grief does not gather here.
What we know is presence,
and absence,
and the whole.
What we offer
isn’t meant to comfort you.
What you need is already here:
the magic in the bones,
the mercy in our mending,
the grace in each season.
The way is winding
and exposed,
but you have already begun.
Return to us, to the herd,
to yourself.
We move in love to your
arrival,
and your remembering
of an unbroken longing for the journey,
the migration’s pull upon us all.