Soulcraft Musings

Friday, June 20, 2025

Wild Pilgrimage, Part II

If there are sacred wells in the American West, where I live, I don’t know where they are. But I do know locations of springs, hot and cold — springs that are holy, at least to me, a few friends, and perhaps to unknown others, perhaps even to many unknown others. I have been a pilgrim in all seasons, at all hours, at one particular hot spring for more than thirty years. My own offerings to the water might be poetry, or wild prayers, a simple flute melody, or small bundles of feathers and sage tied with the twisted hair of bison I’ve collected from nearby lodgepole. My offerings are gratitude for water emerging from the fiery heart of Earth, gratitude for places wild enough for bison, elk, and grizzlies. Gratitude for all the times I’ve been a pilgrim in the absence of shouters and shriekers, cell signal-seekers, or drunken revelers. And gratitude, especially, for the Big Questions that arise while lying in steamy water beneath the glittering sky: Do human beings have a purpose on this astonishing planet? Why are we here?

At the Chalice Well, I am reminded of an evening more than two decades ago, when I was fortunate to be present in an auditorium with the Dalai Lama in Santa Cruz, California, just days after the announcement that he would receive the Nobel Peace Prize. The air in that sold-out venue nearly crackled with attention; there was a felt sense that a truly noble being, a great spiritual teacher, was among us. And I wondered if — like the maroon and saffron monks’ robes — the numinous atmosphere always accompanied the Dalai Lama, whom many regard as a holy man, or if it was also us, our attention, our deep respect and honoring, and our anticipation of his Holiness, that sent the air aquiver. Did the evening feel extraordinarily alive because we approached it as if it were a sacred occasion?

At the Chalice Well in Glastonbury, the mystically-tinged atmosphere in the gardens is distinct from the flurry of commerce not so far from the gates. There is reverence toward the yew and holy thorn trees, toward the lush plantings, and of course, toward the well and the ever-renewing water itself. There is a feeling that the well…might…actually…be holy.

And of course I wonder. Is the Chalice Well more holy than other places, or does it feel numinous because pilgrims regard it with awe and reverence, as if a respectful attitude matters? Do the springs to which I make pilgrimage feel like a wild shrine to me because I make offerings, because I praise, because I approach the watery lands as if the manner of my presence matters, as if the land and creatures are aware of my intention? Does land — like human beings, like our companion animals — vibrate with subtle enlivenment in response to our attention, our acclamation or devotion?

I don’t know if there are any lands more sacred (or less) than others, though there is surely a difference in how we treat the various faces of Earth. If our collective perception of the world allows us to regard some places as less worthy, less valuable, less consequential than other places, have we already flung open the door to strip mines, fracking, nuclear waste disposal, and other everyday desecrations?

What would the world become if we treated every place — our backyards, national parks and watersheds, spines of mountains and labyrinthian canyons, fiery geyser basin and superfund sites — as if it were sacred, essential to our own florescence and vitality, imbued with its genius loci, worthy of pilgrimage, worthy of our offerings, attention, and acclamation? Who do we become if we address the world in such a way, if we learn to address the Earth community as “thou” — or as our larger Self?

What if approaching the world as if everything is alive and sensing reveals a breathing, trembling, shimmering presence that has been near, all along, at the edge of our ordinary awareness? What new contours might the world take if we addressed the other-than-humans amongst whom we dwell as animate, intelligent, expressive, and suffused with their own noble longings? What if everything depends on this?

I ask myself these questions as I gather wild prayers for Earth, prayers to weave together with sticks and dried grass, prayers to carry in offering to the land. I do not know for sure if it matters to the other-than-human world; I do not know if it matters that I sing for the return of wolves and bears and trout, for the restoration of land injured by dams, coal mines, logging, gas fields, pesticides, cattle, wars, corporate ecocide — the litany is endless. I don’t know if flute music is of any consequence to the furred, feathered, or leafy others; I don’t know if offering a rough nest of wild prayers as part of my backyard pilgrimage makes a difference to anyone but me. I do know that such acts erode my ordinary way of seeing and being. For a time, I am no longer simply an observer. The pinyon, meadowlarks, and sage pulse with invitation, and I approach with offerings, gratitude, and praise, as a participant in an animate world.

This essay was originally published in Parabola Journal, and was recently posted by Starborne – The Journal of Autocosmology | Substack

To read previous musings click here.