A Poem in Dialog with David Whyte’s Collection, Pilgrim

Perhaps I am not a pilgrim.

I do not walk thirsty and grieving;

I do not walk roads well worn,

between this and that,

between what is past and what is ahead.

Perhaps I am the other kind,

the nomad, the unsettled,

seeking no new place,

only the next walk.

The in between is not the journey for me;

the in between is my home,

my grounding.

There is no arrival,

when every moment is a beginning and an end.

Arriving is only rest.