Sgrios Mass: Traveler's Burdens

 
On days when the weather is gentle I like to walk the lands without intention and, as I move through the world I gather things. Little keepsakes of my day. Simple things. If I walk the carefree paths of the woods perhaps I will fill my pockets with acorns, odd bones or antlers; on the ancient vistas of the mountainscapes I can always find a piece of quartz that stands out among the gravel, feathers from the fearless birds that make their homes on these imposing peaks or perhaps some crude tool left behind by one of the primitive tribes of beast that carve their homes deep within the caves. On a good day of meditative walking it is not uncommon to arrive back at my room to find my robes heavy with the accumulated weight of my treasures.

On days when the sun can’t find the strength to chase away the clouds and rain and snow cast their oppressive precipitations over the wondrous world, I tend to sit inside reflecting on the myriad of natural trinkets that clutter my desks and drawers. I can hold a fragment of slate close to my heart and feel the deep love of an ordinary item that is imbued with enormous sentimental value because I know a dear friend holds the other half, or marvel at the gnarled beauty of a discarded branch from an ancient oak, reminding myself that I still need to carve it into a functional staff. Just as often, though, I curl up on my bed looking with bewildered impatience as the clutter I’ve filled my chamber with. When did I pick up this sticky pinecone? For what purpose did I drag home this mangy wolf’s tail? Who walked at my side when I picked this flower pressed between the pages of a journal I rarely open? I swear I had ~some~ plan for these snowy-white sheets of white birch bark...

Despite my best efforts, I cannot seem to wander without picking these things up and, considering that I am well on in my years, I’ve given up pretenses that I will ever be able to walk about without secreting away these little keepsakes in my sleeves. Instead, rather, I have had to take it upon myself to be more vigilant in clearing my space often and indiscriminately. At least once a double-moon I sit myself at my desk and take inventory — what are the things that brighten my days and what is contributing to the mounting anxiety of my humble living space? I fill my basket with those things that are not bringing joy to my life and carefully catalog those precious treasures that bring a smile to my face just by the merit of their presence.

We are all wanderers on the meandering paths of life, and each day we gather remnants of our journey. Memories, emotions, habits, friends and foes. Our pockets rattle with the unknown accumulations of our many cycles in this reality; for those who walk too long without confronting the ever-increasing weight on our shoulders, our oldest treasures are buried at the bottom of our sacks - one knows not whether there is a sharp fang violently digging into our thigh from the depths of our pockets, or whether the jagged facets of a shining sapphire have worn down to a magnificent smooth stone from years of friction. Just as I sit down at my desk and curate the things I stow in my chamber, I, too, must sit with my mental baggage and assess which of the mementos are serving me and which have become naught but a burden.

Of these two tasks, it should come as no surprise which is easier. When I fill my basket with vials of shimmering dirt, shells and insect wings it is easy to carry them out and offer them to the altar where Sgrios can return them to dust and start the cycle over once again. I have no basket with which to cart away the dreadful memories, the toxic people or the miserable aspects of myself I vexingly coddle like a baby bird. I have no altar in which I can place these dark thoughts where our Lord will feast on them, leaving me with the fertile soil of a clean mind. Sometimes we carry these aspects for so long that they seem to define us; perhaps anger has become a shelter for your weakness, or the familiar warmth of depression is like a comfortable quilt you’ve slept beneath since youth, threadbare but soft. The concept of casting these mental keepsakes away feels like a betrayal of self, yet holding them is like poison to the soul.

Frankly, it can feel like killing yourself to let go of these things. “People do not expect to see me smile,” you might convince yourself. “Without my sarcastic tongue, others will walk all over me.” “If I don’t set low expectations for myself, I will be perpetually disappointed.” When we take stock of these artifacts, our covetous ego will make every case against discarding these vile keepsakes, the same way that my sentimental soul aches for the simple perfection of a jar of interesting bits of iron; buckles, buttons or savage coins I will never use. Yet, still, if emptied, that jar could hold a stunning bouquet or a handful of fresh quills with which I could pen my sermons. Without the bulky blanket of depression, you might have room in your mental closet for a fresh, silk robe and a pair of new slippers.

Still, to cast away these internal trophies is embracing a small death of the self, but just as I can set a line of acorns and crystals out for Sgrios to appreciate on His altar, we, too, must honor the internal things we sacrifice. Just as this wild-picked cotton has been a companion in my pocket and offered me some gentle comfort on our shared journey, so to have these old friends, old loves, old habits, old patterns. We must appreciate the ways they helped us grow, just as we appreciate how they hinder our development. Give praise that we were given such companions at all, for even the blanket of depression has sheltered us from the brisk winds of reality from time to time. Honor this.

It is our nature to fear death, but those who gather in this grim place know that death is just the first step in a beautiful process of continual rebirth. By allowing burying these dead aspects we allow better things to flourish; by lightening our load we free ourselves to pick up more valuable treasures further down the road. Our shoulders know no greater pleasure than that of an empty pack. Scatter your troubles along the paths of your life and know that, in the moments of reflection, when you turn to look behind, that your roads will be flanked by the wildflowers fed of your collected sorrows.