Picture a woman standing at the stern of a ship as it pulls away from the only land she has ever known.
She has a child on her hip and the wind is hard off the water and the shoreline is already beginning to blur.
The hills she was born under going soft and grey and small.
Everyone around her on that deck is doing the same thing she is.
looking back, straining to hold the sight of the land for one more second, and one more, because they know, they all know, that they will never ever see it again.
And somewhere ahead of that ship, over the grey water, is a coastline none of them has seen, a whole life none of them has lived yet, But not one of them is looking at it.
Every face in that deck is turned backward.
Toward the hills, going down into the sea.
I understand those faces completely.
I think you do too.
Because the backward glance is the most human thing there is.
When something is ending, when something is lost, of course we turn to look, of course we do.
But here is the difficult thing this episode is about.
You cannot walk forward while your face is turned to the stern.
At some point, not today maybe, and never all at once, a person has to turn round.
Not to forget the land behind them, never that, but to see at last that there is also a light ahead.
Hello and welcome back to the Sage in the Sky podcast and to the Light Over the Hill series.
I'm Carrie and I'm so glad you're here.
And if you're new, this is a weekly series about how we keep walking when we cannot see the whole way.
Told through the old folklore of Scotland, a little psychology and one tarot card at a time.
Last week, in the very first episode of the series, we talked about the light itself, about the star, hope after the storm, and about the strange, sufficient gift of a light that shows you only the next few feet of ground.
And we said that hope isn't gazing at a distant light and waiting, it's keeping your eye on the light and your foot on the ground and doing the work.
The star gives you the direction, you do the walking.
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Picture a woman standing at the stern of a ship as it pulls away from the only land she has ever known.
She has a child on her hip and the wind is hard off the water and the shoreline is already beginning to blur.
The hills she was born under going soft and grey and small.
Everyone around her on that deck is doing the same thing she is.
looking back, straining to hold the sight of the land for one more second, and one more, because they know, they all know, that they will never ever see it again.
And somewhere ahead of that ship, over the grey water, is a coastline none of them has seen, a whole life none of them has lived yet, But not one of them is looking at it.
Every face in that deck is turned backward.
Toward the hills, going down into the sea.
I understand those faces completely.
I think you do too.
Because the backward glance is the most human thing there is.
When something is ending, when something is lost, of course we turn to look, of course we do.
But here is the difficult thing this episode is about.
You cannot walk forward while your face is turned to the stern.
At some point, not today maybe, and never all at once, a person has to turn round.
Not to forget the land behind them, never that, but to see at last that there is also a light ahead.
Hello and welcome back to the Sage in the Sky podcast and to the Light Over the Hill series.
I'm Carrie and I'm so glad you're here.
And if you're new, this is a weekly series about how we keep walking when we cannot see the whole way.
Told through the old folklore of Scotland, a little psychology and one tarot card at a time.
Last week, in the very first episode of the series, we talked about the light itself, about the star, hope after the storm, and about the strange, sufficient gift of a light that shows you only the next few feet of ground.
And we said that hope isn't gazing at a distant light and waiting, it's keeping your eye on the light and your foot on the ground and doing the work.
The star gives you the direction, you do the walking.