One day you finally knew/ what you had to do, and began,/ though the voices around you/ kept shouting/ their bad advice—/ though the whole house/ began to tremble/ and you felt the old tug/ at your ankles./ “Mend my life!”/ each voice cried./ But you didn’t stop./ You knew what you had to do,/ though the wind pried/ with its stiff fingers/ at the very foundations,/ though their melancholy/ was terrible./ It was already late enough, and a wild night,/ and the road full of fallen/ branches and stones./ But little by little,/ as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn/ through the sheets of clouds,/ and there was a new voice/ which you slowly/ recognized as your own,/ that kept you company/ as you strode deeper and deeper/ into the world, determined to do/ the only thing you could do—
determined to save/ the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

We know what we have to do and doing it saves our lives. That is The Journey. I agree with Oliver that the world is not designed to support The Journey. Wind pries. Things tug. People yell. Stars begin to burn and eventually a new voice — your own voice — emerges.

The Journey is the voice emerging.

I have heard it again and again in many different ways — We know it all along. We have the power we seek. We must let our life speak. Those thoughts can make The Journey feel simple. Like if we literally click our heals, and say “There is no place like home. There is no place like home. There is no place like home.” We can simply go home. The Journey does not feel simple for Oliver. She names names. She has the receipts. Oliver speaks clearly about bad advice and ankle tugs and fallen branches and stones. She even connects our voice with our salvation. That feels important in the way that honesty is the foundation of trust and intimacy. Finding our voice — our truth, our core, our center — is worth The Journey.