In an hour or so, I’ll be reading something from St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians for April’s wedding. Her church wedding, that is; here in France, you have to have a civil ceremony first, so yesterday, she and Manu were officially married by the mayor of Nice (as is everyone in Nice, apparently).
Anyway, the reading she gave me is surprisingly churchy, so here is the reading I am going to give here, for me, from a Kelley Link story which I’m re-reading in The Best of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, which Terri got me for Christmas.
Your destination is North. The map you are using is a mirror. You are always pulling the bits out of your bare feet, the pieces of the map that broke off and fell on the ground as the Snow Queen flew overhead in her sleigh. Where you are, where you are coming from, it is impossible to read a map made of paper. If it were that easy then everybody would be a traveler. You have heard of other travelers whose maps are bread crumbs, whose maps are stones, whose maps are the four winds, whose maps are yellow bricks laid one after the other. You read your map with your foot, and behind you somewhere there must be another traveler whose map is the bloody footprints that you are leaving behind you.