The Pilgrim
By Sally Dukes
My memoir, drummer girl (release date March 17, 2026), is about my pilgrimage to find my truth. Many of us confuse the journey with the pilgrimage. The journey implies a set plan, a beginning, a concrete goal, an outward destination. The pilgrim is driven by a force from within, possibly not even recognizable, yet so compelling that one cannot turn away. The ember burns deep. It leads to places for consciously unknown reasons, yet the pilgrim follows.
It was not until I began to collate my writing, that I realized the call was always the same, only the context was different, the horizons lay far beyond my awareness. Having had a near-death experience as a child, I was drawn to recovering the numinous, that clear light at the end of the long, dark tunnel, the violet swirling energy field of love, and the stillness, the silence, the sacred quietude.
I had several sightings along the way; however, it was not until I was meditating one evening that I experienced a violet swirl of energy enter the meditation hall through a closed-glass window and shimmer its way along the wall out of my line of sight. I recognized the presence; it was from the other side. I understood it to be a calling. But to where was unclear.
My first stop was India. In the city of Varanasi, the Hindus come to die along the banks of the river Ganges. This has always been and remains a sacred resting spot. It is here where upon death, it is believed that one receives salvation. Here, the cycle of life and death are not hidden from view. Although the grieving widow’s wail shatters any sense of calm along the smoke-filled banks, death on this sacred shore is seen as an event to be celebrated.
Since childhood, I have always been drawn to the Taj Mahal. I used to open the centerfold of the World Book Encyclopedia to the alluring picture of this stately mausoleum. Magical and mystical, I longed to see it in person. On the day of my arrival in Agra, I was stunned to silence, as I stared at what I considered to be one of the most beautiful sights I had yet to behold. On that particular day, at that particular hour, there was a crew performing maintenance on one of the exterior walls. As a chunk of soft, pure marble tumbled to the ground and glistened in the sun, I ran to retrieve. It was a gift, a sign. I could now hold a small piece of this sacred space created by Shah Jahan for his beloved Mumtaz Mahal. Love in life and love in death intertwined as one and symbolized, concretized in stone.
Pilgrims often abandon themselves to follow an instinctual urgency not necessarily a rational decision. Meditating in a forest monastery on the outskirts of Rangoon, Burma came from a calling deeply buried. It was personal. I was drawn by the need to create a safe space to reflect, to search within. 90 days of silence. 90 days of Buddhist practice. What better way to recover the numinous?
Upon arriving, taking my vows, and unpacking my very few belongings, I wondered how I got there and why. The first night, hungry and alone, I sobbed into my makeshift pillow. Day after day, week after week, and month after month, I left myself no choice but to follow protocol: meditate, meditate, meditate. Through the rigors of practice, I got no closer to discovering yet recovering the numinous. I actually seemingly slipped further from my truth. The incredible lesson learned from this solitary time did not reveal itself until much later in life. The pilgrim knew, I did not.
My interest in Western psychology took the pilgrim to Zurich. Alone, I wondered why I had left a loving house with a roaring fire stoked in a stone fireplace, to walk cold, cobbled streets in an all-grey city. The drive was from within. The pilgrim was in search of wholeness, healing. Her truth, the numinous. As fall folded into winter, the pieces began to coalesce. The pilgrim knew best.
When you head out as a pilgrim, with trust in your pocket, you will return all the wiser. With sights on a distant knowing, the pilgrim meandered through darkness led only by her north star. Travels to New York, life in Hawaii, graduate school in California, parenting, cancer, these became the footfalls of her life. These remain the small steps that led me back to myself, back to the realization that in searching for my truth, I only had to stop long enough to look within.
The pilgrim’s final resting place: Greece. As the Meltemi wind blows in hard through my garden and the giant cypress trees dance to the rhythm of the summer gusts, they pattern the time-worn patio in sun and shadow, light and dark, life and death. And in this movement, this very simple act of nature, it is obvious that one cannot exist without the other.
******
Sally Dukes is published in the Journal of Sandplay Therapy (volumes II, III, IX) and has spoken nationally as an educator and psychotherapist. A successful business owner and committed healer, Sally expanded her career through academic pursuits in psychology and contemplative practice. Her studies deepened her understanding of the mythos that can unconsciously shadow one’s persona. As a psychotherapist, she paid careful attention to her client’s narrative, witnessing their pain, their joy and, in turn, became their unbiased mirror. As an educator, she taught middle school students to give voice to their emerging selves. As an independent editor, she helped writers to better align their messaging with their heart.
True healing does not come in a pill or a prescription. It comes when our stories are heard, and our humanity recognized and honored. Sally Dukes believes in the power of narrative as medicine. Her memoir “drummer girl” (March 17, 2026) is her narrative, her truth. Learn more about Sally and her work at: www.sallydukes.com
