A Pilgrimage to the Heart of the Wilderness

“For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so,

Then people long on pilgrimage to go,

And palmers to be seeking foreign strands,

To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands”

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Canterbury Tales

I am a second generation immigrant who is very attached to the family in my “country of origin”. I feel that it is only natural for me to question the wisdom of my predecessors to leave their countries and make Canada their home. My travels to Switzerland often leave wishing my family could be a part of my daily life instead of a long and expensive trip apart.  My family was not driven from Switzerland due to economic hardship or political strife.  Indeed Switzerland prides itself on being the oldest democratic country in the world and for years has held the privilege of being one of the world’s countries that enjoy the highest standard of living. 

Why leave all your family who is predominately supportive, a country that is safe and wealthy, to move somewhere where no one knows you? My first ancestor to make this decision was Charles Fleur de Lys, the founder of our farm.

The family “story” that gave explanation to his departure is that he was hoping to start a printing or book binding business in Montreal. 

Montreal at this time was a city whose main employment was industry. People were preoccupied with carving out an income for themselves and art and culture were not of much interest to the population.  Charles had no hope in starting a printing business and soon found employment with the CPR until his retirement and move to the farm.

It could of only been a pilgrimage,  a restless stirring of the soul that prompted the long journey with his very young daughter, Renee.  His wife, Caroline, would join him many months later. For Charles his pilgrimage to Canada became a religious one as in Montreal he started a Christian practice that would form a significant part of his life.  A story that illustrates his single minded devotion was one that Gus told me recently.  Charles was given the responsibility of delivering milk to the various customers along the lake but would become so consumed in prayer that the boat would drift for hours, the cream going sour, the delivery forgotten.  

My Grandmother, Renee, was unwittingly drawn into this journey.  Too small to protest the absence of her mother, she was thrown into the path that many years later would lead to her own pilgrimage.

Renee Fleur-de-Lys, Montreal.

Renee Miege, 1948, on the boat from Geneva to Montreal.

A pilgrimage involves a long journey with many challenges in order to obtain spiritual enlightenment or reaffirm one's beliefs. Renee's journey brought her to the heart of the wilderness, she was able to explore her love of nature that had laid dormant for years. The farm did become a shrine of sorts to her as she built up the earth around her home, producing an abundance of flowers and vegetables.

Renee and Buster under one of the many flowering shrubs that she planted in her yard.

I choose to think I am on a pilgrimage, rather than being

disenfranchised.

As a pilgrim I expect to be robbed and beaten.

It has become a spiritual quest with hardships that serve

to deepen faith.

Not destroy.

I am being driven into the face of life.

It is not beautiful.

There is another quality to this journey that cannot be named.

An elusive sense of freedom,

a ripping away of what I ever was or will be.

What is left becomes quieter, smaller.

It is clear I am not safe, nor well.

Sadness has nested, a small bird in my chest, kindness

keeps it there.

I understand now to believe in justice but not to expect it.

My companions are many and varied, some keeping step to a corner,

others, like a heart beat, always there.

Not everyone knows it is a pilgrimage.

That with me always is love,

and a wish for peace.

Not everyone wants to know that.