Come in! Come in!

"If you are a dreamer, come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a Hope-er, a Pray-er, a Magic Bean buyer; if you're a pretender, come sit by my fire. For we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!" -- Shel Silverstein

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Day 7, Stage 6: Pontevella to Villalba (11.5 km/7.1 mi)


Now, The Way begins to turn south and west, leaving the ocean and traveling through grassy meadows populated by picturesque farming villages and beautiful farmer groves with willows, birches and oaks.

We have moved through the principality of Asturias and into the principality of Galatia, where evidences of Celtic influences abound. I passed a Neo-Gothic town cemetery – I’ll try to add the picture – which has stone niches where caskets are laid to rest, stacked up four niches high, with large spires on top.

Some of the spires have simple crosses, others more ornate and still others have Celtic crosses, with an open circle in the middle of the cross, representing the sun – its dawning and setting, or incarnation and resurrection – all enclosed in the circle representing the earth.

It is said that, because of the Celtic influence, the Galatians are “superstitious” people. The spires on the top of the cemetery are meant to dissuade the dead souls from returning to their caskets, hoping to “pinch their toes” if they try to walk along the top.

It is said that there are also many “witches” here who practice “earth medicine”. They are said to help lost souls find their way back to Paradise, something which the Catholic Church here has long quietly – some say silently – supported. 

Anything to avoid the “mischief” that can happen when a soul is not where it should be or doing what it is meant to do.

It is pouring down rain here today, with thunder and lightening punctuating the drama of walking in the rain. I’m so very glad my Columbia hiking boots are waterproof, but the rain slicker I got is less than advertised. I didn’t get soaking wet but let’s just say that my body was not as dry as my feet.

There is something about walking in the rain that is magical all in and of itself. The occasional bursts of fog add an ethereal quality to it that has a sense of the Holy about it.

The brim of my hat covered my eyes nicely and the hood from my jacket kept everything in place. The rain stayed off my glasses, allowing me to see. I kept my head down, mostly, but reminded myself every now and again to look up and around.

My path was mostly through back roads and farmland. Cows bellowed and geese honked, donkeys brayed and dogs barked. I saw a man out in his side yard chopping wood, his German shepherd sitting nearby, neither of them seemed to mind the rain.

I did get lost. Once. The Camino markers are pretty clear here in Galatia, but, well, I missed one. I was only about ¼ of a mile off the track, however, when our driver Jose Marie and guide Ignazio came by in the van and got me back on the right track.

One peregrino said to me, “There is no shame in getting lost in the rain. It happened to me on a sunny day. Twice in one day on another summer day. You are doing well. This is your Camino. There is no right way. There is no wrong way. There is just your way. You do your Camino your way and let others worry about what it means to be lost – or found.”

Tomorrow, we begin the last 100 km of The Camino and prepare our hearts and minds to enter the great city of Santiago on Saturday, the 20th. This city has been the destination of peregrino for a thousand years.

I’ve been thinking about “lost souls” and destinations and being where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there. 

I am taking inspiration from this poem by Jan Richardson:
This is not

any map you know.

Forget longitude

Forget latitude.

Do not think

of distances

or of plotting

the most direct route.

Astrolabe, sextant, compass:

these will not help you here.



This is the map

That begins with a star.

This is the chart

that starts with fire,

with blazing,

with an ancient light

that has outlasted

generations, empires,

cultures, wars.



You cannot see it all,

cannot divine the way

it will turn and spiral,

cannot perceive how

the road you walk

will lead you finally inside,

through the labyrinth

of your own heart

and belly

and lungs.
But step out
and you will know
what the wise who traveled this path before you
knew:
the treasure in this map
is buried
          not at journey's end
          but at the beginning.  

Amen. 
I am filled with gratitude that you have stayed with me this far, encouraging and supporting me and praying for me.

Thank you.

Day 6: Soto del Barco to El Pito (10 KM / 6.2 miles)

We began today’s pilgrimage in Soto del Barco, towards the towns of Era and Muros de Nalon. Outside the town of Muros, we were able to view Aguilar Beach – a gift from Costa Verde and a feast for the eyes and emotions.

We continued up to the village of El Pito where we rested before driving to the village of Cudillero, a lovely fishing village where we had lunch. Then, we went to the Figueras to reach Ribadeo by boat – the traditional route of the peregrino and will spend the night at the Parador of Ribadeo, right in front of the sea.

I don’t think I’ve yet had enough time to process all of what happened today. Earlier this morning, I learned of the death of the Rev’d Dr. Charles Rice, Episcopal priest, theologian and brilliant homiletics professor at the Theological School at Drew University in Madison, NJ.

Charles was the quintessential Southern gentleman, emphasis on gentle. He had a very quiet voice and a quiet laugh, but you never forgot when he spoke and when he laughed. I especially loved how his eyes focused or danced as he listened deeply to you.

I’ll miss him. I found myself praying for him but what came up was a memory of the Portuguese version of The Hail Mary. I remembered it in the youthful singsong way we said it as kids when I said the rosary with mia Voa (my grandmother) every morning at six. That would be A.M.

I found myself getting lost in that prayer, keeping rhythm with my steps and the click-clack sound of my walking stick. There, out in the forest path, all alone.

Except, of course, I wasn’t. It felt like a mighty cloud of witnesses joined me as I prayed and stepped and moved my walking sticks. All the saints were chanting it with me.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and found that I had started singing that wonderful South African hymn, “We Are Walking In the Light of God.” I felt suddenly lighter and freer, like the whole 6 mile walk that I had fretted over would be a piece of cake. And, it was.

When I finished my walk and came to the checkpoint, I heard one of the peregrino ask another, “Did you hear that choir singing? Wasn’t it wonderful? I wonder where the church is. Oh, it must be that church over there. What a great choir!”

I walked over to them to inquire what song they heard the choir singing. “I don’t know,” answered one as the two looked at each other quizzically. “It was something about walking in the light of God.”

I know you think I’m crazy, but somehow, I wasn’t at all surprised.

Then, we traveled to Fingueras where we were boarded a boat for Ribadeo, a beautiful seacoast town with magnificent views of the ocean and lovely homes that are part of this fishing village.

This is the traditional route of The Camino. Pilgrims take the boat across the way and continue on the route to Santiago.

This is the last of the coastal route, the last time we will have such amazing views of the ocean. The rest of The Camino is inland until we get to Santiago and continue to Finesterra.

And, it promises to rain all day tomorrow, Sunday, and into Monday.

Never mind. Today was more than sufficient for the day. Let me tell you what happened.

Once we landed, the van met us to take us for a special treat to see The Natural Cathedral. Unbeknownst to us, our guides had planned the trip carefully so we could be there at low tide, the only time the beach and Cathedral are available to walk along.

I’m hoping I can upload the pictures and video so you can get an idea of what it is like. If I can’t, please wait a few days and return to check it out. I’ll try to add them when the WiFi is better. It will totally be worth it. Promise.

So, what I saw was the kind of Cathedral only God could create. There are HUGE rock formations with caves that were created from before time.

I went in one of them with a small group of other pilgrims but suddenly, I turned around and I was all alone. I had been studying some carving in the side of the rocks. I don’t know where everyone went but I was quite alone.

I felt a small wave of anxiety and looked at my watch. Our guides had been pretty emphatic – the tide would start to come in at 2:30, and, when the tide came in, it would come in quickly. It could be dangerous, they said. So, start to leave at 2:15.

My watch said 1:50 pm. Plenty of time. And, I could see the exit. So, I relaxed and, in fact, started to giggle a bit. I felt like a little kid left alone in a cathedral. Any minute, I expected the Dean to walk in and shoo me away.

Instead, I think God showed up. Suddenly, there was this great light, streaming down from an opening way, way, way above my head. I was absolutely awestruck. The light was very bright but not blinding. There was this absolute stillness in the cave that was so filled with peace and love it made me weep.

I looked up and a few of the peregrino were looking into the cave with absolute amazement and awe. We looked at each other across this shaft of light and then, just as suddenly as it arrived, it made its departure.

None of us really knew what we had experienced but we knew it was Holy. It was not something that words – in any language – could contain. So we nodded and bowed to each other and left silently, reverently, forever changed.

I’m sure you’re thinking, “Okay, she’s lost it. She’s taken one too many Aleve. Or, maybe the air is thin at that altitude.”

I’m speaking the truth to you. And, I know this much to be true: my hands are trembling as I tell you what happened to me today.

I know there are more amazing things to come over the next five days, but you know, if The Camino ended right here, right now, I would be deeply grateful and richly satisfied.

It’s raining now, softly and gently on the ocean. It had been thundering and lightening as I was writing this.

I don’t know what that was, actually.

I just know there are no coincidences.

I can’t express my gratitude that you are willing to experience this with me. So, I’ll just say what the Spanish people say: Gracias a la vida!

Amen.
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Saturday, October 13, 2018

Day 5, Stage 4: La Isla-Priesca (13 km/8 miles)



The Way leaves La Isla by dirt road leading to the villages of Bueno and Colvian to Colunga, up the hill to Cabonota to our final destination of Priesca where we visit the church of San Salvador, in the Principality of Asturia, a10th century chapel buil by Alfonso III.

We started the day inspired by some words from Parker J. Palmer, in his book, “Let Your Life Speak.”
“Most of us arrive at a sense of self and vocation only after a long journey through alien lands. But this journey bears no resemblance to the trouble-free “travel packages” sold by the tourism industry. It is more akin to the ancient tradition of pilgrimage – “a transformative journey to a sacred center” full of hardships, darkness and peril.

In the tradition of pilgrimage, those hardships seem not as accidental but as integral to the journey itself. Treacherous terrain, bad weather, taking a fall, getting lost – challenges of that sort, largely beyond our control, can strip the ego of the illusion that it is in charge and make space for the true self to emerge. If that happens, the pilgrim has a better chance to find the sacred center he or she seeks. Disabused of our illusions by much travel and travail, we awaken one day to find that the sacred center is here and now – in every moment of the journey, everywhere in the world around us, and deep within our our hearts.”
I elected today to opt out of the “cliff hanger” segment of The Camino. It is a steep climb up a cliff which follows the ocean. The path is reportedly only approximately 12-15 feet wide in places, only 2-3 feet wide in others, with no fence or guide rope between you and the cliff and the ocean. 

Oh, and there are people on bikes who claim first right to the path, so you have to step back and cling to the cliff as they go by.

Sure. Like that would really happen for me.

So, I decided that I have been on lots of cliffs in my life – both physical and metaphorical – and I will most likely be on another one before I take my leave, but not today.

No, not today.

So, I walked around the little village of Bueno, standing eye-to-eye with cows and horses, talking with people who lived there, me in my broken Spanglish and they in there’s.

I met a wonderful old man who simply assumed that I understood him – and I did, mostly – who wanted to tell me about this shrine in the middle of two trees.

He said that the chestnut tree was many, many centuries old but, after the Spanish Revolutionary War, it had been hit by mortar and began to die. Someone in the village decided to take a piece of wood from it and helped it begin to root. The miracle is that, in the midst of the war, the shoot did take root and another tree began to grow next to the old dying tree.

Another miracle happened when the original tree, from which the shoot had been taken, saw the new tree growing, it, too, began to get healthy. And now, there are two beautiful chestnut trees in the center of town, with a wee little stone shrine to San Sebastian in the middle of them.

As near as I could understand the old man, who had a delightful way of winking at me as he tapped his forearm against my forearm for emphasis, said that it was “the blood of the martyrs that watered that tree, giving it life and hope for the future.”

I did get the punctuation to his story when he said, “There will always be Spain! Always. Always. Always.”

And, he blessed himself three times, the way Spanish people do, even if they are not Catholic. First, a cross on the forehead. Then, a cross on the lips. Then, a cross over the heart, And, finally – big finish – a Big Cross, sweeping broadly from head to navel and then, shoulder to shoulder.

“Buen Camino!” he said, “Your path is this way, but all the roads to the Camino lead to your soul,” he said.

“ . . . . the sacred center is here and now – in every moment of the journey, everywhere in the world around us, and deep within our our hearts.” (Parker Palmer)

Amen.

Thank you all for joining me on this Camino.

I feel your presence and your prayers and your support.

It means the world to me. 


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Thursday, October 11, 2018

Day 4: Early lessons from The Camino


Today, we walked a total of 7 miles, the last four of which were on the magnificent Oyambre Beach. As I walked and the ocean roared, I began to have some thoughts about what The Camino has taught me thus far.

The WiFi here is simply terrible so I can't upload the pictures I want to show you but I'll just let these  things speak for themselves.

Walk with your eyes wide open. Open your heart even wider.

Expect beauty and you will find it.

Expect kindness and the cosmos will provide it for you.

Expect kindness and you, too, will become kind. You will have no choice in the presence of the kindness available to you in the Cosmos.

Rest. Frequently. This is not a race. It is a pilgrimage.

This is the way you will learn the truth of the saying, “Do not rush, pilgrim. Your destination is within you.”

Your mouth is at least ten times larger than both your nostrils. There is a reason for this. You will get more air in your mouth than through your nostrils. There is a down side to this. Several, in fact. Your mouth will get drier, faster. And, you may get too much air, causing your head to feel light. As much as you can, try to breathe through your nose.

Walking sticks are very helpful. I do not know the science of them and I am certainly no expert, but I have learned that walking sticks help me to balance the weight of my body. My knees, ankles and back do not hurt as much when I use walking sticks. Walking sticks also sing to me – “clip, clip, clip, clop, clip, clip, clop” – encouraging my next step if I want to hear the rest of the song.

You are never alone on The Camino. First, there are the friends you have never met. They will pass you and say “Ola” or “Buenos Dia,” just when you need to hear the sound of another human voice.  Or, they will wish you “Buen Camino” when you have become so absorbed in thought that you have forgotton why you are here.

There are also saints on The Camino – those who have gone before, those who are here, and those who are yet to come.  I have heard them whispering to me. Some have been yelling – just when I’ve needed it. Some bring me sweet memories that provide me with lessons I had learned but forgotten and needed to learn again. Some tell me of things they have seen, or I am about to see. Some encourage or warn me. No matter. They are here. Now, I invite them to make themselves known to me.    

One woman with a very thick German accent told me that the secret to walking the Camino i not to think of the road as an adversary but to embrace it as a lover. “You must, from time to time, make little noises in the back of your throat, the way a woman does to her lover so that he – or she,” she said, with one eyebrow raised, “- will know that they are getting you to the place you have not been, perhaps, but need to be.” Her eyes smiled at me and she continued, “And, when you finally arrive, you must praise the road and thank the road. For it has taken you more places than the limits of its path.”

The magic of The Camino is, in part, because it reconnects you to our Mother, the Earth. Your feet are on the ground. One foot. Then, the other. Again. You feel your own weight on it. You feel the support of Mother Earth, carrying you, once again, as the infant you are and will always be in her eyes. Thank her.

Silence can be icy cold. Silence can be warm and inviting. Silence can hold within in it the possibility of terror or the hope of healing. Silence can fill your heart with song or dread. Silence can be holy, even when you do not expect or invite The Holy.

Remember when your mother asked you to share? Perhaps it was not a request. Perhaps it was an expectation. It might have even been a demand. Sharing comes surprisingly easy to the peregrino. Someone can see you struggling to make a piece of moleskin fit over a blister than threatens on an odd place on your foot. Out of nowhere comes a pair of scissors small enough to make just the right cut so that it fits. The peregrino is surrounded by a free-flowing, easily accessible Spirit of Generosity. The peregrino wants to share.

Endurance is not a wall. It can be. It does not have to be. You can visualize it differently. I have visualized endurance as a picket fence with a gate, latched on my side. I can see what’s on the other side and I can choose to open it. Or not. Or, I can rest for a while at the gate before deciding whether or not I want to open it and continue. It is not my enemy or adversary. It is what it is. It is endurance. How I use it is my choice.

I am excited to learn and know and experience more lessons from The Camino.

I am so very grateful that you are walking along with me.

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Day III: The City of Three Lies


Just before I woke up this morning I heard my mother’s voice. She was telling one of her favorite stories about me. I don’t remember it but she did. Apparently, in my semi-dream, she still does.

The story goes that the summer before I was to start my first day of school in the first grade, I was so excited it was all I talked about all summer long. I had to pick out a special “outfit” which my mother put on layaway at Arlan’s Department Store. I had a pair of blue – not, brown, not black, blue – Mary Jane Shoes. I had white anklet socks which my grandmother hand-trimmed with white lace. I even had the breakfast I wanted picked out for the morning, just to start the day off right.

My mother’s story has even more detail than that but the bottom line is that my first day of school was a great success. From all reports, I loved it – even the walk to and from school which was approximately a mile each way. I came home for lunch, gobbled it down and went straight back to school, skipping along the way.

The next morning, my mother reports she woke me up for the second day of school. “Get up, Elizabeth,” she called. “Time to get ready for school!”

“School?” moaned I as I rolled over, “I already went to school yesterday.”

Insert uproarious parental laughter here.

It was just about that time that I felt the first wave of queasiness in my stomach. “C’mon, get up!” I heard my mother’s voice say, “You have to go to school.”

I opened my eyes and thought, Right! It’s the second day of The Camino. Of course my subconscious brought up that story. But, boy, it sure felt like my mother was right here in the room with me in Bilbao.

Another roll of queasiness hit my stomach as I made my way into the shower. I chalked it up to anxiety about trying to walk up another hill.

I had a lovely breakfast out on the 7th floor Terrace of the hotel in Bilbao, which overlooked the roof of the Guggenheim Museum across the street. We gathered in the hotel lobby for our orientation session and body warm-up, stretching exercises.

The word of the day was “self-care” and the question of the day was, “What is my deepest calling?”

Interesting juxtaposition, I thought.

Today’s walk was a total of 9 km (a little less than 6 miles) through the beautiful towns of Otanes, Santullan, and Samano and ended in the Northern Seaport town of Castro Urdiales, on the Bay of Biscay.

There were three checkpoints along the way. The first segment was a gentle walk of a little over a mile through bucolic farmland. Cows and bulls with bells round their necks roamed the hillside without any visible fences – which made a few of us a bit nervous. Dogs barked behind fences as we approached. The last roses of the season were making their appearance along the road even as the leaves were beginning to turn color.

I’m not sure but I think it was the smell of manure that rolled my stomach the first time. I felt queasy and slightly nauseous, so I stopped to rest my body against a wall and take a sip of water.

That’s when it hit: Neptune’s Revenge.

I had thought twice about eating the ensalada with pickled stingray last night. I mean, are we really supposed to eat stingray? Is that why it is pickled?

I made it the rest of the way to the checkpoint but there was this really nasty hill waiting for me. The only reason I made it up that hill was sheer determination which was steeled by the sight of our transport/medical van.

I sat down on the bench at the bus station and broke out in a cold sweat. The next thing I knew, Jose, our driver, was walking me over to the van, clearing out a place for me to lie down in the back, instructing me to lift my feet, putting a cold compress on my forehead and fanning my face while saying, in Spanish, “Just breathe. Relax. You’ll be okay.”

And, I was. Of course. Just a little drama for the day. I was given AQUA-rius – the Spanish version of Gatorade to sip – and lots of TLC. Nunzio, our guide, said that AQUA-rius is “a miracle”. I said, well, maybe so, but the kindness and compassion in Jose’s eyes healed me completely.

Seriously. He was so concerned and so loving, it brings me to tears just remembering the look on his face or the gentle way he squeezed my hand when he came to check on me.

I stayed in the van with Jose and two other pelegrinos whose bodies were sore. We drove to the next checkpoint, skipping the two-mile walk in the middle. After a bit, I was able to walk across the street to a grocery store – right next to the MacDonald’s (no joke) –where I used the bathroom and bought a ginger ale.

As my fellow peregrinos returned from the second segment of their walk, I felt strong enough to join them. Off we went for the 2 mile walk into the charming seaside town of Castro Urdiales, making our way around the glorious vistas of the Biscayne Bay.

It simply took my breath away and began to heal my spirit and allow it to soar again.  

Most of my fellow peregrinos decided to have lunch at a very popular seafood restaurant. I decided to pass. Instead, I had a very simple lunch of a potato onion frittata and a small glass of white wine. It was absolutely perfect.

I passed on the chance to tour the Altamira Caves and came directly to our hotel in Santillana del Mar. It is known as “the city of three lies” since there is neither a saint (Santo) nor flat (llana) and has no sea (Mar). However, the town’s name comes from Santa Juliana (or, Santa Illana), whose remains are reportedly buried at Colegiata a former Benedictine monastery and now a church here in town. 

The town has cobblestone streets and all the buildings are made of stone. Only residents are allowed to drive in the town. Everyone else must walk.

It’s very quaint and lovely and pristine but I wonder what it must be like to actually live here, among the relics of saints, and all this stone. And, all these tourists.

I decided to go to dinner and ate a light but luscious meal. I’m feeling ever so much better. Tomorrow will be a bigger push: 12.4 km (7.7 miles).

I don’t think my mother will return to get me out of bed. After all, it will be my third day of walking The Camino.

Her work is done. Now she can go back to her rest.

On my second day of school, I became a life-long lover of learning and a perpetual student.

Today, I took care of myself and discovered my deepest calling.

I will learn how to become a life-long lover of Camino and a perpetual peregrina.

It is such a blessing that you are making this journey with me. Thank you.


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Tuesday, October 09, 2018

Day One: Elegant

Hotel De Londres y Inglaterra


I just wanted to put a few pictures here in my journal.

This pilgrimage is called "Walk in Beauty" and is known as "the kinder, gentler Camino".

The Spanish seem to use this word a great deal " Elegant".

That's really how it has been so far. Elegant

This was my supper last evening. We ate at a five star Michelin restaurant. It was part of the package. Dinner is part of the package. Every night. And, we are eating like this.

Seriously.

Here's the menu from La Muralla - a five star Michelin eatery in San Sebastian


You'll be able to see it below, but I stated with the Ensalada de langostinos (shrimp) which was served in an emulsion of avacado and amazing spices and topped with fresh greens.

I didn't take a picture of the rice but it was just a wee small bowl, top with a clam and head of asparagus.

A "taco" is a "brick" of bacalao (cod) or deshusesada (pork).

I had the Cofit of Duck - picture below.

Then came a wee small glass of red juices which tasted like strawberries and raspberries and topped with a dollop of yougurt.

The wine flowed freely during all of this. I very much enjoyed the Blanco Castilo de Aza. It was light and crips with a slight aftertaste of swee fruit.

And, if you know anything about me you don't even have to guess that I had the Bizcocho fluida de chocolate with a small scoop of passion fruit sorbet.

They did make American decaf coffee for us, which was pretty strong and very black. I had it con leche because, well, Spain.

So, here's the feast:

Ensalada de langostinos 

Confit de pato asado

Bizcocho fluida de chocolate
Yes, this is a pilgrimage.

It's called Walk in Beauty.

We are surrounded by beauty.

The meditative word for today was "Savor".

This was part of that meditation.

Buen Camino!

Monday, October 08, 2018

Day One: Madrid to San Sebastian

If I could sum up this first day in one image, it would be this glorious basket of bread.

Let me explain.

So, we set out at 8:30 AM from Madrid, all of us loaded up on a van bound for San Sebastian.

It was a very beautiful, leisurely ride. We stopped in Burgos for lunch at Don Nuno which was amazing. I had the soup and fish stew. The picture of the bread above is from that restaurant.

But first, we toured a bit of the city, especially the Cathedral.

Among it's many features, the tomb of El Cid is in the sanctuary there.

The bell tower is an imposing structure with gargoyles carved into the side. The folks in town call them "The Fly Catchers" because it is said that when the bell is rung, the tower shakes and the mouths of the gargoyles open and close.

Imaginations tend to run high during long siestas, especially on hot days.

I'm going to scatter some pictures of the day here and there, randomly, in no particular order. But what I really want to do is to tell you why that bread is the image of my first day, readying for the actual start of The Camino.

I'm about to tell you something that some of you will think I'm absolutely crazy. And, you know what? I don't care. It's my truth and this is my journal/blog, so here goes.

My father's spirit is here. I feel him more than I have at any other time in my life.

I'll feel a tap n my shoulder and I distinctly hear his voice saying, "Look! Look! Look at this!"

And there will be some amazing sight like a quaint villa, or a bucolic scene like sheep in a pasture, or suddenly, a small square church with a crucifix on the very top of its roof will appear, sitting in solitary vigilance on the top of a hill with absolutely nothing around it for miles and miles and miles.

And, I hear my father's voice say, "See? Didn't I tell you? Aren't you glad you didn't miss it?"

But, nowhere is my father more present than in baskets of bread.

Let me explain.

My father was a very simple man. He had no more than a 6th grade education. It was The Depression and his father pulled him out of school to help on the farm. His mother had died the year before, leaving his father with five kids, three boys - Antonio (Sonny), John and Daniel and two girls, Gilda and Angelina.

That first year was very hard on everyone.

By the end of that year, my grandfather married an "old spinster" who, my father said, was "meaner than a wet hen". I think he was trying to be kind.

She beat the children. Often. They went hungry. Often. She hated them. They hated her. The minute my father could leave the house, he did. He was 17, lied about his age, and signed up for the army to fight in WWII.

I remember his two younger sisters, Gilda and Angelina, were grown women with husbands and children of their own and, whenever they visited with their brother, at some point in the conversation one of them would say that they never forgave him for leaving them alone and unprotected with "that woman, Papa's wife."

It must have been really bad.

Between his childhood and what we now understand to be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his experiences in WWII, my father self-medicated with alcohol.

He was a mean drunk. Violent. I still carry some scars.

I forgave my father years ago and am at peace with my relationship with him.

He did the best he could. It fell far short of what I needed or wanted, but it was the best he could do, given all that he, himself, had been through.

I have a few wonderful stories which have served as instructive parables in my life.

But, today, I got in touch with what is perhaps his most precious gift. It is most precious because he didn't even realize he was giving it to me.

When I was a little girl, I used to love to sit on my father's lap and have him read to me. It didn't matter what the story was - and, there weren't many children's books then - but I loved that time with him.

I would press my ear against his chest and listen to his deep voice as it resonated against his lungs and ribs and chest wall.

In my youthful innocence, I imagined that this was what God's voice must sound like: Ethereal and yet human. Other-worldly and yet very present.  Strange, and yet very familiar. Capable of doing great harm in harsh judgment and terrible, thundering, angry words, but also capaable of being soft and tender and loving.

I also remember my father's voice at the dinner table. He would always say, "Eat bread. Come on, have a piece of bread. It will fill your tummy and you'll sleep better."

It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that this was probably the one loving thing his father might have said to them at their dinner table - when they had little else but bread and maybe some broth as a meal.

I was also much older when I realized why my father stopped reading books to me. I was very hurt when he did. I would bring home my books from school and he would insist I read them. He would read "the baby books" to the younger children and tell me that I was too old, now. Reading books was for babies and I was no longer a baby.

Well, one day, it finally occurred to me. He didn't read those books because he couldn't read those books. When I realized that my father was functionally illiterate, I broke down in inconsolable sobs that squeezed my chest until I couldn't breathe.

So, I found ways to read the newspaper to him. "Hey, Daddy," I'd say at the breakfast table. "Did you hear about this?"

"No, what?" he'd ask, even though he had long ago figured out my little game.

And, I'd read him the story from the Fall River Herald News, which, I leaned, was written at the time at a 6th grade level so that the people in that mill town, made up of so many men like my father, could read and understand.

That's the voice I heard in the van. I heard it again in the Cathedral. And, again in the restaurant, urging me to eat some bread.

His voice has been with me all day.

Today, in this amazing country which looks and feels so much like the Portugal of my grandfather's youth, I find myself deeply connected to my father.

My father's spirit is here in this place. It is as nourishing to my soul as a basket of fresh bread.

It is said that no peregrino is ever ready for The Camino but The Camino is always ready for the peregrino

I think I'm ready.

Thanks, Daddy.

Sunday, October 07, 2018

The Camino - Arrival in Madrid

Je suis arrive!

Oops! Wait. I forgot for a moment where I am. Madrid. Right! A two hour cat nap on the plane can make a body discombobulate like that.

He llegado. I have arrived in the beautiful city of Madrid. 

This statue of Neptune is right in front of the entrance to my hotel on Paseo del Prado, right down from the Prado museum. There is a bicycle race today, as you can see, which ends here with Neptune. There are about 6 drummers who are beating out a Very Loud welcome on large drums. 

No siesta for the wicked. Not today, anyway.

Neptune, God of the Sea, is depicted with a trident in one hand and a coiled snake in the other. He is standing on a chariot, drawn by two sea horses and surrounded by dolphins. It's pretty dramatic.

Apparently there are fountains to Greek gods all over the city.   I walked by one of Cybele, the Great Mother and Roman goddess of fertility and agriculture, atop a chariot drawn by two lions, the mythological creatures Hippomenes and Atalanta.

When you are a tourist, you look at these things and, perhaps, check them off your "to see" list.

When you are a peregrino, you wonder about their metaphorical significance for your journey. 

Land and sea. Male and Female. Lions and horses. Dolphins and Sea Horses. Coiled snakes and tridents.

Both statues and images amidst fountains of water. 

You wonder and then you move on, noticing things. Being awake and aware and intentional. 

Mindful. That's the word the Buddhists use. Mindful.  
  
More on this in a moment. 

My plane arrived at 7:15 AM. I had gotten about two hours sleep on the plane. I made it through customs, found my way through the underground maze of the airport to the baggage claim area, and breathed a deep sigh of relief when my suitcase came by. 

I wasn't entirely trusting of the baggage handlers at Salisbury, MD, Charlotte, NC or Madrid, Spain.  I'm not sure why I wasn't trusting of them but I did file that anxiety away for closer inspection later on, even if simply to acknowlege it so that I might greet it when it makes its next appearance.


And, I'm quite certain it will, again. At least once or twice in the next 12-14 days. Because trust and anxiety almost always travel together, and they whisper secrets to each other. 

I had hoped that my hotel might have a room that was ready and I was ready to pay extra to go to it early but, alas, I was being called to endure. 

So, I did.

I found the address to St. George's Anglican Church in Madrid and, using my iPhone map, walked 30 minutes to get there in plenty of time to have a cafe con leche and a small bacon quiche for breakfast in a Bistro across the street from the church. 

There was a "High Mass" at 11:30 AM. That's what the sign outside the church and the webpage said. Well, the congregation did sing hymns, and they did chant the psalm. Fr. Paul did chant the Sursum Corda. Yup. He did. 

Did I mention that the congregation sang hymns? Apparently, that counts for "High Mass" for this congregation which seemed comprised of equal parts British ex-pats and Africans, with a small smattering of actual Spaniards. 

Everything was in English, of course, and the mass was directly out of the CofE (Church of England) "Book of Common Worship". 

King James would have felt right at home.  Except for a few hymns which included "Here I am, Lord." That  was included in a wee blue bookie in the pew entitled, "St. George Song Book."


And, this particular beauty entitled "And Can It Be Said That I Should Gain" Hymn. I took a picture of it and have included it here. You can click on it and it will be more readable.

The tune was a rousing British number which repeated the last two lines of each verse in a very typical British crescendo. 

The congregation LOVED it and sang with great gusto.

It sorta reminded me of the hymn in our hymnal, "The Spacious Firmament on High". Check it out here. I can never sing that hymn without my arms moving enthusiastically as I imagine British troops marching by.

Fr. Paul encouraged us to take home the paper and read and meditate on the verses. "It's all of our theology, right there, all summed up." He was particularly fond of the second verse:
'Tis mystery all! The Immortal dies;
Who can explore His strange design?
In vain the first-born seraph tries
To sound the depths of love divine.
'Tis mercy all! let earth adore,
Let angel minds inquire no more.
I especially loved the beginning and ending lines.

"'Tis mystery all!" And, "Let angel minds inquire no more."   

Apparently, even the mysterious creatures we call angels can not fathom The Great Mystery that is God. 

Which brings me back to the issue of Mindfulness. 

Our Pilgrimage Leader is Valerie Brown, whose unique perspective has its roots in Affrican and Caribbean ethnicity which she weaves together with her Buddhist and Quaker spirituality. 

She writes: 
"Pilgrimage travel offers time for reflection in a way that often does not happen in daily life. It is a step on the path to conscious awareness of the unconscious forces that control our lives. Without time set aside to reflect, to take stock, to ask Big Questions about life's meaning and purpose, or just to be, we can miss out on what is truly meaningful and important. We  can easily live adrift without intention or direction. Asking Big Questions points toward courageous action."
It occurred to me this morning, as I watched the hustle and bustle of readiness and, in my exhaustion, was particularly sensitive to the brisk pace of the service, that our time in worship probably ought to be a "mini-pilgrimage" but more often than not, it is not.

Most of it can feel really sort of perfunctory, practiced solemnity. We bow. We raise our voices and then lower them for effect. We might even pause breifly at various points.

I am remembering the time Ms. Conroy said to me after church, "We see you, you know."

"Excuse me?" said I.

"We see you counting us. Let the ushers do that. You are supposed to be leading us in worship and you can't worship while you're worring about the ASA (Average Sunday Attendance)."

She's right, you know? A smartass, to be sure, but an absolutely correct smartass.

But, there really is no time in the midst of the standing and the sitting and the kneeling and the juggling of prayer books and hymnals and the chanting of psalms and singing of hymns to ask Big Quesions or to just be.

R.D. Laing, the British psychiatrist, wrote: "There are three things people fear the most: death, other people, and their own minds."

I think that's true.The church is really awful about avoiding talk of death. We speak of resurrection, but we never talk frankly and honestly about death and dying.

I think we got all boggled up in homosexuality and sexuality for so long so as to avoid talking about the Really Big Questions in life.

Like each other. Especially, in the midst of our great diversity, what we might have in common.

And, despite our delight in proclaiming that we Episcopalians don't "leave our brains at the door" - which is horribly insulting and demeaning to other denominations and religious persuasion - there are some things some Episcopalians will NOT think about.

We just repeat the "company line" or the "trend du jour". That leads to really sloppy - or what John Snow called "flabby" - theology.

I'm constantly aghast at Episcopalians - some of whom are ordained - who don't know the Cathechism or Outline of Faith in the BCP. They haven't a clue about what sacraments are - much less that there are two sacraments and five sacramental rites - so they often just make stuff up.

R.D. Laing was absolutely right about death, other people and our own minds. I suspect Laing had been to a CofE church more than once in his life.

I think that's why mindfulness is so scary and pilgrimages are a lot more work than they look on the surface.

I think people intuitively know this, which is why we avoid them. Fr. Paul, for example has been at St. George's for five years and it occured to him today that he has never gone on Camino. He is thinking now that won't happen because he's being transferred to a church in Switzerland.

When the woman who drove the fiacre (the taxi) from the airport to the hotel heard that I was walking from San Sebastian to Santiago said, in the most beautiful Spanglish accent I think I've ever heard, "Oh, you can rent a car. You drive that in two, maybe three hours. Then, stop. Have something to eat. Is nice. You will like. Then, you can have more time to see more of Spain."

I didn't try to explain.

So, I've mulled over all these things whilst sipping proper lemongrass tea in the lovely if not just slightly pretentious Tea Shop in my hotel. Afterwards, I went to my room - FINALLY - and took a delightful and much needed two-hour nap.

And then, I did nothing. I was introduced to this Spanish proverb by the Tea Shop owner
How wonderful it is to do nothing,
And then rest afterward
Now it is time for dinner. I'm not yet sure where I shall go or what I shall eat but my mind will certainly continue to feast on the Plate of Mindfulness, which contains a portion each of the possible meaning of the appearance of Neptune and Cybele, as well as a very healthy serving of the stuff that might make the mind of angels inquire no more.

I'm so glad you're with me on this pilgrimage.

Saturday, October 06, 2018

Peregrino: The Art of Living


It may seem strange to start this pilgrimage with this quote, but here goes:
You desire to know the art of living, my friend?
It is contained in one phrase: Make use of suffering
       - Henri-Frederic Amiel
I became enamored of the writings of Amiel when I first read his poem, which has become my "blessing" at the end of Eucharist.
Life is short, and we do not have much time
to gladden the hearts of those
who make this earthly pilgrimage with us
So, be swift to love and 
Make haste to do kindness.
You can only understand the power and energy behind that blessing if you understand the first quote from Amiel about the art of living and making use of suffering.

I have been planning this pilgrimage in earnest for over three years. In that time, two knees were replaced, a body recovered from the brink of death in septic shock, two beautiful babies were born and various and sundry other life events happened which conspired to keep both my feet planted on this side of the Atlantic while my heart and my mind were dreaming of the time for this journey.

I have a few hours lay-over at the airport in Charlotte to express some of the thoughts I have about what it is I'm about to do.

These are my thoughts and feelings. I am no expert. Even after I complete this pilgrimage, I will not be an expert. In many ways, I'll just begin to have a deeper understanding of what it means to be a peregrino: a pilgrim. 

A pilgrimage is very different from a vacation or, as Americans like to call it, "a trip". As in, "We took a trip to Alaska". Or, "We loved our trip to France."

The first step in taking the journey of a pilgrimage begins with the starting.

John O'Donohue in his book, "To Bless the Space Between Us" tells the story of this beginning point.
The setting is Connamara, Ireland. One neighbor had just begun to build his new home. 

He had stripped the sod off the field to begin digging out the foundation when an old man from the village happened to walk by. he blessed the work and said, "You have left the worst of it behind you."

The builder laughed and said, "I have only just begun."

The old man leaned forward and said, "That's what I mean: you have begun and to make a real beginning is the most difficult act."
Before I began to actually put dreams and ideas into a plan of action - and at several points during it -  there is a gestation period where I "mulled things over".

There is hesitation. Procrastination. Excuses.

I talked myself out of beginning several times.  The last time was on the ride to the airport.

That great but nefarious modern theologian, Woody Allen, once said, "Eighty percent of success is just showing up." The Buddhists would say that this is the first rule of enlightenment.

Sounds so simple, right? Just show up.

It's like Nancy Regan's "Just say no."

It's the "just" that bears the greatest offense.

In order to get through the "just" and finally "show up", I had to work through and embrace the suffering in my life. Not just my own, but the suffering I carried with me, given as unintentional "presents" or "gifts" from my grandmother and mother, my aunts and uncles.

I grew up in a home deeply imbued with the Portuguese notion of Saudade. It's hard to translate from one language to another without, well, losing something in translation.


Wiki describes it best, I think. At least, it captures something deeply meaningful for me
Saudade was once described as "the love that remains" or "the love that stays" after someone is gone. Saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again.

It can be described as an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one's children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, pets) or something (e.g., places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence.

In Portuguese, 'tenho saudades tuas', translates as 'I have saudades of you' meaning 'I miss you', but carries a much stronger tone. In fact, one can have 'saudades' of someone whom one is with, but have some feeling of loss towards the past or the future.
My grandparents were immigrants. I am second- generation American. There is something about growing up in a home and in a part of town where you knew your family and had a sense of 'home' but that understanding was exaggerated and amplified by knowing that, in any place else in this place where you lived, and moved and had your being, you did not belong and this was decidedly not your 'home'.

Indeed, you were reminded of that several times a day by kids and their parents who made fun of your food and your hair, your smell and the color of your skin.

It made me long for a place and a country where I had never lived, much less seen, but knew that I belonged there surely more than I felt I belonged in the place I called 'home'.

I felt "the love that remains". Still do.

And then, there's being a woman. And, a woman whose love means she has chosen "a different lifestyle"  - whatever the hell that means.

I have a life. Not a lifestyle.

I have come to understand that having "a lifestyle" means not living a plain vanilla bean life but rather, one that has strands of various flavors -  cardamon, ginger, cinnamon, cocoa, nutmeg.

And then, there's the adult woman who was considered "exotic". My thick, curly hair, hazel eyes and shapely figure marked me as a particularly 'interesting' object to men who thought all women were objects - an exotic toy to be played with and then abused if I did not find the game interesting or amusing. Or, even if I did.

The past two weeks of living Dr. Ford's testimony have been re-traumatizing.

As I've grown older I've come to understand that my wanderlust has its roots in the understanding of myself as an immigrant. The gift my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles gave to me is an understanding that the world was much bigger than my understanding and comprehension.

I have always wanted to discover that much bigger world, not to 'own' it or understand it, but to embrace it and, in so doing, to justify, in some way, my existence as, in blessed Audre Lorde's words, a "sister outsider".

This began my understanding of Ameil's words about The Art of Living.

On this journey, this pilgrimage, this peregrino is attempting to 'make use of suffering'.

Not that I haven't done that my whole life. I think that's what my ministry - most especially in these past 32 years I've been ordained - has been all about.

It's the genesis of all those years of activism within and outside the church - finding ways to use the power of the institutional church for the good of the powerless.

At this stage in my life, I need a 'deeper dive' into my own story. I need to get closer to the truth. In order to do that, I must get to the bottom of some of the stories I've told to others until even I believed them.

For me, at least, that begins with taking the first step. And then, the next. And then, another. Until the steps of the journey are not the thing but the way - the Camino - to 'make use of the suffering' and fulfill my desire to know the art of living.


I take these words with me on my journey, from the wisdom of Pierre Teillard de Chardin
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience.
We are spiritual beings having a human experience.
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/pierre_teilhard_de_chardi_160888
Before I leave this earth and return more fully to the spiritual being I have always been, I'd like to more fully embrace being human. I'd like to honor the suffering and the joy, the struggle and the laughter, the failures and the successes.

I hope to do that with every step I take.

I am thrilled that some of you will be joining me on this pilgrimage from wherever you are. I take all of your hearts into my heart.
We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/pierre_teilhard_de_chardi_160888We are

Please join me in this Buddhist Gatha
O Holy One, to you who lives in the silence and stillness, in the busyness and restlessness, kindle Light within me and in all that lives. May I go forth, walking gently on the earth and give you thanks for this journey and these lessons along the pilgrim's path.
Amen. Om Shanti

Off we go, then.