Departing

Well if it isn't done now, it's probably too late! A tearful goodbye with my mom - we haven't been apart this long since before my father passed away more than three years ago, so this will be difficult for both of us. But she will be in good hands with Tren, who takes such good care of her each day, and with people from the church who will be checking in on her and watching over her for me. (In the picture, my mother's seated, Tren's on the left and Natalie's on the right.) Dear Natalie drove me to the airport this morning in the midst of all the other things she does for so many people. So now, I sit here, waiting for my first flight that will take me to meet up with the other four journeyers...

I remember the very first time that I flew. I was 17, flying from BWI in Baltimore to Corpus Christi, TX as a Navy ROTC midshipman. It was a terribly dark summer day, pouring rain by the buckets on the ground in Maryland. It probably was a bumpy ride up through the clouds, I don't remember that so much. What I remember, is coming out on top of the clouds into the glorious, incredible sunshine on top of the white, fluffy cumulus clouds below - so ethereal, heavenly, and peaceful! It was wildly surreal and completely unexpected, compared to the world I had just left. Here was this totally glorious world coexisting alongside the darkness that I had just left. I have reminded myself, on those dark days ever since, of the sunshine that is just on the other side of those clouds. Perhaps it is sort of like Jesus telling us that the Kingdom of God is all around us, but we only sometimes get glimpses of it. Most of the time, we see the rain and the storm, not the fabulous light of the sun (Son?) bouncing off of the fluffiness of the lighter-than-air, brilliantly glorious clouds.

Later on, several years after that first flight, there was an eleven year span of time when I didn't fly because I was terrified of it, probably for a variety of reasons. Which was a little ironic, or perhaps terribly fitting, depending on your perspective, given that I was an aircraft maintenance officer in the Navy. Eventually, I decided that I didn' want my life to be ruled by such seemingly irrational fears. I was giving up too much. So, tentatively, and with the help of a medication or two, I started flying again. My first trip was a trip back to England. I've traveled a number of times since then. I´m really glad that I didn´t allow the fear to win!

A good flight from Savannah to Atlanta. Arriving in Atlanta, I checked to see if Mary or Stella had already arrived, which they hadn´t, but they did soon after. Here they are pictured, with Mary on the right, and Stella on the left. Then I got to meet Lexi and Josh. They'll be in later pictures! We went to get something to eat and drink as we waited for the flight. We returned in what we thought was plenty of time, only to find that they were already beginning to board, forty minutes before the flight was due to leave. As Mary, Lexi and Josh were on buddy passes, we watched the standby list anxiously as their names crept slowly upward. Stella and I boarded when our turn came. Do you think they could possibly design any less space to shoehorn people into? At first, all five of us got on, then, it became apparent that Delta had significantly overbooked the flight so Josh and Lexi had to get back off and didn´t make the flight. To date, they are still trying to get over here and meet up with us. Meanwhile, we settled into a long, sleepless flight!

Details

If it doesn't get written on a list, it probably doesn't get done. And boy, have there been a lot of lists! As soon as I scratch something off, two or three more things get added. There are just so many things to think about for a trip this long when you are single and have your own home, pets and a job that you are leaving behind!

As of yesterday, I think I have taken care of everything at work that I need to get done before I leave. Part of my role as a priest, as I understand it, is to ensure that ministry continues and the parish functions smoothly in my absence. I am to raise up lay leadership and ministry. Whenever I would return from a trip, my dear and beloved friend, Connie, whom we lost last year, used to say in her dry way, as only she could do, "We really missed you, but we did just fine." And it was exactly what I wanted and needed to hear. I knew she loved me and did indeed miss me greatly whenever I wasn't there (and likewise me her), but it meant that I had helped equip them for what they were to do and I had let go and let God, as they say. It also meant that everyone there had picked up the reins and carried on, just as they should. The timing is a little funny since I have a new assistant who is just arriving, but perhaps that's better for him, also. It gives him a nice slow time to get settled without me hovering. He can explore, work on the things we've talked about, get to know these folks, his new family, at his own pace, in his own way.

People have been so generous in their offers of help in a variety of forms. Two households have loaned us Spanish language lessons, several have offered equipment, one friend is taking care of my cats and house while I'm gone, another one or two are doing the yard for me. Another is taking me to the airport and one detail yet remaining is to ask someone to meet me when I get back and bring me home. Several people have given gifts towards the trip. It has been a surprise to me from the beginning how many other people are familiar with this pilgrimage and how many people have a sense that someday they want to do it. So a number of people want to participate in it vicariously through us, which is kind of neat. Thank you so much to all of you who are helping in so many ways!

With a trip this afternoon to return a couple of items and purchase one more, and then get a few smaller items for the first aid 'kit', I should at last have everything finalized and ready to pack. Then, between now and Tuesday when I leave, it is cleaning the house (just in case something happens to me, I don't want y'all to find the house a wreck!), doing the yard, paying all the bills and my quarterly taxes for June, some things with my mom and some social events, and oh yes, church tomorrow. It's hard to believe it is finally here after several years of thinking about it, reading about it, getting more serious about it, and finally preparing for it. The latest series of details have all been about how to get from the airport in Madrid to where we start. We take a bus from Madrid to Pamplona (remember the running of the bulls? Fortunately, we aren't there at the same time!), then from there a shuttle to St. Jean-Pied-du-Port just across the border in France. Mary's working that stuff out.

As I have mentioned to some of you in person, I am just fully whelmed at the moment. I don't think my brain can take in much more - between learning about hiking stuff (whole new world), upgrades in technology (netbook, wifi, global phone, blogging...), learning more Spanish, the Camino itself, I have reached my limit for this period of time of preparation. It is time to let it all sink in and just walk and walk and walk and let God take over for whatever purpose I am supposed to be doing this walk and enjoy the journey.

Credentialed

It’s beginning to look official. A few days ago, I received my ‘Credencial del Peregrino’ or Pilgrim’s Credentials in the mail from American Pilgrims on the Camino. It’s a fallback in case we can’t get them over there. Mary and Stella already have theirs. We should be able to get them when we arrive in St. Jean Pied du Port, the little village just across the French border where we are starting. They are given out, maybe, if she likes you, by this little old lady, who has a reputation for being rather curmudgeonly. So we wanted to play it safe. These credentials will be what allow us to stay in the hostels (a.k.a refugios, or now more, alburgues) along the way. We will get them stamped in each town and village at the alburgue or cathedral as we pass through. And won’t they be a nifty memento of this journey? Each place has its unique stamp and so the completed credential at the end of the pilgrimage is rather like a well-used passport, suitable for framing. The Credentials include a "Pilgrim's Prayer" which reportedly dates back to the 12th century Codex Calixtinus (a codex being a collection of manuscripts sewn together):

God, You called your seravant Abraham from Ur in Chaldea, watcing over him
in all his wanderings, and guided the Hebrew people as they crossed the
desert. Guard these your children who, for love of your Name, make a
pilgrimage to Compostela. Be their strength in weariness, their defense in
dangers, their shelter on the path, their shade in the heat, their light in
darkness, their comfort in discouragement, and the firmness of their
intentions; that through your guidance, they may arrive safely at the end of
their journey and, enriched with grace and virtue, may return to their homes
filled with salutary and lasting joy.

Amen, may it be so. I know that Mary and Stella and I are all excited, all a little nervous, as none of us have ever done anything like this before. But then, that's what adventure and, so often, God's call (for me, at least) are all about. The Credentials also have guidelines for the Spirit of the Camino:

- - Share what you have with other pilgrims

- - Live in the moment

- - Watch for the signs that you are on the path

- - Welcome all that comes to you

- - Sense the prayers of those who have gone before you,
leave good will behind for those who will come after you,
appreciate your companions who walk with you

- - Care for the albergue (hostel) as if it were your own home

- - Give thanks at the end of each day

- - When you arrive in Santiago, embrace the Saint on behalf of all those unable to make the pilgrimage.

Not bad rules for life in general, if you think about it. And I would want to add one more that my spiritual director, Mary, just shared with me on my last visit: O Lord, don't let me miss anything this day! Buen Camino!

Rambles

Well, this past week, the backpack finally came out of the plastic and got used. Last Sunday, I spread out everything I had to date, cut off all the tags and began stuffing them into the pack. It wasn't exactly what I will be carrying, but it came to about the right weight, nearly 17 pounds. I decided that it was a good thing for the US Army Infantry that I had never been a part of them, although it might have come in handy now for ME if I had done some time with them. Mary and I walked a little over 6 miles in the heat of the south Georgia sun that afternoon. I came to the conclusion that I might have some 'getting-used-to" time for mileage on the trip, but it just might be doable.

The next morning, I put my still-loaded backpack and hiking boots in the car and headed down to our diocesan conference center for a clergy conference. That afternoon, we had a block of free time, so I went out, again in the heat of the afternoon sun, and did 7 miles by myself. It was an out and back trip and my main discovery was that I could not reach my own water bottle. I had to stop at the fire station on the way back and ask one of the guys to get it for me. It was either that, or take the whole backpack off and then have to put it on again and it just didn't seem worth all the effort. It's always good to find these things out. I suspect the two guys at the firestation were chuckling after I left.

Got another, shorter walk in one morning during the week back home. Then, headed out to another diocesan meeting on Friday down in Stella's neck of the woods, and in fact, stayed with Stella and her husband Friday night. I took all my Santiago stuff and after our afternoon and evening meetings, Stella and I went to her house and we hauled out all our gear and did 'show and tell' with each other. It was fun and exciting and energizing and uplifting. Stella and I have never had that long before to talk about the trip with one another. And so over a glass of wine and some boiled shrimp and some mullet spread and crackers that her husband, David, had made for us, we talked and talked.

Saturday morning, we got up while the moon was still a shiny sliver in the sky, to go walk a couple of miles together before our morning meetings started. We walked out of the house with Stella holding a flashlight on the brick path. Unfortunately, it didn't illuminate the couple of cobwebs that I went through, but I'm choosing to believe that the spiders involved were elsewhere on the web at the time. It was Stella's first time for walking with her backpack. As it turns out, it is the same pack as the one Mary and I have, just a size larger.

When I walk, I tend to think about all manner of things. Like whether squirrels in Spain chatter in a different accent than squirrels in Georgia. Would a Georgia squirrel, if put next to a Spanish squirrel (surely they have squirrels there?), cock its head a little, get a puzzled look on it's little face and go, "huh?" I think about how different time and space are when you walk from our normal life schedules. One day, as I started out walking, I was obviously walking too fast, and my boots and my calf and shin muscles were telling me as much. It felt like shin splints which I haven't had in years. So I slowed down. In another mile, I realized that I felt just fine; all it took was allowing myself to slow down, letting the leg muscles warm up, and enjoying the journey. It's good to know that my boots help look after me. I just have to learn to listen to them.

Time and space are indeed different when walking. Most of us are used to driving everywhere and a mile whizzes by before we know it. Or if we have to pause, we are sitting in a heated or air conditioned little chamber, listening to news or music or whatever. Everything is confined, instantaneous, of the moment. When you are walking any distance, it all changes radically. Normally I walk a mile in about 15 minutes when I'm out for exercise, but putting on a pack slows me down to about 20 minutes or maybe even a little longer on a dirt road. The vista of a mile stretches out for a long ways. Spatial concepts change. As I hike, if I'm tired, I look down at the ground more; if I'm feeling good, I'm looking up and around at where I'm headed. There's a lot to notice at a 2 - 3 mile an hour pace.

We take so much for granted when we are zipping by in a car. When I walk, I hear the wind, I hear the airplanes overhead, the vehicles coming a half mile off or more, the animal noises, children playing down the road, the rhythm of our feet walking together. There are the gradations of stone colors, the chip of blue and white stoneware in the dirt road, the litter, the washboard pattern in the dry dirt, the various wildflowers, the patches in the asphalt, the dozens of shades of green in all the different trees. There is the smell of cow manure, new mown grass, a plowed field, someone grilling dinner, the fresh dew of morning. There is the taste of that one drop of liquid nectar from yellow and white honeysuckle (do children still know how to do that?), the sweat dripping from my cheeks, the warm water out of the bottle, drops of rain hitting my arms and face. The feel of different surfaces beneath my feet, the texture of the straps of the backpack that I periodically adjust, the roughness of my shoelaces that I re-tie yet again.

Walking allows life to slow down to a more absorbable, more sensate pace. I hope that is a lot of what this journey will be about. I am so grateful for the time this week to walk with both Mary and Stella, and the times in between to smell the marshes and hear the cows moo.

Consciousness

Immediately upon waking up Saturday morning, two days ago, I was so conscious that it was May 1st. Not because I've ever had a big thing about May Day, but simply because suddenly - and I do mean suddenly - this is the month that we are leaving. And to be more precise, it is only three and a half weeks away. Aaagh! Three and a half weeks to take care of the details and learn the things that I haven't yet. Three and a half weeks to obtain those things that I still need. Three and a half weeks to get my backpack out of the plastic, pack it with the weight that I intend to carry, put it on and start hiking! I've been hiking, just not with the weight...

My mother is also very conscious of this date coming closer. She is older and in need of some assistance, so on Saturday mornings, I go over to her house and help her out and we have breakfast together. I know that she is both excited for me and also has some reservations about the trip, especially about my safety. She is, after all, my mother, no matter how old we both are. Back in 1953, the summer before she met my father, my mother took off on a 10 week bicycling trip of Europe. It was with a tour group, but she signed up for it not knowing anyone else going except one friend, and not having done much cycling other than a few miles here and there around town (read: totally unprepared physically). She survived, had a blast, and made wonderful, life-long friends. I suggested that she think of this trip as my version of her bike trip. Hopefully, I'm a little more prepared physically than she was. The picture is my mother on the second level of the Eiffel Tower in 1953.

Isn't it funny though, when we are focused on something, be it a word, a person, an idea, or a place or whatever, suddenly that name or word or whatever seems to start coming up everywhere? Is it coincidence or it that we are just more attuned to it, more conscious of it? Perhaps it is really there that often all the time and we never notice it until we have some special connection to it, a particular reason for taking note of it. Or maybe, as my spiritual director, Mary, was suggesting, it just might be God speaking to us. We never know that for sure, but we have to keep listening and discerning. Just in the last week, as I listened to the radio (NPR), Spain, though not specificially Santiago, kept coming up in a variety of ways.

First, there was Fred Child and Performance Today. (http://performancetoday.publicradio.org/?month=4&day=29&year=2010) He was featuring the women's choral a capella group, Anonymous 4. They were performing music from the 13th century from a women's convent, Las Huelgas, in north central Spain. The convent had been started by one of the many King Alfonsos for noble women who wished to live a monastic life. This particular convent was known for it's music and in particular for the complexity of the music. It was gorgeous.

Then, on Sunday morning, driving to church, there was the discussion of the European financial situation. Of course, Greece is in the most serious shape, but Spain is not too far behind. It made me think that as tourists, we might find some good deals (!), but on the other hand, the money that we are spending over there, particularly in the smaller villages, might be very welcome and needed.

Then, on the way home from church, I was listening to The Splendid Table (http://splendidtable.publicradio.org/listings/100501/ - click on the section "calls"), a program about the appreciation of food and drink and good table fellowship. One of the callers was a bride-to-be getting married in a few months, literally to 'the guy next door.' They are both gardeners and have joined their gardens and wanted to grow the food for their reception, which, oh by the way, will have a Spanish theme (you knew it would be here somewhere). So Lynne Rosetto Kasper, the host of the show, proceeded to rattle off a whole list of wonderful sounding dishes, all Spanish in nature, straight out of the garden. I was trying to take mental notes for the dinner Laura and I will do! Something like sliced heirloom tomatoes with paper-thin slices of onion, sprinkled with lemon juice, then dressed in an olive oil warmed with roasted peppers and some fresh ground coriander seed that has been warmed until fragrant ... 'pimentone de la vera' hmmm...

So is it just coincidence, or am I more conscious of the word "Spain" popping up whenever it does, just because it is in the forefront of my mind? Is it God whispering in my ear, or nudging me with a divine elbow? I don't know. I just know that it's everywhere right now!

Anticipation

"Anticipation, it's making me wait; it's keeping me wa-a-a-aai-i-tin'!" Somewhere in the misty recesses of my mind, Carly Simon's sultry voice echoes her refrain (not to mention the ketchup commercial which borrowed her music) and it is continuously replaying itself on a loop in my auditory library. Anticipation can be positive or negative - delayed gratification or anticipatory grief, in a manner of speaking. My anticipation about the trip is probably some of both, but weighted towards the positive.

On the less positive side is the intimidation factor. What in the world am I, a total novice at backpacking, thinking in taking on a 480 mile trek (not counting any missed signs and wrong turns, the up hills and the down hills, and the exploring of villages and cities once we get there!) through a variety of terrain in a foreign country and inviting other people to join me? The closer it gets, the more intimidated I am. Then there is the anticipatory sadness (grief is a little strong) of missing people. This is the longest time I've been away from friends and family since back when I was in the Navy and making deployments, so I know that I will miss my mother whom I get to see most days, my cats who greet me each morning,

my good friends and others. But I will also be getting to know the four others I am with much better (like really well!) and also getting to meet people from all over the world who are also making this pilgrimage.

On the other side of the coin are all the things to which I am looking forward (just had to reword that for all the English/ Literature/ Communications people I know who might be reading this!). I am so looking forward just to time away. I haven't ever had this much time off in my whole adult life! Even in graduate school, I went straight through, and in seminary I had CPE (clinical pastoral education) one summer and did work study through the other. So yea for just being away.

And I'm looking forward to some quietness. I look forward to meeting people from all over and talking with them, but I also will love listening to the sound of wind in the trees and blowing through a field of tall grasses. I love hearing different birds call to each other, even though I don't recognize very many of them. I look forward to seeing new colors of greens and reds and purples and yellows and pinks on the leaves of trees and the vineyards and the wildflowers.

The different browns of the soils as we traverse from the rocky Pyrenees to the sandiness of the coastal plains. > Last week, as I was breaking in my hiking boots on the mountains of Kanuga, NC, I was looking around at the flora and fauna and appreciating it, thinking how it will compare to what I will see in the woods and mountains of Spain. One person there, inhaling deeply, said, "No place else smells like Kanuga." He's right, it's a wonderful mixture of wood smoke, old forests, whatever's blooming and mountian air. But I wonder what northern Spain will smell like? Vineyards. Cow pastures. Industrial areas. Forests. Nothing will smell like that either, and I hope to bring back memories of those fragrances (or at least the good ones.)

I have a deep and abiding passion for architecture and design and can't wait to see the villages and cathedrals and ruins and cafes. I want to see art and mosaics and buildings and city squares. Hopefully, we'll get to sit in some little bars, or in some of those squares and hear some wonderful Spanish music!

I'll be paying special attention to the foods and drinks along the way, too.

Every year, to benefit Relay for Life, Laura and I auction ourselves off to do a dinner for 6. Each year is different. Because of my trip this year, we think it will probably have a Spanish theme. It just so happened that a kitchen store in Savannah was having a class called The Art of Paella, so Laura and I went. Paella is the national dish of Spain. The chef for the class was Juan Rodriguez. He cooked enough for more than 30 people in one pan! This paella had pork, chicken, oysters, shrimp, clams and fish in it, as well as all the usual vegetables. The end result was gorgeous! We're inspired and anticipating a great meal.

After we get to Santiago, and celebrate the completion of our journey in the mass at the Cathedral, we want to go to Finisterre (Land's End), which is a couple of hours away on a bus. A little beach town on the Atlantic Coast, where we can relax, NOT walk, and just rest our feetsies in the salt water for a day or two or three. Then, we will head to Madrid (and maybe a side trip or two, like to the Alhambra) for a couple of days before finally flying back. At least I guess we're coming back.

Preparations

Not so long ago, this trip seemed far off. Now it is a month away. I am both excited and intimidated at that prospect. There is so much to think about, so much to do. Not that we (Mary and I, mostly, since we see each other most frequently) haven't talked a great deal about it. There have been some concrete details like flight arrangements. And shopping for gear (see the pictures!) - more of which remains to be done. And thanks to friends (like Fred and Chuck & Christene) who have loaned us materials, learning Spanish as best as possible. Getting our pilgrim credentials (like passports) which will get stamped in each of the villages and be our admittance into the hostels. Reading books and articles (see links and references). And talking to real people, like Nita & Joe, Wallace, Lucas and Scott, who have actually been there and hiked it and must be filled with words or wisdom for us, or so we hope. And then there's the breaking in of the hiking boots, the getting used to the feel of wearing a backpack, figuring out how to pack the back pack (just as soon as I get brave enough to take it out of its plastic bag). Deciding how little stuff we can really manage with for over a month. Taking care of details at home, like paying bills ahead, making sure my mom will be okay, making sure there will be someone to look after the cats, and the yard gets mowed. For me, making the technological leap to a netbook from my 8-year old home computer, then figuring out what to do about internet access oversees, wifi, downloading pictures onto the netbook, learning to create a blog and all of that, all because I know myself well enough to know I won't spend the time with a blank book and a pencil to journal - all of which would take about 14 seconds if I was 20. But I'm not.

There are so many questions - what will the hostels (a.k.a refugios or albergues) be like because many don't have good reputations, how crowded will the trail be this year, are we in good enough shape for it, will another volcano eruption interfere with our travel plans, how are we going to work out communication with our families back here and with each other on the camino, are we really going to be able to get edible food because some of the books don't make it sound very available, am I going to be able to sleep at all in these hostels, and the list goes on. I suspect the important questions will all find answers in good time and the others won't really matter. Or else, as in the rest of life, we will learn to live without the answers.

We will do what we can do, given daily life and its demands, until the day comes when we board the plane. At that point, preparations end and the adventure begins. Or maybe, the adventure has already begun. I think it has. This week, as I was hiking in the mountains of North Carolina while I was there for a conference (and breaking in my new boots on real mountains with real mountain dirt!), I was thinking about my pioneering forebear, my great aunt Blanche. A woman who left behind a first hand memoir of her journey across the midwest plains, written in the hand of her daughter, Jean, to whom she told it. In the year 1886, when she was about 8 or 9, Blanche moved with her parents and four sisters (including my great-grandmother, Myrtle) from Indiana to Nebraska via horse and wagon and foot. It was a distance of about 640 miles by modern routes, probably longer then. She, and they, had the courage, as so many people did, to just strike out and walk miles upon miles to a new place and start life anew. I had the chance to meet Great Aunt Blanche just once, the summer of the year she turned 100. She was an amazing woman - almost blind, but still sewing quilts for 'old people' in nursing homes because they needed them for comfort. She lived to be 107. A sweet, gentle spirit with a lovely smile and laugh. I want to think that I have some of her appreciation for people and places and good times in me. I think that she would like that I am going on this adventure...