Ageish

Honoring the season of my birth, now long ago when there were some in this land who still liked Ike and grease in the hair was desirable and applied with adolescent hands. My lifespan has been an age of apocalypse: I recall well a group of us sitting on the banana seats of our stingray bicycles, leaning reflectively on our butterfly handlebars and doing the arithmetic necessary to determine how old we all would be in the year 2000. As that age would be somewhere in the 40's we snorted and, before pedaling off, agreed that we would be dead of old age by then, if we made it that long. Either the murky eschatological menace of the calendar year 2000 would strike or, more likely, someone here or in the Soviet Union would "push the button" and the mad array of nuclear missiles would bring life on earth to an end. What did it plant in our callow, sweaty, scabrous young souls to live in this catastrophic shadow I wonder? I am still too close to the question to have more than a lingering shadow-sense that I had best keep holding that question and let it trouble. In an age wherein apocalypse has taken other forms: climactic change, the revival of European land war, the unendurable wealth gap wherein our cities fill, like a bowl under a dripping faucet, with the houseless and the desperate: The question begs even more persistently. And the creeping desperation among those who find privilege in question giving wicked life to the persistent zombie of right-wing fanaticism, violence and a death-loving idolatry of guns, support of a blatant con man and disgraced ex-president who nevertheless represents something to the enraged and the terrified. But today a respite, the sound of gulls even through the closed windows, the heartbeat of the Pacific in its muffled but powerful beat outside the walls. Grateful for a life that has already gone on far longer than those wonder years ever imagined possible. Grateful for friends come, many gone, a few remained. Grateful for a life-companion, for fascinating adult children each of whom go about doing good in the world. Grateful that, as a young Merton wrote in the selected reading for today, I too have a vocation nurtured by Scripture that still gives me moments of sensing fire and music beneath my feet. Grateful for the transforming power of gratitude itself.

Big shoulders

It is our last full day in Santiago. Helen and I ended up with some time to spare. I had calendared enough days from Porto to finish that we would only need to make 10-11 miles per day. But as we fell in with fit and motivated Europeans, in one case hyper-motivated, we smoked along the ol' Caminho Trail and pulled in on the 15th. Our Madrid plane does not depart until Monday the 19th.

Am glad, though, because not only does this give a chance for the soles of the Keens to stop smoking and for the blisters to shrink, but we have a cushion to savor this complex city a bit and, perhaps, savor what has taken place in our souls.

Pilgrims constantly stream into the great plaza from our route, the Via Portuguese, as well as the busier Via Frances. We watch now with something of a veteran's understanding as the exhaustion turns to elation as people, now people we have never met, hug and cry.

This is bittersweet as our own little Caminho family has dissolved. Each continues their pilgrimage by another road. Ramon from Washington has gone on alone to Finisterre on the coast. After drinking wine by a fountain in the sun, Guus and Marian have boarded their bus for Porto then on to Holland. Etan leaves for Switzerland as I write. We will host Marie tonight as we are one more day here, then we fly to Madrid while she, young footpad right out of a medieval story, walks to Finisterre, then bus to Santiago, then walks back along the Caminho Frances to her home in the shadow of Mont Blanc.

There really are such people in the world still.

But Santiago is a holy city, and as such it is complex. The pious, the curious, the adventuresome, the wealthy, the poor, and the bored all flock here. And there is much trade--trinkets, holy baubles, marinated octopus (which is in describable fabulous), simple hostels, luxury hotels all fill the streets. A St James mime slowly swings a huge censer in the square, providing a photo op. You can be a Knight Templar, a weary pilgrim, or just dazed and confused in the streets of the old city.

I like it for its honesty. The Strange Road does not lead to some ethereal bliss, but humanity in all our hustle to make a living and just get by.

At a last dinner, Marian asked what each of us had gained from the Road. I replied that my request of Santiago had been fulfilled. Remembering my romanticized plunge into ancient Celtic mist in Ireland, I had asked the Saint of the Road to let me see the real people along the way, not only my fellow-pilgrims but the people who love and work and get up each day with their joys and sorrows, their loves and losses.

He heard my prayer, Santiago, Big Jim, the majestic and ragged and whimsical Saint of the road. He guided and led and provided, and gave me so much more.

He gave friends, a dear band of fellow-journeyers who understand deeply the Strange Road with the scale of each cobblestone, the weight of wet laundry pinned to your backpack.

The faces...gentle Fernanda who told us of her love of her city Oporto there in her own apartment. The cafe workers who smiled at our efforts to speak Portuguese. The man delighted to give us vegetables. The excited local drunk who encouraged us from his bicycle on that blistering day. The bright and fresh faces of Gonzaga and his choir, the earnestness of Marianna, the inquisitive graduate student and her companions. The kind and the distracted, the indifferent and the concerned. Each and every one who, when we most needed to hear it, blessed is with a "Bom Caminho", "Buen Camino." On some days, only that made all the difference.

On impulse last night, Helen got on the line to enter the Catedral, hug the statue of Saint James from behind, and then pray before his ossuary in the crypt. The evening Pilgrim Mass was taking place as we did so, and as we stood the "botafumeiro " again soared. The cantor's voice again soared with it, and I heard in the lyrics "keep Spain in the faith we received, bless the people of Spain."

Before me a family with adorable preschoolers. The parents pointed out to their curious eyes the baroque statues, the flying censer, and then lifted them to kiss the massive bronze cheek of the great statue eternally gazing over the sanctuary of the great church.

The people of Spain, a nation that guards the Road and the Shrine, tiny children receiving by sight and touch the most sacred of Spain's holy sites, the soul of a nation.

I breathed a prayer for Spain and for Portugal as I leaned on the statue, placed my cheek on his shoulder. His shoulder was massive, heavy, and strong, with the raised ornaments of scallops and stars worn bright from touch.

Gracias, viejo. Thank you, old one.

passed by

Pilgrims intentionally straggle. There is a delicate unspoken etiquette that allows one to gently fall in step with another, speak for a time, then quietly experiment with gait that allows
The swifter or more determined, if they wish, to pull ahead.

I am one of the slowest on the Strange Road, ever so slightly hobbled
Of gait with my right foot turned slightly in and the killer blister on my right foot sole. So I am easy to pass.

I have learned that there is a calling in being passed.

The dignified German man who passed me gravely, but stayed for a time, may not have told me that he
lives near Saxonhausen concentration camp. We discussed genocide, how decent German people live with the Nazi legacy, and the hypocrisy of the USA and our genocidal treatment of Native Americans and many others.

I would not have heard of the losses that other pilgrims have suffered, of children and marriages and ways of life, of health, of faith. I would not have heard of the quiet courage to carry on.

I would not have heard myself speak aloud my own pain, doubt, struggle, and fear.
I would not have had my own wounds bound in silence by the quiet acceptance of others.

Deep in the Spanish forest, on an old Roman road, lies a small bridge covered with planks. The local people call it the "fever bridge" because, they say, one Saint Telmo died beside it while on pilgrimage to Santiago. Next the bridge stands a very old stone cross, mute testimony that here Telmo's physical journey came to an end. But another journey began. His death-place became the place that all others would pass by on their journey. The arms and base of the cross are covered with stones, some inscribed with names. What a journey began for Telmo the day he stopped walking to Santiago but allowed others to walk into his solitude, bringing their pain.

Alone, I stood before Telmo's cross and gave thanks that mine too is a vocation to be passed by.

Improbable mercy

We set out from the ancient monastery on rural roads, the shade a grace due to the heat and sun. Later that night German pilgrims would discuss with us the German concept of "redneck."

But the day had far more that contemporary American culture-war references.

Cobble-cobble-conbley stones--we marveled at the stamina of the Romans who had actually laid some of these roads.

A sweet Portuguese pilgrim named Dio, with whom my daughter bonded. A long-distance runner, he courteously kept us company for the morning, then discreetly asked if he could "resume his pace" as he needs to be in Santiago in five days.

A sweet dog who had clearly had puppies recently, who wished to join us and did until she sat in the road looking confused. Perhaps she wished to hit the Strange Road to escape parenthood.

Medieval bridges and weirs,cobbles cobbles everywhere. The Hungarian who walks with me says "It only gets worse."

But the medieval town we stumble into, exhausted, the welcome aubergues, the tale we hear of the pilgrim condemned to death whose judge was shocked by his dinner-chicken jumping up and crowing, while the condemned man was hung but dangled, alive, because Saint James was supporting his legs.

We see the late-medieval cross depicting this as we leave town.

Heat, sun, wildfires into the distance then, that night, so near. We are part of this dry arid landscape, air a dry searing wind in the lungs, each step a conscious command of obedience to sore and heavy muscles.

We round a Romanesque church on a hill. It is locked, but from its door's Windows cool air streams and an enchanted vision of carvings, a distant promise of glory and beauty, can be seen.

I pray to the Saint of the church to help us find shelter from the heat.

Stumping down the last trail, a bicycle hoves in sight. The Most Talkative Man In Portugal engages us, assuring us that shelter is near. He amuses us with his antics yet comforts us with his enthusiastic assurances that deliverance is at hand.

He disappears, and a turn in the Caminho finds us at converted stables run by the efficient Susana. We rest, drink copious amounts of water, arise to be cared for again.

Susana says, with young/old eyes, "The Caminho is first of all an inner journey. We bring ourselves as we are, but we all need to make this journey."

Today, we walk the streets in Ponte de Lima, an historic town with a Roman bridge and the streets thronged with people. It is the fiesta, held since 1826. We walk among them. We are strangers, but with newfound friends among our fellow pilgrims. We have found wisdom we did not know we needed, are content to feel the Road beneath our feet, to not control the outcomes. Tomorrow we walk again. The Strange Road awaits.

Sleepless in Madrid, welcome in Porto

The upside of that big flight from Portland OR to Amsterdam is that they pamper you, but that does not really mitigate the impact of a 9 1/2 hour west to east flight.

My daughter and I deplaned with that thin, exhausted, brittle sort of buzz come from all those hours in the air, finding that time has totally misplaced you.

Settled into the Hostel Viki, a clean but no-frills place free of anything like diversion, and a night of near-sleeplessness ensued.

Both of us dissolved into our personal vulnerabilities, Helen frightened that her own body would not sleep when she wished it to, me feeling guilt that I led my daughter into this deeply disruptive moment.

But a great deal of comforting and using the brain, sheer emotion and reason all at once, coupled with a very raw form of prayer, got us through the night and to this day, awakening in Porto.

The day dawns late for us. I awakened at 1:30 and was up until 4. Strange how raw is prayer at that hour, but how good is tr sense that one is heard.

Snapshots...

The plaza near the hostel in Madrid, deserted during interviews the day, awakening at 6 pm to fill with people of all ages, families with young kids, the elderly, young adults--a neighborhood come alive.

Rotten night attempting to reason with our Oregon physiology that it is indeed nighttime.
The human body often does not respond to reason. We comforted each other and, when the day dawned, headed out for a cafecito in the same plaza.

Again, a neighborhood coming alive, this time to a new day. Kind Spanish shopkeeper,
Clearly amused that we found the local prices so
low.

Feeling caffeinated, a Portland normalizing state, in better spirits we boarded the plane for Porto.

Porto--a swirl of images and impressions...

The new-old city, built on colonial exuberance and prosperity. The visually explosive baroque and rococo churches, faith and confidence and prosperity all at once.

Friendly patient people. The question"fala Ingles?" results in some form of effective communication, especially when peppered with Spanish.

Good coffee.
Cobblestones.
Narrow "roads" with an occasional truck, more brave than prudent, making its way where only feet and perhaps some horses were meant to go.

My daughter and I placing our "credenciales" for the carimbo, the stamp of the pilgrim, then placing them at the feet of a 16th c statue of St James tucked away in the second story of the cloister.
Tears flowed in a silent moment that startled a tourist who paused in his photography, but glanced at the credentiales and stepped back in respect, bowed his head and waited for us.
Outside, my daughter discovering a yellow arrow, a waymarks. "This is where it gets 'realz'" she said.

We discussed our reasons for taking the Road. Helen is openly more skeptical than I, not as caught up in the mysticism of the Strange Road. She has more questions than answers, says she is here to see Europe, walk the Road, and see what it may be about.

I think that is a fine reasons to follow the yellow arrows.

Leaving yourself?

On the eve of our departure for Portugal, this from Thomas Merton's journals, as he prepared for his journey to Asia:

"A journey is a bad death if you ingeniously grasp or remove all that you were before you started, so that in the end you do not change in the least. The stimulation enables you to grasp more raffishly at the same, familiar, distorted illusions. You come home only confirmed in greater greed--with new skills (real or imaginary) for satisfying it."

These words resounded as I spent one last day on-line with literally sundry details, running off docs, and gazing once again at the small untidy pile of what I wonder will be needed, or only wanted, or a product of my compulsions and anxiety. Merton's stark and uncompromising words are a reminder to not undertake this journey in some egocentric hope of gaining one more spiritual bullet-point on the invisible resume, not to assume a temporary false "spiritual" mantle. It is a gift that my youngest daughter is my companion, a living embodiment of the past decades that finally do not belong to me or me alone, but to spouse and children and their own unique history independent of my own. Or inextricably intertwined with my own, as marriage and parenthood rescued me time and time again from terminal self-absorbtion.

Wonder what would happen if Delta lost the pack, after all the maundering and wondering? The Osprey is getting tired of being empty and re-packed, I imagine, all without leaving the house!

But for perhaps the first time in any sizable journey, I do not wish to leave myself behind. I'll risk a heavy pack.

eve-things

The eve of leaving on the Road is filled with contradictions.

Contradictory feelings: feeling "out of school" as I took my leave for a month from Good Sam Hospital. Such a rich work and ministry there, such fine colleagues and admirable co-workers, a pang deep beneath my heart as I said good-byes for a solid month. And yet a near-skip in my step as I walked out the front door, feeling very young again. I do not often feel young at the hospital. At rounds and other places I am surrounded by clever, talented people who are sometimes decades younger than me. I figure I bring the kind, safe uncle into situations, which is useful.

Delighted to be traveling with my youngest daughter, to whom I first mentioned the Camino de Santiago years ago amidst high school turmoil. She remembered and saved her money. Sad and rather guilty not to be traveling with older daughter and with spouse. But, schedules and money and life are all what they are.

Comfortable at the thought of being on the Iberian Peninsula, as I speak Spanish and have long been blessed by Hispanic culture, first and foremost mediated by my Mexican-descended wife. Less comfortable, beneficially so, as we have chosen the Portuguese road--I do not speak Portuguese, and the little Lonely Planet book has convinced me that the languages are and are not familiar one to another at the same time.

As far as pilgrims on the Camino go, the Portuguese Road is the "read less traveled by" compared to the familiar "Via Frances" across Galicia from the Pyrenees, although it is gaining in popularity.

It is something in me, something at once adventurous and individualistic and stubborn and ornery, that gravitates to the lesser-known road. That may be one reason why, instead of asking one of the local pilgrim associations to bestow scallop shells on us and bless us on our way, Helen and I took shells we found on the beach and had put in our garden, cleaned them off, and spent a day at the Trappist Abbey where my spiritual director blessed them in the monastery church after the Midday Office. We will bring that community with us, spiritually speaking, and place their concerns at the feet of Saint James, God willing.

Above all, I welcome the unknown and the unexpected.

You'll meet my daughter Helen in these pages as we go, with her elegantly close-cropped hair and her passion and her questions. I remember being 20, vaguely, but there are few survivors from those days when mail was on paper and Tricky Dick Nixon masks were still popular on Halloween and when Fleetwood Mac roamed the earth. You'll meet the people we meet, I hope, because I hope to pay close attention to the people of Portugal and Spain that we encounter and not simply treat the Camino de Santiago as one long religious theme park. You'll presumably meet me, and you may or may not like whom you meet, but that like the steps along the Road is utterly beyond my control.

I have named the 'blog the Strange Road as I read, perhaps from Paolo Coelho's book "The Pilgrimage" that began my dreaming of the Camino in the late 1990's, that one traditional title for the Camino de Santiago is "el Camino Extrano", the Strange Road. (Spanish readers, forgive the lack of a tilda on the N, but I do not know how to activate Spanish conventions on Google 'blogs). If we take the pilgrim road as pilgrim, we take it on faith amidst anxiety and hope, betting on the God of journeys. It is our life, symbol and metaphor and brief literal enactment of our life, with all of its unpredictability and tragicomedy and irony and sudden, savage beauty. It cannot help but be strange, if we pay attention.

From that thought I go to clean the bathroom, as the fam gathers tonight to grill something as a "despedida", a leave-taking. Then I will lay out the contents of my pack, my rather embarrassingly expensive Osprey pack with many mysterious zippers and pockets. I fear we shall know each other intimately before long, Osprey pack and I. I hope it doesn't mind sweat from a 50-something male body that appreciates Oregon microbrews perhaps a little too much. I'll fret again at what I am taking and what I am not taking, trying to keep the weight to 14 pounds as it was at the last weigh-in. Fretting about a small book or not is a safe neurotic way to not fret about the journey itself and the leave-taking from 2/3 of my beloved Portland family.

Saint James may await in Santiago, but I am asking him to stay here and look after the fam, after my home, after my friends, after the hospital with all its brave staff and those who come seeking healing. If you have a prayer or a hope or a grief that you wish us to take to Santiago Cathedral and lay before the bones of the Apostle, feel free to use "comments" or, for confidentiality's sake, text or FB Message me. Apologies to those who may find this a quaint and somewhat pretentious invitation, but this whole business is bringing out the latent medieval romantic in me big time. And besides, we may undertake pilgrimage for ourselves, but I have learned that in the end we have not gone for ourselves alone. The Strange Road is thronged with the seen and the unseen, and among those latter are those who cannot physically make the journey but whose cries and prayers, hopes and dreams, make the journey to the shrine and beyond.

Glad there's extra space in my Osprey.