Walking through the Valley of Death - A Lenten Meditation

I felt called to walk, take a detour back from my parents' home near Las Vegas towards my home in Los Angeles county. Instead of the direct route, I drove through and hiked around in Death Valley.

Normally, Death Valley is a vast expanse of desolation. The name is appropriate. The lowest point in the US can be found in Death Valley, in a spot aptly called Badwater. There, the ground is so parched that the runoff water flows in loaded with minerals and evaporates into an expanse of almost pure salt. It looks like snow.  And unlike snow, it doesn't quench or nourish. It might trick you into thinking so, but it does quite the opposite.

The salt poisons and dries you out even further.

We humans have used salts for thousands of years to preserve foods and as part of our burial functions. It flavors our food, but its functional usefulness has mostly been for keeping dead things in a useful state of prolonged death. Yet, it's not about preserving life. Nor is it about expediting death. It's about making the process of death interminably prolonged and unnatural.

I pondered these thoughts during my sojourn because my dear friend Carol was in the Intensive Care Unit here in Los Angeles County. Her health had been deteriorating and many of her functions were grinding to a halt. In fact, while I was away in Vegas, she lost consciousness and had been sleeping for several days.

I normally take this detour once a year because in February, the flowers bloom in the desert. You see, it doesn't rain often in Southern California, much less in the deserts. So when winter rains come, it's an ideal time to head to the drylands and marinate in the glorious flowers that bloom ever so briefly in the wasteland.

For you see, Death Valley isn't actually dead. It's in a state of suspended animation. Like a body preserved in salt, it's in between that place of the living and the dead.

And this year, I was in for a treat. I didn't know it, but I was stepping into what is known as a Superbloom. Even though El Nino hasn't been as powerful in Southern California as expected, there were still greater rains than we've experienced in years. And, the melting snow runoff from the Sierra Nevada mountains help contribute to the meager waters of Death Valley.

So the flowers had not only returned, they were raging. Exploding. Shimmering. Blossoms spanned from the walls of the mountain cliffs to the very edge of the deadly salt basins. Yellow Evening Primrose flowers 1-3 feet in height made it look more like a field in France than a desert mortuary.

And in between the yellow flowers, there were delicate 6 inch tall purple Phacelias flowers. They hid carefully, almost shyly, under the larger, extroverted yellows. And quietly in between the purples, there were white flowers even more bashful than their purple sisters.

Then you kneel on the ground. You sit on the edge of a ravine to soak in nature. You bend over to take a photo. And you realize, there, in plain sight but not visible from normal human eye levels, were lovely delicate purple pink flowers known as purple mat.

The purple mat was everywhere and yet when you weren't looking, you could have passed by not noticing the vibrant life. You could have assumed that life stood still. Even while you're noticing the raging yellow primrose, you don't notice that there's so much more alive, so much more life, than meets the eye.

And, if you're lucky enough, brave enough, patient enough, you can stay into the night. This happened to be a full moon drive to start this trip so I got to see the desert in a peculiar moonlit coloration. If you get out of your car, walk a little, sit a little, you'll hear the sounds of animals scurrying around on the rocks and sand.

They hide during the painfully hot days and come out in the evening. Even in the winter, when it's necessary for the reptiles to come out and absorb some of the sun's warmth, they do most of their foraging or hunting at night.

Life rages on in the desert.

I visited Carol the day after my hikes and chatted with her husband. They're such a loving couple. Though she was still not conscious, I prayed with them, shared some healing waters I brought back from Lourdes, France, and shared in their pain. I missed my good friend Michael, Carol's cousin, as I left just before he got there.

And on Friday, during some meetings, I wept, when I heard that Carol's condition was taking a turn for the worst.

And yesterday, the family took her off life support.

And today, she moved on.

Carol always tells me that she loves watching my travel on Facebook. She and Jeff get to live out exciting trips vicariously whenever their families and friends post photos and thoughts online. She seems particularly excited during dinners together to discuss the trips as well.

I have no doubt that when I walked through Death Valley, I was walking among the flowers with Carol. That I was gazing in awe at the same moon. That we prayed for the same love eternal.

I have no doubt that Carol's organ donations will bring life anew to others in ways we can only imagine. Her eyes evidently will be a gift to someone shortly. Her sight, her vision, her way of seeing life in the stony rock wall.

I have no doubt that I was gazing at life made new in Death Valley. That life is there even when it looks like the land is barren. Here you stand in the middle of a salty wasteland as far as you can see, and yet on the edge of that wasteland, life encroaches, approaches, ventures to its very edge.

It's the tears falling from skies and from our hearts that waters the gritty sand, bringing those long forgotten seeds just enough love and attention to bring a torrent of life's energy anew.

And after the blooms fade, after the glories fall petal by petal back down to the earth, new seeds are strewn into the wind. We can't see them, but they're spreading, waiting for another opportunity to spring alive once again.

The salt may keep life in a state of prolonged preservation, in a condition of suspended animation. It's not death. It's not life.

But life ever beautiful, ever delicate, ever bold, ever precious, can lie beside the salty ground waiting to return.

Thank you for walking with me on every one of my journeys, Carol and for
calling me to see the lovely reminder to be loving, hopeful, and alive.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Advent Meditation - Reading the Leaves

I've always walked and hiked a lot, especially in the past few years. I've realized that I notice more in the world and have more opportunities to reflect on things going on in my life when I go outside, putting one foot in front of the other.

The other day, during this cool December month, I was walking just after sunrise, noting the whiff of firewood from the night before, and found myself gazing at a large maple tree down the street from my home. I know this tree well, as it stands in front of a small house and is naturally decked out at this time of year with exhilarating autumn colors. I stared at the shimmering golden maple leaves, and the unraked layers scattered around the base. As I got closer, feet crunching on fallen foliage, I was struck by an odd vision. Two or three leaves were spinning wildly as they clung to the branches. They were twirling in the wind, trembling, vibrating on the bare twigs.

What made me take notice of these particular leaves was the obvious contrast to the other thousands of others on that tree. The other golden forms were perfectly stationary, as though in a painting. Motionless. Oblivious to those two or three quaking ones just a few feet away. I thought, "Oh, I actually might be able catch these spinning leaves just as they fall away to the ground - a perfect autumn moment on my walk." So I stepped towards the tree and gazed at the shivering ones hoping to catch them in the act of falling. I came to a stop on the lawn below the leaves. I watched and waited to see a spectacle that admittedly is repeated millions of times a day this time of year, but would be seen only by me, at this moment, at this place.

But it didn't happen, at least not in the way that I expected. As it turns out, as I was staring at the twirlers, I saw out of the corner of my eye an unexpected movement. I turned my head, and one of those motionless leaves broke off and started to drift downwards, wafting this way and that, before gently landing on the damp ground below. It was one of the stronger leaves that fell. I looked up, and the spinning leaves still quivered manically in the wind. I looked up and the stationary ones still remained motionless.

So I got to see a leaf fall. What I saw was what I wanted to see, what I waited to see, but it wasn't how I expected to see it. 

And as I took a couple of steps back towards the street, one last shape caught my attention. I saw pigtails and two large blue eyes. It was as though a young child - straight out of central casting to play the role of Cindy Lou Who, the tiniest tot on the Grinch Who Stole Christmas - was gazing out the front window of the modest home. Her head was propped on her hands, her elbows planted on a sofa, her big round eyes staring at the tree. It seems she hadn't noticed me.

I'm not certain what she was looking at, what she was waiting for. Did she want to see the leaves fall as well? Was she wondering where her Mom and Dad had gone to at this hour? Perhaps she was wondering what was for breakfast. But she was waiting and watching up towards the tree. But as I started my departure, she moved her head suddenly, surprised to see someone else there with her. Of course, I was concerned that I had startled her. But she just tilted her head slightly and smiled. She smiled broadly, with innocence and gentleness.

Advent is a season where we often run around madly, racing from one store to the next store, or from one e-store to the next e-store, staring at our phones as we wait in line. We do it because we want to make Christmas special for the ones we love, those who are planted in our lives. We do extra shopping, decorating, cooking on top of our normal chores, with work and family commitments. We spin around the city and it's a wonder we just don't collapse. That we don't fall to the damp ground below. Yet we somehow hang on. And our joys almost always come from unexpected ways. 

We're asked to spend Advent waiting for the baby Jesus. We're asked to be alert, to be watchful, with childlike innocence and wonder. It can often be challenging, if we let our attention drift in the wind to this mall and that concert, to this show and that party.  

May Advent keep us all awake at the sunrise, alert, in a state of wonder, head in our hands, staring out the window for something that perhaps only we can see, perhaps something we all can share. And may it surprise us with meaning far greater than we ever expected.

Day 2 recap - I Better Write These Names Down

I ended up visiting the Castillo with its remarkable views of the plain where Burgos sits. I can understand how wind whips through such a place, much as it does in say Oklahoma. The city mirador (view spot) had a coffee place that was closed at 8:30am but I enjoyed seeing a giant compass on the ground showing that Boston was due west and less than 7000 km away.

I realized that with the sun rising at 7:45am, it's dark until 7 so doing exploration before church wasn't feasible. So rather than return to mass, I visited the outsides of several places such as St Esteban and said my morning prayers in my hotel room while still dark.

I had a simple Huevos Fritos con bacon. The bread costs extra as does a terrace view of the cathedral so I just ate inside quickly while I read my guides. The waitress seemed surprised that I didn't want bread but I just said "sin gluten" and she understood. I never thought of gluten as a morally suspect ("sin gluten", get it?) food but now that I do (because of the translation homophone), I felt better passing on it.

Stephen gave me three cards on this journey. I opened one of the three cards, this to read at the start of my journey. It touched me and I'm blessed that I have him to walk beside me for the rest of our lives.

Chatted at the bus station with others peregrinos, my first chance really. Two older ladies - one a resident of Florida, her friend a snow bird who comes down from Springfield Massachusetts - and I gabbed while we waited for the delayed bus. They started in St Jean but were city hopping from Burgos to Leon to skip this part of the meseta (plain).

When the bus stopped in Candon I realized that many peregrinos actually did this. Some were getting on the bus and skipping to Sahagún or Leon. And many people recognized each other immediately. Apparently as people walk faster and slower, they meet early on at albergues (dormitories) move on.

This happened later at my albergues. I met immediately Brad from Washington state who asked if I spoke English as he sat in the courtyard. We realized we shared a room and he pointed out that the two women - Elise and Marise - in our room napping were snoring friends he had met a few days earlier and just met again. Brad made a wonderful, important suggestion to me. What a blessing that he was my first long conversation of this journey. He said that I should write down the names of all I met.

He and I went to a local market to grab breakfast (fruit and goat cheese for me thanks) for tomorrow, and we ran into Florian and Britta (he from Bavaria, she from Koln). Brad eyed the paella at their restaurant and seemed to regret ordering the pilgrims menu at the albergue. At that pilgrim's dinner Brad introduced me to Kyu from South Korea who was finishing up a job stint in London and Omkraw (?) of Japan. I introduced myself to Judith who I passed earlier. 

Like Brad said, one has to write names down.

Back to my walk, I got off the bus startled because I had fallen asleep at the 1/2 point of the Camino Frances. Camino Frances is the oldest and most popular Camino walk so I thought I'd see people exit with me. Nope. The bus stop was a wasteland that made me think of the scene in Fiddler on the Roof as Tevye sent his daughter to Siberia. Nobody exited but me. Two peregrinos hopped on, as if to say adios to this stark landscape.

I didn't see the famous trail signs so I headed across the rural highway to the houses with hopes of picking up the trail. I did not want to walk along the highway so reviewed the John Brierley guide book. It said a senda (gravel road) began near the albergue so I looked around these several dozen buildings until I found the sign, a Fontana (fountain), and senda. I saw a Peregrino, refilled my water bottle which I drank on the bus, said a prayer, and began my walk.

It was easy. It was about 80F, sunny, and breazy, so the meseta was easier than many hikes in Southern California. But just as The Rev. Canon Joanna Satorius explained to me on her walk this past July and August, you spend the first part of the journey fidgeting with the pack and wondering about your body. I fidgeted a lot, especially as I saw a senior woman zoom past me. I later met her at dinner: Judith from Dorchester and it's her third Camino walk.

What I realized was the following

• tiny villages are truly tiny, at most a couple dozen homes

• the sunflower were drying on the stalks, which made me glad I brought much water and soda 

• my discomfort from the pack was all in my shoulders and I noticed I was walking wrong. I stopped hunching and the pain died down but too late my shoulders hurt
• I drank some water at a Fontana directly even though I never touched my water which was convenient
• I somehow lost my hiking stick strap and the workout glove I clipped to it soon after so had to backtrack about 3 blocks before I found them. This made me frustrated and aware that things can be left behind all too easily on the Camino
• I walked past a total of 4 people and then never saw another person for the next two hours
• People have died on this Camino for over a thousand years

• I stopped at a small church and got irritated by the small detour because I walked an extra km to see it and it wasn't much 

• as I approached Sahagún it looked like a wondrous city from afar

• As I approached it, a fellow on a bike handed me a card with a hostal name and photos on it. It turned out to be the name of my backup hostal.
• I was tiring fast and it was only 14 km as my app was telling me. I had originally maintained a 5.3kph clip and that's while fidgeting and taking photos but was rapidly slowing down
• Sahagún is not a shiny city. It's a sad reflection of a once powerful ecclesiastical power.
• I found the monastery easily and dropped my pack and asked for the pilgrim menu because I expected to just shower and nap and not walk around

• After my shower ad washing of my day's shirt, socks, and underwear which I left to dry on the terrace, I was refreshed enough to walk around for breakfast stuff with Brad
• I can't take photos while the battery is recharging. Remember to grab the battery before leaving the room.

I had great conversations. Brad is seeking deeper spirituality and had said he had wonderful conversations with nonbelievers so far. He may be a born again as he wasn't familiar with my Taizé pin or their worship style. His wife and adult children are Filipino and he loves rice. 

Elise and Marise both are taking this journey because they turned 50 like me. We had great laughs because they just retired from the Canadian military and their bright idea was to not celebrate with cocktails on a cruise but to accidentally relive their days in the military: wake up before dawn, start walking, in bed by a certain hour, March March March. They might be walking with me tomorrow as they head the same route and want to do 30km as well.

30km. I'm seriously wondering if I can maintain that pace. Do I have doubts? Yes! I ache so much. I took Advil and the pain died down.

My feet are fine (wimpy toenail already looks like it's gonna give up the ghost on day 1) but my shoulders were a wreck. I need to be focused on posture and weight. I ate some of my food and drank soda to both snack and get the pack weight down. I might leave behind something just to keep weight down further.

I feel good about my planning. I planned on this day being only 13 km so that I can get a test walk with jet lag and see how I feel. My sprain and knee wound weren't noticeable though my ankle brace did feel like it slowed me down.

As I fall asleep writing this, I'm wondering what I've gotten myself into.