Camino 2017-10-3 When Doves Cry

Only two more walking days! By Thursday afternoon, I should be coming into Santiago de Compostela. This fifth Camino pilgrimage will be completed, and the journey ends; this fifth Camino pilgrimage will be completed, and the real journey continues.

There's no way, as you pack your stuff every morning, that you can truly know what your day will bring. For most of us, it's planting one foot in front of the other, an instinct we've done since toddlers. For others it involves equipment or assistance. I packed up thinking I'm getting really close and in my original plans was going to do this three days in two. 

I'm glad I changed plans because I like how things turned out. Met and chatted with some interesting people at the albergue. Walked more slowly than I am inclined to do. Saw things that might not be seen.

I left Pontevedra with a quick reminder to be alert. A couple of older German guys whistled at me to notice the arrows after I crossed as I was more interested in the nice view of the Ponte de Tirantos bridge than the Camino route. It's hard to hear sometimes when you're in your own head; I remembered to not feel embarrassed but to think of them as angels telling me showing me the way, my Camino from Lourdes had messenger angels and this Camino was no different.

I walked alone for an hour before I ran into Julz from Australia. You may recall her in yesterday's blog as the one with a backpack that needed adjustment. I asked if she was doing better and she was. She's still adjusting the straps but the feel is much better. We began to walk together and, as it turns out, we walked the whole day to Caldas de Reis.

We stopped at a lovely cafe and sat under an arbor of grape vines, sipping orange juice. She cracked up when I brought out potato chips. I said normally I have to refrain from the salt because of my blood pressure but on Camino I need the electrolytes. She thought it was great that we both love potato chips and that no wonder we get along so well.

Throughout the day we enjoyed the views, uncountable chestnuts on the ground, and grapes. Some of the grapes on the vines were so juicy and beyond delicious. At another rest break, we pulled over briefly among the oaks and chestnut trees. I chatted with some older French Camino walkers who pointed out that the chestnuts were a favorite stuffing for their Christmas turkeys.

We got ever closer to Caldas de Rei, with signs showing that we were also getting oh so close to Santiago de Compostela. We almost passed a special park that Jorge told me about and she found out from a tourist office. Ellen, from Bend Oregon, had had dinner with Julz back in Arcadia (between O Porriño and Rebadela) and ran into us. She had just come from the waterfalls so Julz and I turned back and went over a few hundred meters to the falls.

They were lovely cascades, flowing even at this dry time of year. The water was cool not cold. We took off our shoes and I went right into a spa tub like hole in the rocks. The water was heavenly.

She and I enjoyed the cleansing waters. Julz found them healing and laid back into the waters. I immersed myself fully and felt like a new person. Water, by immersion or by sprinkles, can do that if you believe so.

After the hourlong detour, we continued on to the last bit. Her albergue was 45 minutes away while mine was 1/2 hour past hers in town. I mentioned in passing the stone I left behind every time at the Cruz de Fero. Since this Camino didn't pass it, I still brought a stone and will leave it at the Cathedral.

The stone represents the burdens we carry in life, the heartaches and pains, the luggage that weighs down our backs. They're so small, yet we feel their weight getting heavier with each passing step. I leave the stone during the pilgrimage to release the weight, to give myself some relief, to leave the stone at the foot of the cross so that Christ can carry the burden for me.

I explained this and realized Julz was in tears. We wept together even as other pilgrims walked past us. I reached down to the ground and offered her a small stone to carry.

Julz found her albergue and I continued on. I had a pleasant dinner of fried fish and clams in spaghetti that tasted like paella, along the river bank. Ellen walked by and I thanked her for her reminder. I then caught the Rosario and Mass at the church.

Doves are symbols of hope and peace. They bring with the rainbow a promise beyond the storm and flood. We don't expect them to hurt. And like Prince's song When Doves Cry, it jars us when they do. But no creature or person goes through life without tears. That's part of living.

And yet the dove even in tears can be full of hope. Somewhere beyond the rainbow, there's always hope.

The Silence Between the Notes - A Lenten Meditation

Claude Debussy wrote that "music is the silence between the notes".

Sunset silhouette in Altadena

This statement points out that for beauty to be recognized, it needs a certain amount of space, of emptiness, to be complete. The space between the high notes and the low notes, the long and the staccato notes, allows us to hear the breadth of complexity in the music.

The long notes can resonate and reverberate, falling into the hum of the ether around us. The short staccato notes, so piercing and quick, would be a blur if notes melded into each other. Repeated notes would not exist if there was no space in between each note. Without this space, random notes show up and fade away but would likely be more of a texture, a backdrop, an oozing of sound.

A gorgeous impressionist painting can provide smooth colours that ease into other colours, without specificity. Sometimes, like in the photo above, spaces are in the silhouettes, and we only see a shimmer of a sunset with drifting colours in the distance. Other paintings, say by Rothko, have just vague colours. Without detracting from that beauty, it's tough to say what a painting without edges represents or means. It's a representation of emotion in some ways, shifting and drifting.

I sometimes think of heaven as that contourless nirvana where no lines separate one from the other.

And yet we don't live in a world like that. No matter what we try, there will be spaces between the notes and edges to colours. Pointilism in painting (think G Serat) is the use of thousands of tiny dots that from a distance show lovely edgeless fuzziness, but upon closer inspection still shows separate distinct dots. Minimalist music (think P Glass) may repeat and flow, but each note is still separated from the other notes because musicians must breathe and fingers must press, release, or strike an instrument key or string.

Our lives have spaces all around us. We define ourselves from our parents and loved ones by the differences and similarities between us. We are not clones. The space in between brings our separateness alive and makes our lives beautiful.

Likewise, people come into the orchestration of our lives here and there, filling the spaces and gracing us with whatever unique qualities and gifts were given to them.

And, eventually, someone leaves us, leaving only silence and emptiness.

Like some of my friends, I'm grieving over the loss of a dear soul, a loving woman who struck a melodic note in our lives. With her departure, we feel a silence in the music.

And as I'm sure you will understand, though I lament and am yearning for the note to return, I accept and appreciate that our notes, our lives, our loves, our friendships, would not stand out if we didn't have the silence in between. I pray that those who are listening to this silence will appreciate the beauty of both the notes and the rests, the tones and the silences, as we listen and compose the symphony of our lives.

Camino de Santiago - What's on your playlist? (Preparing #8)

The Long and Winding Road

by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

The long and winding road that leads to your door

Will never disappear

I've seen that road before it always leads me here

Leads me to your door

The wild and windy night that the rain washed away

Has left a pool of tears crying for the day

Why leave me standing here, let me know the way

Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried

Anyway you'll never know the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back to the long and winding road

You left me standing here a long, long time ago

Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to you door

But still they lead me back to the long and winding road

You left me standing here a long, long time ago

Don't keep me waiting here (Don't keep me wait), lead me to you door

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Yes, I created a playlist of music for my walk along the Camino de Santiago. I don't intend to listen to it while actually walking along the route, but I may do so while trying to sleep in the crowded hostels. Snoring? No problem, as long as I have music pointing me towards the arms of Morpheus.

The music ranges from Taizé hymns to rock classics, from Glee-pop to Russian church hymns, from show tunes and musicals to jazz sets. It always fascinates how humans link music and emotions. And on something as deeply personal as a pilgrimage, you explore a wide range of feelings that may be most easily tapped by leaning on song. Since my journey will hopefully nourish me, pointing me towards ultimate Love itself, I can't imagine leaving a tool like music behind.

If music be the food of love, play on

- Duke Orsino in "Twelfth Night", William Shakespeare

Do you listen to music on your journey?

To some, music is all you need. Many today don't find higher meaning in God; young people in particular find that Truth and connections are more found sincerely, intimately, authentically in music alone. Sometimes they create the music themselves, but more often than not, they rely on lyrics, melodies, and rhythms to reveal deep understanding. I know I certainly experienced such ecstatic understanding when I was younger.

Are these revelations through music misleading or inadequate? I would disagree intensely. Even today, I sing in my church choir because the music and hymns reinforce and reveal layers that the word alone may leave unseen. Some discover insight both in the sound of horns and strings, or in the silence between the beats. The connections made while listening to music reach into parts of the brain that defy simple logic. The difference between Belief and Not Belief is that whereas some find that music reveals Truth without a Creator, I find that it reveals Truth because the Holy Spirit is working.

At some point, perhaps, I'll be sitting in a pub or hall listening to music with other peregrinos and remarking on our journeys. Whether the music appeals universally to everyone in the room is irrelevant. We are bound together in a song of love and discovery that transcends simple preferences. We will be following some long and winding road that leads to the doors of Santiago de Compostela.

So sing along with me, with us all, as we walk together.

Thank you and bless you for joining me on this transformational journey.

I leave Los Angeles on September 10 and land in Spain September 11.

Please walk with me by donating to Episcopal Relief and Development

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Camino de Santiago - Introduction (Preparing #1)

Camino de Santiago - Pilgrimage (Preparing #2)

Camino de Santiago - Going Alone, Together (Preparing #3)
 Camino de Santiago - Lasciate omni speranza (Preparing #4)
Camino de Santiago - Walking with Those in Need (Preparing #5)
Camino de Santiago - Cruz de Ferro (Preparing #6)
Camino de Santiago - Capo de Finisterre (Preparing #7)
Camino de Santiago - What's on the Playlist? (Preparing #8)
Camino de Santiago - What's on the Praylist? (Preparing #9)
Camino de Santiago - This Pilgrim's Prayers (Preparing #10)
Camino de Santiago - The Way (Preparing #11)
Camino de Santiago - The Road Not Taken (Preparing #12)

Advent 3 - The Candle of Joy. So be Joyful. Now!

The third candle of Advent was lit at church this weekend. It's the candle of joy. I'm all for joy. After all, we look forward to Christmas because we expect to be full of cheer, mirth, and happiness. We're exhorted to be joyful in the Bible, such as in Romans 12:12 - "Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer."

But it's awfully hard to be joyful all the time, much less an entire liturgical season. Thankfully, the candle is only for the last half of the Advent wreath. Nonetheless, at this time of year, the streets are filled with cars heading to malls, people stand in shopping queues that will last seemingly for hours, and the gift item you were looking for can't be found anywhere. I do almost all my gift shopping online precisely to avoid these problems.

And for this, I'm supposed to have some creepy smile of joy that doesn't often feel sincere?

Joy isn't even what we think it is. Joy is internal. All the back-slapping, laughing, carousing, and joking we think of joy is on the outside. It's the outward manifestation of something going on inside. Like all things on the surface, that external happiness can be spackled on with a trowel and made to brighten our facade. It can easily mask cracks and pains that we want to hide.

I admit, I'm usually the optimist. I'm not content to say the glass is always half full; I would rather drink what's in that glass and ask for another. But you can't make someone joyful or optimistic. Joy comes from within. And sometimes, you hit a granite slab and that well runs dry. Even the very act of smiling can be painful.

I was with the same person for eighteen years. For a long time, we were happy and gay. Not carefree, because the young have a lot of worries regarding money, but somehow it didn't seem so bad. When the relationship began to fray, I became confused and depressed. Oh yes, I put on a smile as was expected. But I wasn't happy, and I certainly wasn't content.

When it all came crashing down and the relationship ended, there was no faking it. I couldn't smile. I had no joy to tap into to bring those smiles out. I took a sabbatical from choir because literally every hymn made me cry. I didn't cry out of sadness for me or for others.

I cried because I had no joy welling inside of me, and music is, at its heart, powered by that joy. When asked, I would explain that I felt as though the Holy Spirit forgot who I was and left me a vacant sack of memories.

That season of Christmas and Easter was awful. I had no strength to fake a grin. Sure I'd laugh with others, but it made a hollow sound, a tinny chuckle heard as though laughing into an empty can. It took time - a slow, painful journey of personal reconciliation and reflection - to find that the love of God was inside me still. It was obscured by my pain, by my guilt, by my self-flagellation. I needed to wait out this game of hide and seek and let that love once again walk into the light.

There's no magic way to bring joy back into your dark spaces. I wasn't a Grinch with a heart ten sizes too small, waiting for the Whoos to sing around a wrecked tree. And when I see people today with sad, empty eyes, I don't try to cheer them up or force them to feel happy.

I just hug them. Or e-hug them. Or smile with them. And most of all, I listen to them.

And together, maybe, just maybe, we'll eventually hear a little sound of joy. Maybe, just maybe, we can light that third candle and let a little light shine out through the darkness of winter.