Life Tastes like Wine...

An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition...

I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun.  After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? 

Nothing!!
"Son of a B%@$#!!!!"  

I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.) 

While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?!  Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James,  A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.  

I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure. 

When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...  

I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"

There are candles to light

In order to keep Italy close, one cold fall morning, I had recently taken a scooter licensing class with my downstairs neighbor. As my licensing test progressed, I drove my adorable little borrowed scooter in and out of preset cones, I demonstrated a mildly successful 90 degree turn, I surprisingly survived a u-turn and I nervously stopped my scooter on the line in front of a tall, thin, pony-tailed older man holding a clip board. "If I give you a passing score," he said, "you have to promise to light a candle for me.." I looked up owlishly at him as he handed me a passing checklist and extended his hand for a shake. "My name is Jeff," he said while flashing a well lived in smile. 

All along the Via Francigena there were candles to light and prayers to take with us to the feet of Saint Peter. In a grocery store parking lot a hundred or so kilometers from Rome, Gilles, Nicoline and I listened to the hopes and sadness of a tiny lonely old woman who sent us on our way with our promise to light a candle at St Peters for her. And so in this way, my heart carried many people with me to Rome... Matteo, my cute young hero in a train station, Elizabeth, my encouraging host in Ventmiglia, Caroline, a beautiful cafe owner who sat down to share a morning coffee with me, The sweet man who owned the owl bed and breakfast..who wouldn't let me leave without taking a tiny porcelain owl to guide me, the helpful priest in Alassio who showed me that while I was lost, I was only steps away from where I needed to be,  and my men in Bussana Vecchio who invited me to live and share in their day. 

I had candles to light for my walking companions..Jeff, the fatherly American Swiss pastor who raced to catch a train back to Switzerland just so he could walk another day with us, Lorenzo, our fearless protector, Gilles and Nicoline who walked with all the optimism and happiness that youth implies, Benoit, the lion of a frenchman who clearly revels in every bit of joy in every moment of his life and Serge and Angela who showed such grace, love and kindness. 

I had candles to light for those I wanted to learn from... For Elena, Anna and Gapare, who enveloped everyone in their love, for the lovely priest at Santuario di Pancole who spoke to me of miracles as though there was nothing else to be done all day, For the priest in San Quirico who showed that being unconventional can be quite wonderful, For Enzo and his wife who laughed, cooked and lived loudly, and for the lovely hotel owner just meters away from Saint Peter, who gave me a room and clucked over me like a mother hen.

And then I had candles to light for those I would always hold in my heart, for Angelo who gave mountains of kindness and understanding, for Daniele who walked the way to Santiago with me and who I will likely walk with again, for his mom, who opened her home and heart to me, and for the tiny old woman selling figs on the road who despite having so little..gave more.

My city is wrapping herself up in Christmas.  We have all eaten more than our fill of our delicious Thanksgiving feasts and the holiday shopping season has begun with a vengeance. The rush to buy, buy, buy is underway and yet I find myself stepping back apprehensively. I am having a hard time reconciling this world to the world of simply lighting candles. I crave simplicity and I am learning that there are very few things which are under my control. And so, I have begun doing good deeds and making deals with the universe. "Universe," I say, "if I do this, can I please stop doubting myself?" 

The other night as I drove home from teaching I passed the same begging old man in the street on Irving Park Road that I pass almost every night. I drove by, yet I couldn't get him out of my mind. So I stopped, bought a sandwich and some orange juice and turned my car around. I parked and ran to the center of the road where he stands night after night begging. As I handed him the small bag of food, he patted my arm, gave a tired bearded smile and said "God bless you, honey." He says that to everyone though, despite whether they give him a smile or a scowl.. "God bless you," he says, perhaps a thousand times a day. I gave to him for purely selfish reasons though. Despite any other worries in my life, I knew that in giving, I had the power to simply make one person full. I was capable of at least that.  As I walked back to my car, the chaos in my head subsided, my heart beat slowed and for just a moment my world was peace.

For those of you who would like to understand what I felt, please follow this link and give. You will instantly feel good, I promise! I wish you all a wonderful start to your holiday season!

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

I will love the light for it shows me the way. Yet I will endure the darkness 

for it shows me the stars. 

Og Mandino

Losing One's Mind

Snow fell on Chicago early this year and not a pretty, dreamy snow, but rather, a wet, bone chilling sideways-falling kind of snow. Chicago's tall buildings had disappeared, swallowed at the halfway point by a heavy grey sky while Lake Michigan churned a wild, foamy white. I sat behind the wheel of my tiny car on Lake Shore Drive, cursing the heavens as my normal 15 minutes of commute stretched to an agonizing hour. Due the dark sky and the endless compartmentalizing of my life, I was tired and frustrated and woefully late. My life had become defined by a simple race to be on time and despite my best efforts, I was failing. I missed sunshine and heat and long dusty roads lined with sunflowers and wheat. But even as my car inched painfully forward and I lost myself in overly heavy thoughts, I was jolted back into the moment. After all, I was not the frantic woman on the side of the road, holding her phone and gesturing manically towards her smashed car.  Nor was I in the boat being tossed about near the shore of Lake Michigan. The rescue trucks and boats were not racing to get to me. There was nothing wrong with me... I was simply a little bit late. 

The next day, I found myself driving in the opposite direction, heading north of the city on a beautiful sunny fall day. I was on time but I had not felt right all day. I felt detached and mentally tired but there was much to be done. However, as I drove north, past bold, red and orange painted trees, my eyes felt extra sensitive to the sunlight and a headache began to set in. I felt my breath shorten and my heart rate speed as I broke into a cold sweat. I lost track of time, unable to tell if I had felt strange for ten seconds or ten minutes. My hands felt heavy and numb against the steering wheel and I began to doubt myself and my ability to drive safely as  it seemed I was losing control. As wave after wave of fear poured over me, I pulled off the road, stopped the car and put my head in my hands. I counted my breaths purposefully elongating each intake of air and in my mind I drew a picture of the golden endless horizon of the Spanish meseta.  After a few moments, I lifted my head and discovered the world to be exactly the same as it had been before...  Only, I was different. 

Shakily, I pointed my car back towards home, afraid to see anyone in my current state. I felt horrified and weak. All of the strength that I had had such pride in was stripped away and I was left to feel like a broken toy. I had been having small moments for a little while, preceding this incident, but I had always been able to maintain control. Again and again I kept coming back to the thought that I was weak, that I was inept, unable to cope with the simplicity of daily life.. weak, weak, weak.. 

"But Jen, you are NOT weak.."

"PETER!!! I have missed you, I thought I left you behind at the Vatican!"

"Jen, I am always here but you are racing too fast to notice." 

"Peter, look at me.. I am a shaky mess."

"Jen, do you remember crossing the Pyrenees on foot or climbing your way across the Italian coast? Weak may not be the right adjective for you.."

"Then what??"

My Saint Peter smiled and patted my hand.

"Human... My dear, you are human." 

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." 

Albert Camus

Pesky Doubts

There is always a point in the preparations where doubt creeps in.  Before heading to Peru, I worried that I had not packed what I needed, that I had nothing to teach, that I was naive.  Before flying to France, I nearly panicked at hearing the airplane announcements in french. Before traveling to Ireland, I was terrified at the thought of losing myself along the winding roads, Before running away to Spain for the first time, I was simply tired of being alone. Before heading to Thailand, I was afraid to never be alone again and before wandering back to Spain to find Santiago, I worried that I was not strong enough... In all cases, I was right.. and wrong. 

In Peru, thanks to a pick-pocket, I learned that I could survive for six weeks on $200. I also learned that the best way to pass time is to go on a chocolate eating binge with  giggling orphans. In France, I learned that it is always right to follow love because even if it doesn't work out, the lavender still smells lovely. In Ireland, I learned that getting lost is half the fun. In Spain I learned that there are friends to be found everywhere. In Thailand, I learned to embrace colors and chaos, and while walking across Spain to St. James I learned that one is never too weak to be lifted up or too strong to be humbled. 

I am in the doubting phase of my preparations right now. I am making endless lists and packing and packing again. I am studying maps and languages while trying to decide on daily stages. I am attempting to prepare for every possibility yet still feeling like a student headed to a final for which I haven't even begun to study. And all the while, I know that as soon as my feet hit the ground, my well laid plans will scatter on the wind.  With Hanuman around my neck, Saint James pushing at my back, Italy under my feet, the Mediterranean always to my right and Saint Peter as my lodestone, I will walk. 

Details.. Oh, the Details!!

My husband and I will be leaving in a week for Europe, where we will visit Genevieve (with whom I shared many adventures on the way to Santiago.) On June 29th, my husband will head back to our lovely Chicago and I will begin walking from Nice, through Monaco, into Italy and onward to Rome in an effort to discover Italy while raising money for Almost Home Kids.  

As I have mentioned before, Almost Home Kids is an organization close to my heart because as a young girl, I witnessed my little sister's fight to live and I watched my mother cope with losing a child. I saw first hand the effects of a family fracturing as a result of the chaos, strain and eventual hollow quiet of caring for a little one whose time was fragile and far too short. However, years later as I walked through the Chicago doors of “Almost Home Kids,” I saw another possibility for families such as mine. I saw refuge, love, laughter, hope, calm and normalcy. I saw an organization that provides education and support to families stretched to their limits. I saw a place that cares for medically fragile children by not just seeing to their physical needs, but also by feeding their need to simply be children. 

So, as I pack my tent, restring my ukulele and prepare to put one foot in front of the other (for a very long time..) I ask for your support for all of the young angels at Almost Home Kids! And for those of you who have already donated... You have made my step lighter. You have some serious good karma coming your way!! Thank you so much!!

To Donate...

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

And for more info on this amazing organization...

http://almosthomekids.net 

How do I tell her that she can't come :(

Reality in Fairy Tales..

This is the post I had intended to write for Saint Paddy's day last month, but I got sidetracked by the election of a new pope. However, April sadly finds Chicago drenched in a weeklong chilly, grey drizzle which happens to be the perfect segue to Ireland and fairy tales...  

In Ireland, magical things can happen. Generally though, magical things didn't happen in flat cornfield towns outside of Chicago. Nor were magical things known to happen to slightly rebellious average young girls from  dysfunctional poor families. But in Ireland, magic was in everything and around every bend. I grew up fascinated by Irish lore and music, I devoured folk tales and dreamed of fairies and changelings. And I waited.. 

A few years out of college, I realized that I was still waiting, waiting to be swept off my feet and carried off to faraway lands. Quite frankly though, I had had enough of waiting, and so I booked my ticket, packed my bag and headed off on the first of many treasured solo adventures. 

 After a few days of peat fires, hot tea and a bad case of the flu, I left my little cottage for a drive along the coast between Donegal and Sligo, passing beautiful little villages, freakishly lush green rolling hills, and kind Irish souls frantically waving me back to driving on the proper side of the road.  Byways zig zagged off of the main highway and blind curiosity had me turning onto a particularly tiny winding road leading towards the sea.  

Following a couple miles of steep drops, white knuckles and sharp bends, I slowed to a stop, set the parking brake, got out and simply stared. While the wind whipped and dampened my hair, the drizzle from the grey clouds above mingled with the mist from the white capped waves on the rocks below. At my back, the startlingly green fields dropped sharply into a lively churning Atlantic, while the smells of grass and dirt merged with fish and salt.  My eyes fixed ahead as clouds shifted and parted over the spires of a distant castle, boldly perched to challenge the sea while offering sanctuary to the mythical Fianna warriors . My romantic heart sighed and in those awed moments I fell in love, weaved stories, composed songs, wrote poems, ached for a paint brush and talent, and crafted dreams of chivalrous lords and beautiful ladies. 

Great-grandson of Queen Victoria and great-uncle to Prince Charles, Louis "Dickie" Mountbatten had a young love for his first cousin Maria, daughter of the last tsar of Russia and sister to the much rumored surviving Anastasia. From the time of the imprisonment and brutal assassination of 19 year old Maria and her entire family to the time of Mountbatten's own death, he kept her picture near.  At the naive age of 23, Mountbatten married the beautiful young heiress Edwina Ashley who then promptly, publicly and frequently made a cuckold of him. 

World War II found Mountbatten fatally orchestrating the failed Dieppe Raid in which thousands of Canadian soldiers were senselessly lost and the Allied forces learned everything not to do when storming the beaches of Normandy two years later. after WW II, Mountbatten was sent to India to act as the final viceroy in the handoff of British power to a newly independent India. Despite agreeing with Gandhi that a united India was the best path forward, Mountbatten's attempts to convince the powerful leader, Jinnah, were met with failure. Lines for a separate Pakistan were hastily drawn, eventually causing the loss of up to a million lives to murder and ethnic cleansing. And through it all, Mountbatten turned a blind eye to the long standing love affair between his wife, Edwina, and India's first prime minister, Nehru. Even so, when Edwina died at age 58, her body was buried at sea, mourned by Mountbatten and accompanied by two indian destroyers sent by Nehru. 

I stared at the beautiful Classiebawn Castle, knowing nothing of her owners, Lord Mountbatten and his wife, Lady Edwina.  I had no idea that on one rare sunny day, an elderly Mountbatten took his wooden fishing boat, clandestinely strapped with a fifty pound bomb courtesy of the IRA, out on the Atlantic. As the explosion rocked the quiet coast near the feet of legendary Benbulbin and Classiebawn Castle, the lives of Mountbatten, his 14 year old grandson, a 15 year old local boy an 83 year old dowager and a family dog dramatically ended.  Mountbatten said goodbye to this world just a few weeks after I had been born and some 20 odd years before I would travel around the world to stumble upon his lovely home, seeing only romance while forgetting the simple fallible humanity.

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

And the next Pope is...

A couple thousand years ago, Jesus gathered his apostles together for a passover meal. Feeling the crushing inevitability of fate, he lifted the bread, broke it into pieces and passed it around. "Take this bread and eat for this is my body given up for you." I imagine his hand shook as he reached for the cup of wine, sweat beading on his brow as the weight of the world settled upon his very human shoulders. "Take this cup and drink for this is my blood which is poured out for you.  Do this in memory of me."  I wonder if his eyes watered with sadness as he watched Judas slip from the room or if his face was lined with weariness as he looked upon Peter. For that very night, Judas would betray Jesus, handing him over to the Romans and before the next morning Peter would deny he knew Jesus three times.  And as for Jesus.. "He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried; he descended into hell; on the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty.." (Apostles Creed)  In the physical absence of Jesus, Peter would become the head of a baby Christian church, our first pope.

For countless generations, stories, descriptions, and artistic renderings of the last supper have been handed down, the most famous being the da Vinci painting above. As the catholic church splintered into countless branches during the reformation, the ceremony of wine and bread took on different forms. My first encounter with "communion" took place in a tiny Baptist church one Sunday every month. Each person would take a broken bit of a cracker from a plate being passed down every pew. Then everyone would receive a dainty shotglass-like plastic cup halfway full of grape juice. Together everyone would chew and sip the body and blood of Christ.  A few years later in a Pentecostal church I watched as a loaf of bread was torn into small pieces while contemporary hymns were played on amped instruments and people loudly praised Jesus with raised hands. Shortly after this, I went to a catholic mass with my best friend's family, only to discover that the grape juice was actually wine (at this point, I should have known that I was destined for catholicism..) In college, I was a hired musician for a United Congregational Church of Christ. One Sunday, as I clumsily stood in front of a slightly horrified congregation with the crimson blood of Christ liberally soaked into my powder blue choir robe, I realized that perhaps I should acknowledge the clear sign from God to abstain from communion. 

After university, I took a leap of faith, left my little town and moved to Chicago. I rented a tiny garden apartment, moving to a neighborhood in which I knew nothing and no one. One Saturday, out of boredom and loneliness, I wandered around the corner for an evening mass at the local catholic church.... and I never left. I became a choir member, a cantor, director of the youth choir, and a wedding and funeral singer, but more importantly, I became part of a warm community, I became a friend, I became loved.  

Sister Barb, a nun out of habit, is a tiny old woman with a stubborn biting humor and a slight leaning towards irreverence. Sister Barb heads up St Gregory's social care ministry, taking gifts and meals to the area poor and sick. She runs the Friendship Club, a group of retirees who meet for friendship and camaraderie, She organizes an annual golf outing, helps with weekly bingo, offers quiet comfort at funerals and likely does a thousand other things of which I am unaware. She appreciates a good wine, enjoys card games and has a slight issue with foul language. (My husband and I had joked about hiding the reading she was to give at our wedding in order to prompt a quiet "Oh, Shit.." to cross her lips from the pulpit.) Upon receiving a gift, she feels the need to immediately reciprocate.  And she gives tiny unexpected gifts, telling exactly what they are as she hands them over.  She can't stand the hymn 'Amazing Grace,' and has frequently threatened to haunt us if we dare to sing it for her funeral and when I finally decided to convert after 8 years in the church, Sister Barb stood in as my sponsor.  On a weekday afternoon in a empty peaceful church with sunlight streaming through the stained glass, I was baptized, with Sister Barb next to me. Absentmindedly blowing out the candle representing my eternal soul, Sister Barb was horrified upon hearing Father Paul's dry "Well, so much for symbolism.."   

Months later, my husband and I stood in the parish center, making copies for the youth choir, when Sister Barb walked in preparing to visit a sick parishioner. "All I have to take with is frozen breadsticks and whiskey.. Do you think that is ok?" she asked.  My husband came back with a smile and a quick, "would you like to visit us?" Sister Barb takes communion to those in the community who, for any number of reasons, can't get to mass and it was with her that I received communion for the first time as a catholic and since my college, stained choir robe debacle. And each week as I am pulled in for a powder scented kiss on the cheek, I come to understand that thousands of years of faith rests not on the grandiose gestures of cardinals and popes, but on the quiet humble shoulders of Sister Barb and those like her who came before, those who see what needs to be done and simply get to work.  In her imperfect perfection lies divine grace.

Countless pilgrims have descending on Italy in recent days, including our very own St Gregory Choir, scheduled to sing at the Vatican on St Patty's Sunday. (Don't ask why I am not with them... I refuse to answer gracefully as it was my own foolish choice..) The eyes of the world are currently on Rome as our Pope Benedict steps aside and preparations begin for the next Pope. People pause in their daily lives to observe history in motion; tiny generous nuns, mothers and grandmothers, teachers and lovers, all with the hopes of two thousand years in their hearts.   The world waits as 115 cardinals gather behind closed doors to elect the next leader from among themselves... 

But wouldn't it be truly miraculous if the very breath of God engulfed all in its wake, whispering softly into closed off hearts and ears. Chaos would ensue within the conclave, shouts would be heard, fists would shake, men would rail against God's true design while others in shock would simply stare off incredulously. Days of bitter struggle would pass while those involved would fight desperately against the inevitability of the Beloved's desire. But eventually stubbornness would give way to bemusement and snow white smoke would billow free. Crowds would press near, drawn by Peter's wildly pealing bells and a charged silence would follow. 

"Our next Pope is...    

(the world collectively inhales..) 

 ..Sister Barb!!" 

Who are we to set parameters around the Divine?

Well.. next time, perhaps..

I have many miles to walk till I reach Peter and our new Pope Francis, but with each step I am able to take, I feel the blessing of a beautiful earth beneath my feet.

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust