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

Hot Hills..and Tigers

I lick my lips and taste salt, sweat and bug spray stinging my eyes. A heated breeze hits my body much the same as when I open an oven  and peek obsessively in on baked goods. My water bottle is hot to the touch and the skin on my face is chafing from the hundreds of times I have mopped it dry of dust and sweat. My walking stick is again hitting the ground in four four time, matching every fourth step I take. As the rocky cliffs of the coastal route have given way to the gentle hills of tuscany, I have found my rhythm. 

While walking, a pilgrim will obsess over tiny luxuries for hours... for example, I have recently lost half a day fixated on the idea of the condensation on the outside of a glass of ice tea..the blissful way it collects and runs icily down the side of the glass before pooling  in a ring at the bottom.. My favorite Italian phrase is  "avete ghiaccio?" .. Do you have ice??? I ask this often with a desperate expression on my face. I also have formed an unfortunate 4 euro a day Fanta habit. 

While wandering, Pilgrims will pose unanswerable questions to themselves..  "Would I rather feel cool wearing shorts, but get torn by thorns and eaten by bugs or instead wear pants and feel sweat rolling down my legs?" Or "Would I rather walk downhill in the sun or uphill in the shade?" However, such questions prove pointless because the pilgrim is in fact walking steeply uphill in the full sun AND wearing pants while still being eaten alive.

Italians call them "tiger" Mosquitos and they refuse to claim them as their own, rather saying that they arrived as pesky stowaways aboard boats and semis from far off lands. In one single minute, I had managed to acquire about 20 bites which eventually swelled to ping pong ball sized welts that itched like mad but ached when scratched. However, I ceased my complaining when I met Nicolene, a young, pretty, blonde Belgian girl whose legs and arms were covered in tennis ball sized bullseye bug bite bruises. 

The mosquitos and the Tuscan sun create the perfect purgatory though. One afternoon as Nicoline, her adorable boyfriend Gilles and I trudged under a scorching sun, we happily followed signs leading to water and shade. We gleefully shed our backpacks, plopping down under a tree, only to be quickly driven off by swarms of vicious little ravenous buzzing bastards.  And so a pilgrim asks herself.. "Would I rather walk in the sun and risk heatstroke or walk in the shade and risk malaria?"

*****

I had climbed to the top of yet another mountain only to be told that no hostel or hotel existed in that particular town. I was out of strength and knew I wouldn't make it to the town of Alassio 6 kilometers away.  And so, I looked down from my hillside perch, spotted a collection of houses below and left Peter's arrows to try my luck. As every pilgrim does, I headed to the church and slumped exhausted in a pew to await divine intervention.  I was shortly joined by a young priest to whom I poured out my frustrations and after hearing me out he asked where I had been trying to get to. "Alassio," I said dejectedly. He looked at me a moment before replying and pointing "but Alassio is right there!" A few days later when a different priest with eyes matching the Mediterranean, handed my pilgrim credential back to me, I realized that I could never be a Catholic in Italy since the priests are far too young and attractive. 

*****

As I approached a fountain behind a broken abandoned church, a gangly adolescent boy with a dark tangled mop of hair jumped back to allow me to fill my water bottle. His shirt was wet and it was clear that he had been warding off the midday sun by playing in the fountain's water. Moments later, I began to walk silently on my way but Peter shouted at me, his anger halting me in my tracks. I turned back to the boy, raised my hand to wave and tossed off a simple "Ciao!" In response, the boys face instantly lit into a broad smile, revealing a mouth full of neglected teeth... 

But oh, what a lovely smile it was.

 "Jen," Peter admonished, "how many other times have you simply walked past?"