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

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 :(

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

Chocolate Caca

Oloron-Sainte-Marie is a little town of approximately 11,000 inhabitants tucked up against the Pyrenees of southwestern France. Situated on one of the timeless routes of the Camino de Santiago, Oloron-Sainte-Marie’s 10th century cathedral has achieved World Heritage status and a pilgrim’s evening summer stroll through the city, along the river would be accompanied by the heavenly scent of warm chocolate mixing with the humid night air. 

After a day of meandering through the busy streets of Lourdes and stumbling over an abundance of sellers peddling miracle working wares such as Mary shaped holy water bottles and glow in the dark rosaries, Ola, her mom and I happily found ourselves in Oloron-Sainte-Marie, sniffing our way to the Lindt chocolate factory. Ola, a tall, pretty Polish girl with an unshakably sunny disposition and her smiling mother filled a small shopping cart with truffles and bars boasting 90% coco while I became enthralled by a pile of plain sealed boxes, each titled “Kilo Surprise.”  

A half hour later, our little car bounced along the quiet french country roads and while Ola and her mom chattered away in the front seats, I sat quietly in the back, mentally wishing goodbye to a childhood of Nestle and Hershey as I reverently opened my first bar of Lindt double milk chocolate.  I placed one tiny square of smooth chocolate on my tongue and closed my eyes in pure bliss. 

After that day and due to the obscene quantities of chocolate that I had bought, Lindt became a treasured part of my daily routine and a reward for tasks accomplished.  Surely clean dishes were worth at least one square of decadence!

A few summers later, I followed Saint James across the Spanish countryside with three beautiful frenchwomen, hoarding chocolate, wine, cheese and fresh baked bread along the way. Upon discovering a particularly messy melted bar of chocolate in the bottom of one of our bags, lovely Isabelle would simply rip off a bit of bread, greedily wiping the chocolate wrapper clean.  One clear hot day, after walking on tired legs past a golden field of contentedly grazing cows, I sniffed the air in confusion. “I swear, the cow poop here smells like chocolate!? I must be overtired and hallucinating..." My walking companions laughed at my suspicions, attributing my quirks to my simply being american. Poop does NOT smell like chocolate!

Weeks later, after completing my pilgrimage to Saint James and saying goodbye to the new dear friends I had discovered, I made my way to a small town outside of Valencia to visit family friends before heading back to the states. Two days before I was to fly home, I found myself walking rows in a thirsty olive grove owned by my host Paco, a middle aged friendly man who I strongly suspect could rule the world with absent minded perfection if he so chose. Covered in dust crusted sweat, armed with my tiny tank of a camera, and sporting a new gash in my leg where I had lost a battle with a thistle plant, I stumbled back to where Paco stood under a large shady tree. I watched curiously as he pulled a dark brown pod off a low branch and began to chew his way through. Seeing my interested look, he explained that the Carob tree that he was standing under grows throughout Spain, southern Europe and parts of the middle east and Africa. He chatted on about how in better times, Spaniards harvested the pods of the Carob to be used in making syrups and sugar free chocolate, but due to a lack of financial returns, the carob pods were now mostly used region wide as animal feed. As Paco launched into an in depth  explanation of the many merits of carob and how the seeds of the pod were actually the weight measurement behind the ‘carat,’ my mind focused in on one tiny detail...   So, poop actually DOES smell like chocolate!!

Unfortunately, I cannot take credit for this pic..
Courtesy of Lindt ;)

And now.. Walking Details!!  Despite the chill of January, I managed to walk 45 miles which is about 4% of my 1000 mile goal for 2013. Together, we have raised $420, about 8% of our 2013 goal of $5000 for Almost Home Kids.  

For more info on this amazing and loving charity visit http://almosthomekids.org 

and to donate, visit
http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser
/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter
1000milesorbust

I hope you all have a wonderful Saint Valentine’s Day. And as for gift recommendations ... Lindt!  Large quantities of Lindt.. Perhaps even a ‘Kilo Surprise!’  

My lovely host holding an olive branch

Under the Carob Tree..

Soneja Siesta!

How many soccer balls did it take to bend that sign :)

Soneja.. Fun with camera settings..