Salty Socks

Today I washed my socks in the sea.. Walking to Rome is different than walking to Santiago. On the way to Santiago, people knew what you were doing and wished you warm buon caminos, but not so many pilgrims crowd the roads to Rome. And so people have been looking my way with a bit of apprehension, perhaps suspecting my gypsy heritage. (Of course, I was walking through Monaco at the time.. they look at anyone making less than $500,000 a year that way..)

I kissed my husband a few days ago, borded a night train and happily left Paris behind. I will eventually write about Paris, but let it momentarily suffice to say that I am thrilled to to be in Italy with it's plethora of public toilets.) I stepped off a train and began my walk yesterday in Nice after unexpectedly catching a Sunday morning mass. After crossing into Italy, I stayed in lovely Ventimiglia with Elizabeth, her italian husband, her teenage daughter and her two affectionate dogs. Elizabeth is an american kung fu teacher who had listed her spare bedroom on Airbnb.com and upon my arrival, she invited me to join her family for what turned out to be a delicious vegen dinner of gespacho, smoked eggplant, potatoes, truffles and fresh herbs. There was a moment when I considered giving up on Rome and just spending the month with Elizabeth and her family..

Italy smells like sage and jasmine lines the road.  (Paris smells a bit like piss..) Pastel pink, orange and yellow houses are stacked in the hills touching the sea while colors run riot in the agressive vines growing around every home. People seem to be chatty so far, wanting to know what purpose a stranger has to walk through their neighborhoods. One old man stopped me earlier, simply to tell me that I have strong calves and upon learning of my trek to Rome, he assured me that I will make it with no troubles. I am overcoming my mild fear of heights as most of the roads I am walking are on steep cliffs above the Mediterranean. Though I had prepared for an unmarked trail, I am thrilled to bits to see that the Via Della Costa, my route to Rome, is thoroughly marked with familiar cheery yellow arrows. I am eating freakish amounts of fresh fruits bought at local markets. Today I ate a peach so juicy that I nearly went through a pack of wet wipes to clean myself off. And I am remembering all of the gloriously forgotten aches of the camino... the stiff knees, tight ankles, chaffed shoulders, tired feet.. and oh, the blisters, how could I forget the blisters??

Tonight my tent is on a beach outside of San Remo. Caravans are nearby, full of families with children drunk on summertime and as the sun sets, the sound of waves will lull all off to sleep.

  

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

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..

Quo Vadis? .. Where are you going?

Saint James has grand plans and who am I to disappoint him?  "There is someone I want you to meet," he says, "but he can be a bit stodgy so you will have to be creative as to how you approach him." 

"uh... ok?" I respond hesitantly.  Jim continues, "I want you to go to Rome to see my old friend Peter. He will be expecting you."   Holy poop..  

While my Saint James, flaws and all, has become an approachable friend, Saint Peter is a whole other story.. Though Peter was said to have had moments of arrogance, a minor jealous streak in regards to time Jesus spent with Mary Magdalena, and Peter did deny Jesus three times, he was still the first chosen by Jesus. Jesus gave him the namesake 'Peter' which is a form of the word "rock" in Greek and Latin.  And Peter was a rock; stability and strength in the face of a chaotic decaying Roman empire. In the years following the death of Jesus, Peter fathered and organized the new fledgling christian church. And upon his execution under the rule of a severely depraved Emperor Nero (as evidenced in the mysterious deaths of nearly everyone in Nero's family..)  it is said that Peter felt himself unworthy to die in the same way as Jesus, requesting instead to be crucified upside down!!!   

Peter is one serious dude!  How on Earth will I make this work?

                                                       ******

I had a little sister. She was lovely and for nearly a year, my family was given time to love her and to learn to live with and without her. Life was filled with white hospitals, bleach smells, irregular beeps and a family that couldn't cope.  Years later, I moved to Chicago to work for the Chicago Fire Soccer Team and I met Judith, a strong, soft spoken Scottish woman who ran the Illinois State Soccer association with calm efficiency. Judith and her husband were blessed to have been given time to love their sweet little boy Euan. However, after Euan joined my little sister, Judith changed her life, going to work for an organization that had been a rock for her family. 

Almost Home Kids is an organization based in Naperville and Chicago that provides care for medically fragile children who no longer need to stay in a hospital, but are still not ready for home. While touring the Chicago home with Judith, I looked at warmly painted walls covered in friendly murals and pictures, I saw an inviting open kitchen with a large accessible countertop,  and I smiled into the big brown eyes of a gorgeous little girl who wasn't quite ready to succumb to nap time. The words of one particular volunteer were quite evident. "It isn't just about medicine," she said. "They also focus on the needs of the family and loving the child." 

Due to the compact size of Almost Home Kids, every single dollar has an impact; providing diapers, bedsheets, latex gloves, or even a Nintendo Wii among other things. And while providing a safe, loving place for each child, Almost Home Kids is projected to save Illinois taxpayers approximately 16 million dollars in the coming year.  As I looked around, I knew that I wanted to help. 

As 2012 quickly draws to a close, I put aside a pair of destroyed hiking boots and begin looking for the next pair. Besides visiting James in Santiago, my personal goal had been to walk a thousand miles by  new years and while I came close, even if I began walking now straight until midnight, I would not make it.  (of course, my distance is much more impressive if I convert to kilometers..)  And so my goal for 2013 becomes clear; walk 1000 miles, 600 of those on the Via Francigena to see Saint Peter in Rome and walk for someone other than myself...Walk for my sister, for Euan and for all the other little angels at Almost Home Kids. 

I ask for your help in this endeavor. Please sponsor my miles by pledging a per mile amount. One cent per mile adds to $10, five cents to $50 and so on and so forth. Every mile and every cent is a difference.

For more info on how to give..  
http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

For more info on Almost Home Kids
http://almosthomekids.net

http://almosthomekids.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Almost-Home-Kids-Annual-Report-2012.pdf

And Have a Happy and Healthy 

New Year!!

Resident Pilgrims

My City is dressed up for Christmas with white lights dripping from every tree. Tall grey buildings wrapped up red and green butt up against a cold grey lake; our own little sea. Churches with their alters full of rich velvety poinsettias, are lit solemnly with tiny candle flames as strains of Handel's Messiah ring out from countless choir lofts. The smell of infinite cookies baking dances through the air as a frazzled population races through final holiday preparations. A thin layer of snow turned ice crackles underfoot as impish children race from one fantastical santa land store window to the next, while in between random spurts of binge shopping, we smile.  My city is dressed up for Christmas.. and she is so lovely.


... And oh so far from Spain... 


My knees no longer ache and that makes me sad.

For weeks after saying goodbye to Saint James and returning home, my body felt tight and creaky, and my mind felt as though I had left it elsewhere. I ate like a horse and craved manchego cheese with an almost homicidal intensity. (as a side note.. manchego is freakishly expensive in the states.) I searched out Milka chocolate, mixed sprite with multiple types of beer (with some truly foul results..) and caught myself cutting vegetables in my kitchen 
with the same little pocket knife that had accompanied me across Spain.


I itched to walk... all the time... everywhere.. my hand reaching for my trusty walking stick. Upon returning home, I threw out multiple pairs of high heels, avoided makeup like the plague and I spent hours pouring over the thousand (or two) photos I had taken on my way to meet James, trying to narrow them down to the few pictures that friends and family would have the patience to look through.



I brought up the camino in nearly every conversation I had with anyone..
"Oh, you want to go out for thai food  ..Well, when I was walking to Santiago.."
"Really? You think blue is a good color.. Well, in Spain..."

And every argument with my husband ended like this...
Me: "I'm sorry, but when was the last time you walked a thousand kilometers?"
Husband: "are you gonna stop using that excuse anytime soon?"
Me: "Nope.  Wanna go for a walk?"
(...exasperated husband stalks off...)

I just wanted to be left alone to write, to read, to make music and most of all... to walk. As a result, I aimlessly followed yellow arrows painted on the sidewalk only to end up following a utility company's proposed repair dig.  And one of my many unplanned walks resulted in my getting locked inside a cemetery. (seriously, read the sign at the front gate ALL the way to the end!!)  On any given day my heart urged me to run back to the camino to carry on since it seemed that a  thousand kilometers wasn't a great enough distance to effectively walk away from myself.

I returned from Spain with a new desire to respect and take care of my body in a wholesome natural way, and to that end I joined a school of martial arts where I am learning Tai Chi from 'Johnny Cage' (a privilege lost on me as my first and last video game was 'Duck Hunt'... I am now vegetarian and anti gun..) I simplified life, cutting back on classes and students.. only to discover that while I truly enjoyed the extra time, I miss those students and their families horribly and am wondering if it would be a terrible faux pas to offer them a time back. As my fall season wrapped me up in its slightly less hectic schedule of choirs, students, masses, rehearsals, and classes, I realized that perhaps the camino was not about showing me what is wrong with my life but rather showing me that the life I have built might possibly be exactly where I belong. I have been able to find contentment and joy even as I search out new challenges and adventures. However, in the recent loss of our kindhearted sweet Indian grandfather, we see the limits of this life. We must live it every single moment of every day. I see our beloved Ajooba (grandfather) stepping up between my Saint James and Shiva and they are chatting, their heads angled together. They look up towards us, "what are you doing wasting time watching us?" they say while waving us away. "Go on.. LIVE!" 


As my horrifying sock tan lines fade completely away, I feel my pilgrimage memories take on a misty dreamlike quality... that is until one gray, cold in the bones kind of Chicago day when I open my mailbox and spot a slightly tattered envelope with the words "Par Avion" stamped ever so crisply. As I pull Jean-Pierre's lovely letter to my heart,  I lift my face and feel the radiating warmth of a beautiful meseta sun.

"And Now," I say with a hint of dare and mischief to my beloved Saint James , "What shall I do next?"