Detailing journeys on the Camino de Santiago and the Via Francigena. This blog is about learning how to walk far enough to find one's self while still laughing.
Each Sunday before the 8:30am mass is set to begin, an elderly couple comes in through the side door. The grey moustached husband quietly leads his wife to the front pew, sees her settled and then heads to the back of the church to attend to his duty as an usher. The wife's appearance hints at a life lived with grit, joy and fullness, as she has tattoos on her arms, dark mascara around her lovely blue eyes, hair that will eternally be blond, faded jeans, and a smile that lights the air around her. On many such morning, she has pulled me in for a hug, or given my hand an extra squeeze and I have discovered that these little moments are so important to me. Lately though, she has been moving a bit slower, standing a little less tall, seeming confused a bit more often. She grips her husband's arm a little tighter and he holds her a little more carefully. With each Sunday, a little more time has passed, taking cruelly from us and returning to us things which we don't realize we need. But as Sunday's mass begins, I step up to the podium with my normal sweaty palms, shaky knees, and rapidly pounding heart. However, as I look past the sheet music and useless anxieties in front of me, I see her smiling from the first pew. She beams up at me, her warmth a welcome benediction. I share in her smile, take a deep breath and … "Good Morning and welcome to Saint Gregory. Today the Church celebrates Palm Sunday…"
True religion is real living; living with all one's soul, with all one's goodness and righteousness.
When I was in grade school, my family spent a year living in an apartment complex of about 20 large three story buildings, interspersed with parking lots. The long hot summer days, generally found me locked out of the house and left to discover my own means of entertainment. This included such things as finding a swing set, playing hide and seek with neighbor kids, searching the grass for four leaf clovers, reading under a tree or just generally, allowing the imagination to take over. However, there were many days that stretched overly long... endless days when I would scour the parking lots looking for lost change while the sound of the ice cream truck ceaselessly taunted. I kicked at the litter and bent to look under cars, always with the hope of finding a simple coin or two. My family never had spare change. When I was 15 and in foster care, I owned just enough clothes for two loads of laundry, one load of lights and and one load of darks. One afternoon as the sun slanted through the laundry room window, I pulled my warm light load out of the dryer only to discover that I had forgotten to take a wayward cherry chapstick out of one of the pockets. Everything was stained with pink greasy spots. In one careless moment, I had ruined half of everything I owned. Two years later, I had told a girlfriend of mine that I could not go to a school dance because I had nothing, no shoes, no jewelry, no way to be pretty. A few days after, she handed me a delicate pearl necklace and bracelet set that her mom had bought for me and though I don't have memories of the actual dance, I do still have the pearls. My sophomore year of college, I had used the last of my spare change to buy a $.39 box of elbow macaroni and an even cheaper can of tomato paste at the local Aldi discount store. (It's frightening that I still remember the exact cost..) I stood in my kitchen, cooking my poor man's meal and as I added pepper, the lid of the shaker came off, dousing my entire meal. As I ate my foul tasting dinner, helpless tears filled my eyes, brought on by thoughts of my empty bank account and exacerbated by an abundance of pepper in my sinuses. Much time has passed and life has changed. I can now buy a pair of pretty earrings without too much thought, I can afford things that were out of reach when I was younger... olive oil, shoes with support, cheese NOT made by Kraft, Italian coffee, honey, soft toilet paper, Lindt.. I have a closet full of clothes and I no longer suffer sinus infections and sore throats for weeks before gathering the funds to go to a doctor. And a dead battery in my car no longer sends me into a depressed downward spiral as it it now easily addressed. I am by no means, rich, but I no longer feel hunger pangs. However, my life is full of reminders... Before heading down to Peru as a teacher when I was 27 years old, I packed my bags with school books and 60 packs of crayons as the school had requested. Upon settling into the dusty Andean town, Puno, I headed to the school with my massive bag of crayons. As I handed a pack out to each student, I watched in amazement as something so ordinary was worth it's weight in gold in the excited eyes of my young students. Years later, I was leading a youth choir rehearsal which had just finished as one young member passed around a couple boxes of addictive girl scout cookies. I watched as another member, a preteen boy furtively took one entire sleeve of cookies out and clumsily slipped them into his pocket. Another singer noticed as well, a young girl who generally says Everything, yet in this particular case, she held silent. We didn't want to say anything as our young cookie snatcher had spent years as a refugee and his life had held difficulties that we couldn't fathom. However, I could perfectly imagine him, safe yet insecure in his new world, home alone and unwrapping his cookie treasure. He and I would eventually have a chat, but that would come later. While completing my TEFL certification, I began assisting with an English language class at Centro Romero in Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood. I help out on Thursdays with a classroom full of incredibly intelligent warm immigrant adults who generally work too hard for too little. A few weeks ago, the teacher, a beautiful vivacious middle age colombian woman, brought in mexican sweetbreads for everyone. As I thoughtlessly bit into mine, I looked around the class, noticing how some students meticulously wrapped napkins around their bread, to save for later, while others carefully split theirs in two, some for now and some for another time. I thought about the differing value of such a simple item, and the unexpected pleasure of receiving a quiet gift. Saint James and Saint Peter are all about simplicity. A pilgrim agonizes while packing for the Camino since each item in one's back pack will have to be carried for over 500 miles.. "Do I really need a phone for each country AND the corresponding adapters, Do I really want to carry makeup through the Pyrenees, How much bug spray do I really need?" (I rethought that last one after I had left my bug spray behind only to later be devoured by devil's spawn tiger mosquitos..) "Will I really wear that extra dress? Do I really need a solar charger? Will I really carry a little ceramic owl ornament all the way to Rome?" (yes.. and back to Chicago..) As I left certain things along the way and acquired other things to carry, I realized that what was in my back pack was quite irrelevant, as irrelevant as the contents of my closets and home.
After all, sometimes when I have everything,
everything is not enough and other times, when I have nothing,
I am having vivid dreams about building a nativity scene...and I don't mean simply placing little figures of Joseph, Mary and Jesus and the other supporting characters. I mean that I am having dreams about buying and sawing wood, hammering and painting, imagining and creating. I have never really given much thought before to the construction of such Christmas time scenes, but circumstances have changed. Tucked away in a quiet residential corner of the lovely Andersonville neighborhood in Chicago, sits St Gregory the Great Church. This beautiful church is not overly well known, nor a tourist destination. There has been water in the organ pipes and perpetual fundraising for tuckpointing projects. But Saint Gregory is community. One enters from the west into warm cream painted walls and pillars, rich mahogony wooden pews, red flickering candles, and a stunningly painted beamed ceiling. The air smells of sweet candle wax, wood polish and incense and the radiators bang and clank to life in an effort to heat those who arrive on the many cold Chicago winter mornings. To the left of the altar is the Marion altar where young brides stand to offer prayers and flowers to Mother Mary. and built into the wall next to Mary, is the church's scene of the Christmas birth. Children stare in fascination at the 12 inch figures of Mary and Joseph, sheperds, angels, animals and the Magi. However, if one looks closer at the pretty wooden hand carved figures, one notices that some of the animals are missing legs, there is misspelled latin on the angel, and baby Jesus, while lovely, is an oversized replacement for the original Jesus that had been stolen a few years before. The sheer size of the baby Jesus head in comparison to Mary's slight frame would imply that the virgin birth may have been even more of a miracle than we have previously thought.
Rome is overflowing with baby Jesuses (Jesi??) There are large shiny faced human sized ones, there are tiny glow in the dark ones, there are ones in which it seemed that Jesus was born as a twelve year old, and there are others which do not portray Jesus as being a very pleasant child at all. But in Italy, the nativity scene, or 'presepe' as they say, is serious business! Families spend years creating their personal presepes, lovingly adding pieces with each passing Christmas and rather than Christmas trees, many public buildings display ornate nativity scenes. The figures can range in size from a centimeter each to nearly life size. They can be any level of quality from cheap plastic to hand painted terra cotta or stunningly carved wood. There are sought after makers such as the cherub faced Fontanini pieces from the north in Florence, but the more I learn, the more I hear that the true artisans lie to the south in Napoli.
One day was spent in Rome touring the dusty, though well loved, Museu Tipologico Internazionale Del Presepio. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of nativity sets from all over the world, the scene from Napoli commanded attention with it's vibrant colors and life like expressions. However, since a trip to Napoli was not in my near future, a frustrating afternoon and evening was spent searching through shops of religious articles surrounding the Vatican, in order to acquire a new baby Jesus for St Gregs. As I stood nervously in one shop while an older pushy man tried to sell me a fake Fontanini Jesus, I realised that the pieces of quality were not to be found amidst the made-in-China tourist junk surrounding St. Peters. I caved under pressure though, bought the plastic Jesus and quickly left the store, barely in command of my sanity.
*****
The sky was a forboding shade of grey and a tolerable mist alternated with a cold heavy rain, but Piazza Navona still echoed with the voices of a hundred Italians with their bright cheery colored umbrellas. The wet, dangerously slick, dark grey cobblestones of the square sofly reflected the lights and surrounding buildings as men on either side sold roasted chestnuts. The center of the square was dominated by the ornate 17th century Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (fountain of the four rivers) and the beautiful church of Sant'Agnese in Agone faced inward. To one side of the piazza sat a whimsical two story toy store, selling incredibly detailed high quality wooden, metal and stuffed toys. The square itself was full of little temperary stalls selling everything from candy to leather purses, from deep green plants to Tibetan singing bowls. But what drew me in were the stalls selling delicate hand crafted miniature figures for family presepi. I stood for extended periods of time at each stall, studying the tiny wares and trying the patience of those around me. I stared in fascination at the larger moving pieces.. a woman washing her clothes, a man chopping wood, and I couldn't resist touching the smaller pieces.. little pots and pans, mini baskets full of painted fruit or fish, petite wine bottles..
After studying the offerings of each stall and devouring a delicious, sugar coated ciambella (massive donut) my companion and I circled back to the first stall where I had previously spotted a lovely terra cotta sheep. We chatted a while with the man running the stall and despite my disappointment at learning that all the baby Jesuses had long since sold out, he assured me that he would be happy to ship to anywhere in the world. (seriously though.. How does one refer to 'Jesus' in plural???) The older man looked on nervously as I clumsily inspected the delicate sheep and upon purchase, he carefully wrapped it, giving special care to protecting it's legs, while instructing that the sheep only return to Chicago and my church via carry on. I bought a few additional little pieces to be used in terrariums, had one last longing look at all of the beautiful, gorgeously painted terra cotta figures and went on my way, dreaming of my own brightly colored future presepe.
I won a hen while playing Tombola. Well...no, I take that back.. I actually won a lovely little pair of expresso glasses, but I couldn't resist gleefully trading them for an atrocious, ceramic, chicken sugar bowl. (at least I think it may be a sugar bowl...) I sat with twenty or so people, around a large, festively decorated table, cluttered with wine and soft drink bottles, enough food for a small village, huge quantities of shredded orange peels and a pile of terribly wrapped "gifts" in the center. I listened intently, holding a tiny bit of orange peel in my hand, as a young boy shouted numbers out to the room. I purposefully searched the Tombola cards in front of me before setting my orange peel over the number I hoped was called. Occasionally though, I lost my focus. I sat back in my chair and memorized the scene around me. Warm yellow walls covered in beautifully framed art surrounded us. A merrily twinkling Christmas tree filled one corner while a lovingly placed nativity scene sat nearby. Blissfull smells of pizza, arancini and sweetbread floated in the air as a baby was passed around. Children unabashedly tugged on the arms of adults, demanding piggy back rides or an impromptu wrestle. People touched.. a kiss on each check, a warm hug, an arm around a shoulder, a hand on a leg, a teasing shove. I caught snatches of conversations, talk of work, of dinner, of new shoes, of a new engagement... but sometimes, I stopped hearing words. I simply listened as waves of beautiful, lyrical Italian washed over me. Just a few hours earlier, I had not met any of the people around me, but yet, I was seated at their table, devouring their food, sharing their Grappa, teasing their children, and cherishing their joy. I was not out of place. I was welcome. I reined in my sentimental thoughts, turned my focus back to my Tombola cards, placed my last orange peel and proudly made the chicken mine...
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!
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."
A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.
Charles Darwin
I am back in the land of deadlines, time constraints, responsibilities, traffic and exhaustion and I miss my saints, Peter and James. The Chicago days are growing shorter, the sun weaker and the leaves are beginning to show signs of autumn. The richness of Tuscany seems a galaxy away, but I wonder.. Did I truly appreciated the rolling Tuscan hills as I trudged up and down them, swearing and sweating all the way?
A beautiful, fat, harvest moon has been hanging low over my city these past few evenings. A couple of nights ago, I had finished teaching in the north shore and was driving home alongside Lake Michigan. I rolled my window down and stretched my hand out into the sweet, humid, night air and I drank in the sight of a rotund moon lazily rising and reflecting brilliantly off of the gentle lake waters. "I should stop," I thought. "I should park my car, put my feet in the water and admire the same beautiful moon that rose above St. Peters Square only 7 hours ago."
But I didn't stop... I was tired, and so that moment slipped by me.
*****
(a continuation of the previous post unconditional..)
My fingers has turned to white prunes and I had begun to shiver. I had left the affectionate cheese-eating kittens a few miles behind, while the previously raging storm had become a steady, gentle rain. I walked through quiet, empty fields, rain drops bouncing off my nose, and I smiled to myself as I purposefully and childishly stomped in each puddle. Though my spirits were high, my teeth were beginning to chatter and I was soaked to the bone by the time I stumbled into Abbadia-a-Isola. As I wandered into the empty, tiny town, a thin, older woman with frizzy, strawberry-blonde hair peeked her head out of a door and asked if I was a pilgrim. I said yes and asked if she had seen any others before me that day and as I was asking her about Gilles and Nicoline, I heard their voices shout my name from inside. I happily followed the woman, Elena, inside and up a flight of stairs, warmth and delicious smells luring me onward.
An hour later, after I had lingered under a hot shower, Gilles, Nicoline, Serge, Angela, our newly acquired Lorenzo, and I sat in chairs in a semicircle as Elena and Ana kneeled, washing and kissing our feet. Exuberant Elena and her shorter, more tranquil, dark-haired friend, Ana, explained that as members of the Confraternita of Saint James, their job is to welcome and care for the weary pilgrim as they would welcome and care for Christ. After eating two large bowls of Elena's Christ worthy, heavenly flavored minestrone for dinner, I slept deeply and peacefully through the night.
As a result of the quirks of the Confraternita's scheduling rotation, the six of us happily found ourselves once again as guests of the gentile Elena and Ana in the majestic, hilltop town of Radicofani. Due to the addition of Ana's affable and slightly irreverent husband, Gaspare, dinner was a loud, warm and hilarious event. Throughout the evening, I watched as Elena told stories vivaciously, her joie de vivre showing in every line of her body. I observed as Ana leaned her head towards Elena and Gaspare protectively covered Elena's hand with his and I saw in those small gestures, years of friendship and love. When I learned later that Elena had been very sick, nearly to the point of dying, I understood better the light in her eyes and the attentive love radiating from her friends. Towards the end of the evening, after eating ridiculous amounts of delicious minestrone and arancini, Gaspare introduced us all to the spicy warmth of Grappa. He placed dainty cups in front of each of us and a much larger glass in front of himself and proceeded to fill our cups multiple times as we toasted friendship, love, and God. And as we raised our glasses, my heart took a photograph. I have brought home a bottle of Grappa. Perhaps this weekend I will steal back my missed moment with the moon. Perhaps I will take my Grappa to the lakefront and raise a glass towards my Peter. "Jen, make sure it's a small glass though.. That stuff is strong and we don't want you drowning or getting arrested for public intoxication..." "Gee thanks Peter. I'll keep that in mind..."
Each Sunday before the 8:30am mass is set to begin, an elderly couple comes in through the side door. The grey moustached husband quietly leads his wife to the front pew, sees her settled and then heads to the back of the church to attend to his duty as an usher. The wife's appearance hints at a life lived with grit, joy and fullness, as she has tattoos on her arms, dark mascara around her lovely blue eyes, hair that will eternally be blond, faded jeans, and a smile that lights the air around her. On many such morning, she has pulled me in for a hug, or given my hand an extra squeeze and I have discovered that these little moments are so important to me. 
