A Hymn for Peace

Some pilgrims get tired, some get sick, some are simply lazy, but others… well, others stay out until depraved hours, gorging on gelato unable to contemplate waking in time to tour Gaudi's garden, Park Güell. Those same people also refuse to admit if they may have had gelato more than twice in one day..

On our first morning waking in the lively city of Barcelona, a few of us had chosen to stay behind in our plush beds while other ambitious choir members headed off for a memorable walk uphill to the fairytale-like gardens designed by Antoni Gaudí. Keri, the boys and I stayed behind with Carlos and his lovely parents to enjoy a slow cafe and walk through the gothic district before meeting up for our day's lunchtime performance at the 14th century Santa Maria del Mar. 

One of the most complete surviving examples of Catalan Gothic style, Santa Maria del Mar was built in a mere 50 odd years, which is nearly the speed of light for the 1300s. The pace of construction is attributed to the help of the “bastaixos” or porters from the fishing boats who gave their time and backs to carry stones from Monjuic to the building site. With her regal dimensions, austere decorations and barren echoey walls, Santa Maria del Mar allowed our voices to stretch and flow to the  farthest reaches. A quiet tone carried, while a raised voice seemed to occupy the space of every molecule inside the walls of this massive basilica. And so, we sang through our recital of music with joy and wonder at the fullness of our tone.

We had shamelessly brought our horrid Chicago weather with us to Spain. The week before we had left our city of ice, Barcelona had been in the blissful 70s. However, upon our arrival, temps plummeted. After our recital, we were to head off to a mini boat cruise on the sapphire Mediterranean, but instead, due to bad weather and large grey waves, our boat cruise was cancelled and we were set loose for a free day of eating and shopping… and oh yes, we were successful on all fronts. 

The morning of our final full day in Spain began with a tour of the imaginative and magical Sagrada Familia, or Sacred Family, dreamed of and designed by Antoni Gaudí. However, Gaudí would never have claimed the credit. He said, "I am not a creator, I merely copy," in regard to drawing all of his inspiration from nature. Born in 1852, Gaudí devoted his entire life to his work and his catholicism, Sagrada Familia being his crowning devotion to God. Construction had begun in 1882 and in his last years, Gaudí even lived in the workshop, letting go of concern for personal appearance and well being. In 1926 while walking to the Sant Felip Neri Church for confession, Gaudí was struck by a tram and was mistaken for a beggar due to his shabby clothes. As a result, care was too slow to come. At the time of Gaudí's death, Sagrada Familia was merely a quarter finished. 

Work had been slow and interrupted by the civil war in which the crypt, attached school and workshop were burned, thus destroying a vast majority of Gaudí's plans, designs and models. However, new generations have taken up his cause and Sagrada Familia is said to be completed by 2026, the one hundred year anniversary of Gaudí's death. But just to make things interesting, it was decided that a high speed train tunnel connecting Barcelona to France, absolutely HAD to be built directly under the sandy delicate foundations of the stunning #1 tourist attraction that Spain has in its arsenal. Despite the controversy and massive public outcry, the tunnel was built and put into service in 2013. Luckily, in the two years since, no cracks or damage have resulted from the thousand trains passing below.  Gaudí's unfinished genius still stands.

Etsuro Sotoo, a Japanese sculptor, has taken on not just Gaudí's work, but also his love of God. When talking of his conversion to Catholicism, Sotoo says, "I can't come close to Gaudí. I decided not to look to him. So then where do I look? I tried to look in the way that Gaudí did."  

We walked into the towering Sagrada Familia, our hands caressing walls as we walked with our eyes aimed high at the heaven reaching, crooked leaning, tree trunk pillars and brilliant colored stained glass windows. As the weak rainy sun shifted, the colors from the windows changed and reflected, casting the church in an unearthly glow. The early morning painted in calm dawn colors while the afternoon sun painted white walls through crimson windows, changing the tone to that of the crucifixion. Gaudí thought of everything… well, almost..

We lined up as a crowd formed around us. Patrick raised his hands, we raised our folders, opened our mouths and… nothing… Our voices dissipated two inches from our mouths. Despite using better support, despite resorting to over singing, the space greedily ate our tone, allowing nothing to carry. It was as though we were facing a brick wall or singing in a shopping mall. Our dear Gaudí forgot about acoustics. 

That evening, we stood in our concert best on the front altar stairs of the beautiful Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia, we opened our mouths and we gratefully indulged as our voices carried easily, reaching to touch every forgiving inch of the immense cathedral. We blissfully worked through our now very familiar rep and we smiled widely, savoring each moment of our final performance of the tour.  Later that night, we celebrated. And if in the quiet lonely hours just before dawn, some of us felt the pain of leaving, well.. that is to be expected. 

Our Choir trip to Spain came with constant reminders of our own mortality; from our unexpected loss of Mary Ann, to the tragic downing of the Germanwings plane which left from Barcelona just a day after we did. Our aching knees and overtaxed hearts recognized their limits against a Spanish backdrop steeped in a long and tumultuous history. 

As Gaudi said in reference to his beautiful Sagrada Familia, “There is no reason to regret that I will not finish what I have started. I will grow old, but others will come after me.”  

So, we do all we can, knowing that our time is not to be counted, understanding that when we are to move on, others will rise in our place, creating a lineage of history, love, art, strength, hope, and humanity. 

At an unholy hour before the sun had even shown his face, we boarded a plane, said goodbye to a lovely España and headed home.. 
Always Pilgrims.

Tying Shoes..

Sweat rolled down his face as he clenched his teeth in vexation. His left knee balanced him, his right foot extended in front as his fingers tangled. "Good enough," he ground out as his laces already began to loosen. "One more time," I said, as though instructing a student one time more through his scales. "Put your foot in the same direction as mine. There you go. Now pull your laces tight. Cross them like this. Now loop the right lace while holding the left tight…" As the laces dissolved once again, my husband got up and stalked off in frustration. 

We are very different people. My husband was born in India, raised in Thailand and educated in America. He grew up with the unconditional love of a mother who would do anything to make his life easier, a woman who, without a murmur of complaint, sacrificed her entire life to the care of her family. My husband’s father worked endlessly to ensure that my husband and his sister could pursue higher education anywhere in the world. And so, my husband found his way to Chicago. He can’t change lightbulbs, he is useless in the kitchen, he is not one for hanging pictures or painting walls, and he has trouble with shoelaces. But if one has a physical injury, he is the man to help.  (though he may later imagine himself to have the same injury..) 

I grew up in a small cornfield town outside of Chicago. My father has yet to tell his other daughters that I exist and my mother believed in the school of hard knocks. So if there was something that I needed or wanted, I had to build it, cook it, create it, imagine it.  I had incredible role models in my foster parents and friends families, but my reality resided in the abilities of my own two hands. 

After four years of marriage, my husband and I realized that we were not partners. We had not combined strengths but rather pulled at each other with weaknesses. I lacked respect for him and his ease of life while he despised my impatience and my inability to bend. We had come together with wildly different expectations of what our marriage was to be. He waited for me to work less, care more for him and the house, and I waited for him to embrace adventure, to occasionally run away with me to foreign lands. He obsessed over saving for retirement while I obsessed over spending less money so that we would have more freedom. Neither of us won and our marriage became merely a passing of days. I went off on adventures alone, while he lamented his longing for a traditional wife.  

We reached a point where we realized that we needed a common goal. He wanted time with me and I wanted to show him the intoxication of this beautiful world. And so, we sat with maps and books and together we chose our path to Santiago. In three days, I begin walking from Irun Spain and he will join me in Oviedo. Together we will refrain from pushing the other off a mountain, or tripping each other up  in streams.  I will warn the other pilgrims in hostels of his freakish snoring and he will warn them of my inherent pissiness. Together we will sweat, swear, swim, eat, wash clothes, taste new wine, and reach the end of the world. Together. 

After drinking an angry glass of water, my husband returned to one knee, his shoe extended, his fingers tangled in the knot of laces. As he looped one lace and wrapped the other, I knew that even as they fell apart, he would try again…

This summer, my husband and I will be walking countless steps on the Camino de Santiago in order to learn how to come together from vastly different backgrounds, to form a partnership. As we walk, we will be raising funds to help enable other young women to learn, to grow, and to revel in their own beautiful power. 

"GirlForward empowers refugee girls because through girls, we can strengthen entire communities. GirlForward serves refugee girls ages 12-21 who have been resettled in Chicago from war-torn countries around the world, and who are now building new lives for themselves and their families in the United States."   http://www.girlforward.org

To help lighten our steps, Donate here!  

https://www.justgive.org/amillionsteps

 

Una Conquistadora

La Placa de Catalunya 2006

“This city is beautiful, so many streets and walkways bending around. I could wander forever, or at least five days more! The sounds are fantastic. I wandered through the Gothic district by the Picasso museum all while a clarinet filled the space, almost mournfully, echoing back and forth between the close old walls.” 

• November 25th 2006

I wanted to see the entire world and just by virtue of cost, Barcelona was my first adventure into a land not expressed in English. I buckled my seat belt with shaky hands and suppressed a tiny wisp of desperate fear as announcements filled the airplane’s cabin with melodic exotic Spanish. And as one thing tends to lead to another; Spain led to Peru, led to France, led to England, led to Mexico, led to Thailand, led back Spain, led to Italy and once again, led to Spain. Every step I have taken has connected me back to that first late night in Barcelona, jet lagged and confused, walking wide-eyed and without direction as ice cream dripped down from it’s cone perch over my knuckles.  

Despite many returns to Spain, I had not yet revisited Barcelona in particular. So as our group of singers descended from our Montserrat adventure, I had wondered if the same magic and artistic fascination, that I had felt years ago, would once again grab my heart and hold me close. After a short stop on a very windy Montjuic, hilltop home of the 1929 World Fair and the 1992 summer Olympics, (and site of countless executions before and during the Spanish Civil War, but we won’t dwell on that..) our bus weary bodies were only too happy to be dropped at the doorstep of our very lovely hotel.   Upon receiving the room key and a reminder of a group dinner in two hours time, I quickly abandoned my bag to an empty hotel room and slipped out into the embrace of a Barcelona evening. 

La Placa de Catalunya 2006

Our hotel, located just steps from La Placa de Catalunya, a square of about 50,000 meters with streets jutting off like the spokes of a bicycle, served as the perfect springboard for tiny unnoticed escapes from the group. As I rushed to meet the night, I savored in the cacophony of languages and footsteps, the scent of wet stones, perfume and sea, the blur of color streaking over a backdrop of the blue young night. I walked La Rambla, the pedestrian path that leads one through the heart of the city to the sea’s edge. The viewfinder of my camera remained within inches of my eye, street performers warred for attention with food and flower stalls. A flower could be had for a Euro, a scarf for 3 Euro, a smile from a human statue for an unknown clink of coins.  

When walking La Rambla towards the Mediterranean, The warm brown and gold facade of Casa Beethoven beckons on the left. In business since 1880 and full of the dusty scent of undisturbed reams of music, Casa Beethoven serendipitously gifted me with the sheet music of Spain’s own Manuel de Falla. Tucking the little package under my arm, I continued on, stopping only when the scent of fresh fruit, chocolate and saffron pulled me aside. Turning to the left again, I entered and wove my way through the tiny stalls of La Boqueria. Tracing it’s lineage to the 12th century, La Boqueria assaults the senses with vibrantly colored and crisply scented, proudly displayed produce, spices, meats, and confections. Packed in with hundreds of excited tourists, I quickly moved past the first few stalls and into the quieter depths of the market. Upon purchasing enough saffron to scent my luggage and elevate my food for a year, I emerged from the market, eager to touch the sea before racing back to our group dinner.  

I passed the 19th century Gran Teatre del Liceu, pausing only briefly to marvel over the current printed opera season, I circled the 200 foot monument to Columbus, winking up at him trapped on his pedestal above and I crossed quickly to the boardwalk, hearing the water gently lap against the wood and rock. I took a breath tasting salt, faced Rome, waved to Saint Peter and then turned around, the promise of food fueling my harried footsteps back to the hotel. 

Some people adore stately Madrid, others are for Valencia’s warmth, and still others are called to the resilience of the Basque Bilbao, But it is Barcelona who writes songs in my heart and presses flowers between the pages of my music.