Alfajarín

"It is true that our life is a pilgrimage, a trip, a journey, and it depends on us to make it more of a vital one, or a more spiritual one where we decide to uniquely have fun for the sake of the present moment, or to invest in meaningful memories, believing they count toward our growth as spiritual                                                               creatures."  
                                                                   - Carlos Miguel-Pueyo

I sometimes battle anxiety.. Crowds and loud noises can turn me into a sweaty mess and at times, cause me to step back from living. I despise this weakness. 

One clear warm summer evening, I stood outside of a beautiful open air theater in the heart of Bella Roma. Though my friend was jumping through hoops to get us into a sold out show, I started to feel the rising unexpected tide of a panic attack, the quickening breath, the clamminess, the rapid heart beat, the loss of focus, the oversensitivity to sound. I fought silently, unwilling to give voice to symptoms that I rationalized were just in my head. “We can listen from outside,” I said, attempting yet again to step back from living. But as a friend of ours worked for the theater, we were ushered in and were able to tuck ourselves into a quiet corner. As I sat measuring my breaths, the sun sank below the horizon, bathing the sky in a deep bluish purple, while traces of orange disappeared behind winking stars. A soft breeze ruffled the hair of the beautiful Italians surrounding us as seagulls flew silently above. The air smelled of earth and sea and wine flavored with faint expensive perfume. A thunderous applause rolled through the audience as Pino Daniele stepped out on stage, picked up his guitar and began to sing.  His voice drifted gently to every corner of the hypnotized theater and my heart slowed; my fears forgotten in my instant love for this darling of Napoli. 

Mere months later, on a cold Chicago January day, news that Italy’s dear guitar playing tenor had passed on, reached me across the ocean. Pino Daniele had played his last earthbound note, but not before I had a chance to hear him and add his voice to the influences that make up my own. He had unknowingly and momentarily given me a sense of calm.  Grazie. 

******

In the year leading up to the choir pilgrimage to Spain, I vacillated daily. Every Monday night after our Tower Chorale rehearsals, Patrick and Carlos would begin their appeals... “Come on Jen!! We’ll have so much fun!!” or “There is a solo for you!” I struggled. “Should I go? Will every daily performance be a battle against panic? Will I exhaust myself in a constant clash with my own mind?” Fear wanted me to stay home, but one Sunday, Carlos and I stood around my piano, trading Spanish lessons for voice lessons. While his voice worked lovingly through Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” I realized that I wanted to see his hometown, I wanted hear my friend sing as a returned prodigal son (albeit successful..)  I wanted to drink wine with his parents. I wanted late nights with friends and harmonies in medieval churches.  I was going to Spain. After all, I would be heading off to the land of Don Quijote, and what did he do? He tossed fears aside as useless training wheels, raised his sword bravely (though foolishly) and raced headlong to wage war against his own giant windmills.  

Photo stolen from the internet...

On the morning of our bus ride into Zaragoza, Murnie and I peered toward the back of the bus at Carlos, seeing tension lining his face and body. “He looks a little rough.”  Murnie snickered and scrunched up her face, “I’d be nervous too if I were bringing THIS group to my hometown.”  As the afternoon siesta waned, our choir members trickled down to the hotel lobby, dressed in concert best, excitedly clutching music and talking animatedly. We boarded a bus and rode the 15 minutes southeast to Alfajarín, anticipating the moment when we would see the home of our darling Carlos.  

Alfajarín, built in the shadow of the hilltop Castillo, served as the lookout over the Ebro River, protecting the eastern front of the kingdom of Zaragoza. With the Pyrenees and France to the north, the Ebro River to the south, Barcelona and the Mediterranean to the the East and countless wheat fields and olive trees in between, present day Alfajarín is a quiet hamlet of nearly 2,000 inhabitants, all of whom seemed to pack the cheery interior of Iglesia Parroquial de San Miguel Arcángel for Carlos’ return.  

We stepped off our plush tour bus and looked wide eyed at the tiny town around us. A large stork, freshly returned from her annual winter pilgrimage (migration) to Mecca, curiously watched us from her perch in her gargantuan nest atop a village building. We walked slowly through the tiny town courtyard and into the church for our early evening rehearsal. As we organized our music and rehearsed our way through any last minute glitches, our eyes took in the lovely amiable yellow walls with their hard earned cracks and pale cream moulding. We faced well loved scarred wooded pews and to our left hand side stood a nearly life size statue of Jesus on a donkey.  (and any church that includes a donkey is just fine by me!) Within Patrick’s reach sat a lovely shiny black Yamaha grand piano that Mary Ann had generously and thoughtfully sponsored in honor of her husband, before leaving us to watch the concert with him from above. In the altar behind us, Saint George stood in his typical historically questionable pose, sword raised, his boot on a vanquished dragon and nearby, our cherished Saint Gregory looked proudly on. 

As we finished our rehearsal, the surprisingly young mayor of Alfajarín and his gorgeous wife led us to the town hall where conversations in English, Spanish, and a version of Spanish so shamefully bad that it needed it’s own name, competed with the sound of blissful chewing. A delicious spread was laid out, consisting of jamon, tortilla (potato omelette...a.k.a God’s brunch of choice..), varying types of olives, manchego cheese, bread, chips and a simple tomato spread that based on consumption rates, I am positive contained traces of addictive narcotics.  Upon asking for the recipe, I was stunned to learn that it was simply tomatoes, garlic, olive oil and salt. Ah, such delicious simplicity! Little candies and chocolates were sprinkled thoughtfully between the other main dishes. One such candy tasted exactly as I imagine Cap’n Crunch cereal would, had someone thought to dip it in chocolate. (I slipped a couple of these in my pocket..then forgot...it was a mess.) 

After stuffing ourselves silly, we waddled back to the church, our anticipation burning off any sort of residual food coma. We lined up and filed onto the altar steps, facing an entire village of beaming faces. We began our program with ‘Ave Maria’ by Spain’s own Victoria, after which our men led us happily and briskly though ‘Te, Ioseph.’  We followed that with our ever so American rendition of 'Down to the Water to Pray.’ Keri  and her French horn accompanied us with seemingly endless breath through the eloquent and apt lines of ‘The Servant Song.’
“We are pilgrims on a Journey.  We are travelers on the road.
  We are here to help each other walk the mile and bear the load.”

Next, we sang the incredibly tight and rich a cappella harmonies of the moving Stephen Paulus ‘Pilgrim’s Hymn’ while the eyes of the audience followed along in reading the Spanish translations in the program. Our choir member, David Lux then picked up a borrowed Washburn electro-acoustic guitar and started to play the familiar, well-loved strains of ‘Pescador de Hombres.’  Our voices happily worked through the Spanish lyrics, our energy fueled by the smiles and the unconscious swaying and tapping feet of the merry crowd before us. 

After the choir finished singing ‘Lord, How Lovely is your Dwelling Place,’ and ‘Hymn of Wisdom,’ Carlos stepped nervously forward with clutched hands and rigid posture. As the soothing 16th note triplets of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ rose from the piano, Carlos took deep breaths and began his solo, his hymn to Mary. After months of hard work and practice, Carlos sang his first solo in front of nearly everyone he knew, surprising his parents and warming hearts. He bowed to enthusiastic applause while many tears were subtly wiped away.

We continued our homage to Mary by singing Francisco Santiago’s powerful setting of ‘Ave Maria,’ lovingly arranged by our maestro, Patrick, for choir, piano and horn. We began our remembrance set, our hearts heavy with thoughts of Mary Ann, but as we sang through the lush harmonies of ‘In Remembrance,’ and ‘Do This in Remembrance of Me,’ we felt her voice joining with ours, easing our sadness into love.  We sang in Icelandic through the straight tone openness of ‘Heyr, Himna Smiður.’

Throughout our concert, tears had been shed, smiles shared, children had sat cross-legged on the floor in the aisles, hands had been held, and fears had been overcome. As speeches of gratitude were made and we presented our hosts with an icon of Saint George, painted by Saint Gregory’s own resident iconographer, Joe Malham, we realized that the residents of Alfajarín had given our group of 60 unknown Americans, the priceless unquestionable gift of welcome and warmth and a beautiful taste of Spain.    

After our cheeks had been thoroughly kissed, after our exchanged hugs and last minute goodbye waves, the Saint Gregory Choir left the glow of Alfajarín’s church and headed off into the night, towards yet another gluttonous meal... 

The Mayor gifted us with this little castle of Alfajarín!

El Hombre Famoso!!

Ode to the Blackhawks

 Ode to the Blackhawks

The windshield wipers swish

The heavens explode

The rain pours down

flooded roads

cars hydroplaning 

endless slow motion expressway.

a child in the next car

big eyed and staring out the rain speckled window

a pizza delivery truck ahead

trail mix in the glove compartment

talk radio

Take the next exit to anywhere

leave the highway for roads unknown 

an escape from a sea of brake lights

a limping rain drenched beggar and his sign

a momentarily clear way, a green light, an arrow

an uncharted meandering

home the north star

neon store fronts

reflections 

Readings by Maria

“Franks”ville

Joe E’s Unforgettable Lounge

Olga’s Deli

Pawn Shops

the city west side

brake lights ahead

streets unexpectedly closed

police everywhere

directing drivers away or towards

no one knows

Honking starts, long drawn out compression of horns

shouting, screaming, whistling, frantic jumping of those beside the road

gunshots?

Just fireworks in gas station parking lots

Is that even safe? 

bright lights in the distance

the roar of a city

on closer inspection,

smiles 

laughter

drunken revelry 

giddiness 

flags waving 

comraderie

connection

Has there been a revolution

a coup d'état?

No,

The Blackhawks have won!

A moment..

I have a friend who I have written about before, a beautiful, strong Frenchwoman. We walked together for hours, days, weeks on our way to Santiago to meet Saint James. A year later, while visiting her in her home town of Besançon, I asked her where to go in Paris where I would soon be heading. Genevieve spoke softly with far off eyes, weaving through English in a way that a native English speaker wouldn't think to. "I had a moment," she said and went on to describe a space of precious time forever frozen in her memory, a moment of soft fluttering snow, a deep dusk sky and warm street lights flickering on as she exited the train station. She had a moment; a temporary awareness of being immersed in the joy of living.

I have had moments; a grappa toast with an old man, a meal and a bottle of Lambrusco under a fat moon, a chord resolving and echoing through an old church, a piano lesson by the glow of a Christmas tree, counting stars the night before reaching Santiago, hot chocolate with orphans at 13,000 feet, the pop of a bottle of champagne and a thousand fireworks as a new year began, the smell of sage and lavender, and the taste of sweet lemons next to the sea.

Mary Ann and Dianne had a moment. Dianne's eyes shone and a mischievous, wistful smile touched her mouth in the telling. "It was Mary Ann's birthday.." Diane began. As the story goes, forty years before, Mary Ann had interviewed and hired Dianne, thus setting in motion a lifetime of friendship, love, and a fair amount of misbehavior. Long lunches were common at the time and as they were celebrating Mary Ann's birthday, a group of work friends toasted her more than once around a table in Chicago's Greektown. The last two to leave, Dianne and Mary Ann teetered their way happily and warmly drunk back towards the office. As inebriated people are often plagued by clumsiness, Mary Ann's heel caught and she tripped taking Dianne down with her. The two beautiful drunk women looked around them at the contents of their purses scattered haphazardly in the street, and as their eyes met, the laughter began.  

Hours later, when Mary Ann's date showed up to take her out for her birthday, he shook his head.. "I saw the strangest thing today...these women were just laying in the street laughing!"

It was through Dianne that Mary Ann met her husband and when asked if bothered, a no nonsense Dianne snort laughed. "Mary Ann had the patience that Brian needed," she responded with a knowing smile.  Years later when Brian got sick and passed on, Mary Ann valiantly fought her battle with grief. As she began to heal, her smile becoming more frequent, our choir began it’s preparations for our trip to Spain. Music was picked, organized, rehearsals scheduled and orchestrated, walking shoes and Spanish dictionaries were bought and amidst the collective anticipation, Mary Ann had quietly removed her wedding ring.  

A week before we were fly off on our Spanish adventure, our beloved alto Mary Ann went in for routine surgery. Unexpectedly, and some would say unfairly, we lost Mary Ann that day, 8 months after she lost her Brian. We cannot change fate or the will of God, but in these moments, we surely know                                                                        how to question it. 

Her friend Dianne, while not a singer, (so she claims,) decided to come with us to Spain though with a heavy heart. We are so grateful that she joined us. At the Madrid airport, we looked down at our luggage tags sporting large “MAD”s not just signifying Madrid but also Mary Ann Doyle. As we lifted our baggage, we carried her smile with us into Spain. 

We had a moment... a late night in Zaragoza. After a full day touring multiple churches, singing a powerfully emotional concert in Carlos’ home town and stuffing ourselves silly, most of the choir and it’s friends had dragged their exhausted bodies up to their beds. However, as was often the case, a small group of us gathered restlessly in the hotel lobby, waiting to head off into the Spanish night for drinks and laughter. Patrick, our tireless leader in music and often times rascality, Carlos, our brilliant and brave man of the hour, Murnie and her husband, our irreverent suburban friends, Susan, our creative smiling adventurer and myself wandered out into a chilly misty night. We found a small bar with modern features just on the edge of the city square, Pilar visible from our warm seats. We toasted our night, our trip, our performances, Carlos, our friends, our God, and we toasted Mary Ann. “Would she have come out with us,” I asked.  Perhaps she would have said, “I’m gonna call it a night, I have to sing in the morning!” while shaking her head at us or perhaps she is with us right now, raising her own glass.  

Upon the announcement of “last call,” we rose and walked on happily unsteady feet into an empty town square. Looking down, we discovered tiny brass seashells, marking the way to Saint James. Patrick leaned wobbily down, running his fingers over the cool scallop shell as Saint James loaned a shoulder to keep Patrick on his feet.    

Susan and I walked slightly behind the others and while they chattered on ahead, I explained with slurred speech, that we were having a moment. We were living! I was thrilled and proud of my late night drunken moment of self awareness. I raised my camera and as I have so many times in the past, I took a picture with my heart. (.. my very wine fuddled heart..)

As we walked in our concert black, the mist clinging to our eyelashes, the quiet square paved in reflections of the surrounding churches, we teased, we joked, we laughed and Mary Ann’s voice echoed with ours, sharing in and strengthening our moment. Oh yes, we had a moment… 

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

CORO SAN GREGORIO EL GRANDE, DE Chicago, Illinois U.S:A

Painted Streets

We were a lazy bunch, lingering in our plush beds past set alarms. A cold damp rain fell through the weak morning light, taking me back to another such chilly day years before, in a beautiful Parador to the north in the tiny village of Hondarribia. That particular morning had been full of mussed covers and pastries in bed and wrinkled newspapers in three languages, the rain outside cocooning our warm world inside. But fast forwarding a few years to present time, such languid luxuries were not to be had, as Zaragoza beckoned and a morning mass wasn’t going to sing itself. We wearily brushed our teeth, tamed our hair, packed our bags, hastily sucked down coffee, and reluctantly settled in on our bus, glancing backwards through the rain splattered bus windows as our beautiful Brigadoon parador disappeared in the distance. 

Knowing nothing of the city except for the silliness I felt at pronouncing it’s name with the Spanish lisp, (Thhah rrrah GOH THHah..) I was  surprised at the prettiness of the outline of multiple ornate churches lining the river, signaling our entrance to Zaragoza.  Located halfway between Madrid and Barcelona and lining the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza traces her origins back to the time of Christ, when she existed as a Roman military camp. The two millennia since then have only added to her beauty with stunning  architecture influenced equally by the Moors, Jews and Christians. As we filed off of our bus and scrambled through the main square to our mass, our eyes happily flickered from one lavish bell tower to the next.

Even my dear Saint James, as full of perseverance and eagerness as he was, had low points, and it is said that Zaragoza was the place of one such moment. As Jim sat dejectedly, his head falling forward in his hands, his heart sick and his will discouraged by the endless task of bringing Christianity to Spain, Mary appeared before him, reassuring him of his eventual success. However, before leaving his side, she asked that a church be consecrated in her name, marking the spot of her appearance.  And so, The Saint Gregory the Great Parish Choir raced to line up inside the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, singing in the very place where Saint James and Mother Mary had their much needed pep talk.  

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

In it’s most recent form as the second largest church in Spain, the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar was constructed in 1681 and boasts 11 colorful tiled domes. As we sat through the mass, tucked away in the elaborately carved wooden chairs of the choir, cameras flashed and a TV reporter quietly interviewed our Spanish speaking members. While the priest performed the familiar steps of the preparation, our choir stood and commenced singing painfully slow, long, blue- faced lines of music. Despite our director’s wildly waving arms, an unfamiliar though lovely organist slowed our tempo to that of a listless, gasping, dirge. Even so, the mass ended with many happy congregants approaching us with hearty handshakes and thanks. 

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

One should never hand 

one’s camera off to a five year old if one will be upset by the fact that the five year old takes better pictures than her.  After finishing our mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, we wandered across the town square to La Seo, to strain our neck muscles further. With Carlos as our freakishly well informed tour guide, we took in the beauty of the 14th century Unesco world heritage site, our shoes and voices echoing throughout. As Patrick gleefully sat down at the 13th century organ, filling La Seo with sound, I sat with little Gilbert, quietly talking though the buttons of my camera. With only a trace of adult fear, I placed the camera strap around his neck and sent him on his way. I watched curious at what his young eyes would see and I chuckled at his fledgling efforts to remain still to avoid blur while taking a photo. 

At the completion of our tour, some choir members headed for scattered lunches, while others wandered towards our hotel in search of a much needed rest.

I spent my afternoon, pastry in hand (really... is there any other way to be?) meandering through the quiet corners of the city, dipping into perfume scented stores full of soft cotton and taking photos of unexpected urban art and shiny rain painted streets.