Our federal and state taxes have been sent off, car and house insurance payments are scheduled on Bill Pay, and the utilities bills are set up to be paid automatically each month.  I’ve made lists of doctors and medicines and lists of bank accounts and credit card info.  Next on my agenda: make sure there’s some cash tucked away for Ken and some checks in the checkbook for emergency repairs and the spring property tax bill.

One by one I am checking off the tasks so that our household will run smoothly in my absence. No, I haven’t hired a cleaning service, but we don’t keep that tidy a ship around here anyway. The house will stay clean enough as my menfolk rise to the occasion.  I trust the vacuum cleaner will make a few appearances. The bathroom sink will stay about as clean as when I’m home. The toilet? Uh, maybe not, but as long as it gets a good cleaning before I return, it’s–literally!–Ken and Kevin’s business, right? Floor washing…. How dirty can a floor get in two months? As for dusting, it’s not on our weekly or even monthly radar; we’ll get to that before putting Christmas decorations up once again.  I promise!

The situations, “worries,” and “fears” that I am about to share will be the furthest things from my mind when I’m actually on pilgrimage. Of this I have little doubt.  Now, though, as I complete my final daily and weekly quotidian tasks around the house that I’ll soon be vacating, I think a bit ruefully about what will and will not happen in my absence.  I should just be grateful for Ken’s willingness to step up to the plate.  And I am!  I truly am!  But I can’t help but stew just a wee bit about some of the following:

• as I fold the week’s laundry, I realize: this is the last fold these items will get until I return; Ken and Kevin will be content to dig their clean clothes out of a laundry basket….
• as I make our bed and replace the bedspread each morning, I know that once I leave the spread will remain on the chair until June and the bed will only be re-made when Ken bothers to wash the sheets….
• as I remove the plastic bag with the “dry trash” from the kitchen trash masher, dump its contents in our outside garbage can, and replace the now-empty bag in the masher, I know in my heart of hearts that while I’m gone the guys will be using a fresh plastic bag each week…. I think about how I can get a good three months out of a single bag before I consider its usefulness spent….
• as I unload a full-to-the-brim dishwasher which runs about every two-to-two-and-a-half days, I realize that it will run daily, very sparsely and inefficiently loaded because the guys aren’t going to be washing by hand any of the plastic storage containers or any of the pots and pans. Those items will go straight into the dishwasher, filling it quickly. And just how thoroughly will Ken and Kevin be scraping those stubborn bits of potato, cheese, and egg before placing them in the machine?…
• I know our bedroom drapes will not be opened on a daily basis and may well remain perpetually closed throughout all of April and May….
• I realize that some perfectly good food, bearing stamps with a “best-by” date going back to much earlier in this decade will be unceremoniously tossed….
• placemats will remain ON the table, the table half set from day to day….

And there’s not a blessed thing I can do about any of that! Those tasks which consume a rather significant chunk of my day all make a difference to me, but I have to resign myself to the fact that the same can’t be said of how the rest of the household view them.

Then there’s the fear shared by everyone who has “too much stuff”:  what are the chances that a partner–as a “favor,” mind you… or so the partner will say…–might just “help” pare down those possessions in their owner’s absence? If that should happen at my house while I’m gone? There’s not a thing I can do about it! (You might tell me that I probably wouldn’t miss anything that happened to take flight, but I’m not so sure.)

Other ideas that haunt me:

• the end pieces of each loaf of bread will be tossed, along with perfectly good dabs of food that, when joined together, could make a decent, and, on the rare occasion, an outstanding “stone soup” kind of meal….
• I used to work so hard towards the goal of getting dinner on the table by 6:00; generally I missed that deadline by 10-20 minutes, said delay not going unnoticed or without comment by the house’s hungry males. Since Ken took over the dinner preparation a bit more than a year ago, the dinner hour has been inching its way to an ever-earlier time. Without me keeping an influential handle on things, I’m half expecting to come home and find that I’ll barely have consumed my late lunch when the call of “dinner’s on the table” will ring out….
• Do the guys even know that I clean hair out of the plastic stopper in the tub not only after I have showered but also after they have done so? (Ok, they’ll notice when the water no longer empties; maybe they’ll draw straws to determine who cleans the trap….)
• Will Ken get used to occupying the center of our queen-size bed and have trouble sharing it with me upon my return?…
• And that extra chair in the bedroom, the one I throw my clothes on each night, piling them on top of clothes worn earlier in the week…. (Yes, that chair; do you have one, too?)  If I leave it clean and tidy, will Ken find it a handy place for his clothes?

And so on and so forth. When it comes right down to it, I can’t do a thing about any of that, can I? Come April 2nd, Kevin will get a hearty handshake and Ken a big hug, and then I’m out the door and it will be their house where they will negotiate and navigate according to their standards and their priorities.  Breathe.  A deep one.  Again, another.  One more now.  “Let it all go, Katy.  Just let it go!”

In the end, what really matters is that

• the guys figure out a pas-de-deux that works for them
• they look out for one another, stay sensitive to each other’s moods, remain respectful of each other’s needs for both attention and space (all of which they’ve done with great success during my–admittedly shorter–absences in the past), and that
• they miss me, not so much that they resent my “abandonment” of them, but just enough so that they eagerly welcome me home, even if it means having to share their bachelor pad with me and put up with my idiosyncrasies. My absence may not leave them convinced that they really do prefer folded clothes or, in Ken’s case, a neatly-made bed, but I’m certain they’ll be overjoyed to turn the kitchen clean-up over to me once again. That’ll be my ticket back into their good graces and their hearts and their home.  Our home.

Right where I want to be!

Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return

–words spoken on Ash Wednesday as a cross is traced on each penitent’s forehead with ashes

How to celebrate Shrove Tuesday (“Fat Tuesday,” Mardi Gras)? How to live it up before the season of Penitence? One thing was clear: a parade was not in order. March did indeed come in this year like the proverbial lion, and so the Tuesday before the start of Lent was not a day for beads or for dancing in the street. Nor was it a day suitable for a long walk in the woods. True, the creeks would be frozen and thus easy–or at least easier–to cross, but yours truly did not want to drop her drawers behind a wide oak tree in the frigid air when nature (inevitably) would call.

“I’ll walk over to your house,” Barb texted. “Maybe we could walk to Valhalla Cemetery and then through the neighborhoods close by.”

“And stop somewhere for soup before we finish,” I suggested, regaining my enthusiasm for the day. (The chance to warm up in a restaurant sounded pretty good. Plus, a restaurant provided a private place to tend to that previously mentioned inevitable business.)

And so I bundled up: the wool base layer, topped with a long-sleeved fleece jacket which in turn served as a base layer for the warmest of my winter jackets; fleece buff over the mouth, wide headband covering the ears and topped with a wool-lined cap complete with ear flaps; air-activated handwarmers under two pair of wool mittens which were, in turn, covered by a pair of windbreaking overmitts. It goes without saying: long johns, flannel-lined wind pants, wool socks over Coolmax liner socks. (Have I previously mentioned that my fear of being cold is on a par with my fear of rabid dogs?  I’m likely to become a broken record as I lament any kind of frigid air encountered once I´m far from my well-stocked-for-cold-weather closets and drawers.  I’ll give you my apologies from the get-go for overstating my case.  Forgiven?)

Oddly enough, I chose to wear my canvas trail runners instead of my heavier, geared-for-winter boots. There was a method to my madness: I wanted to make sure that the “blue Altras” were going to serve me well for the long haul. They are the same size, brand, and model as the “pink Altras” which passed the 16-mile test a bit over a week ago, but I had yet to be convinced that my toes and the balls of my feet were as happy as I wanted them to be in “the blues.” This was to be their final testing to determine if they were Camino worthy. (I thought I had resolved this issue back in the fall; I set the shoes aside until a few weeks ago, and they haven’t seemed as broken in or comfortable as I had remembered.)

Barb and I were about half a mile from Valhalla Memory Garden when Barb explained that it was actually Rose Hill Cemetery she had meant to suggest. No problem.  Instead of turning towards the latter at a certain intersection, we just continued walking towards the latter, an historic cemetery where many well-known “city fathers” are buried. On route, we came upon a cemetery whose existence we had actually forgotten: White Oak Cemetery. Like nearby Rose Hill, White Oak is, interestingly enough, maintained and managed by the City of Bloomington’s Parks and Recreation department. As far as I know, the city doesn’t organize any ball tournaments for the long-term residents, though with three cemeteries in close proximity, there would be plenty of players to form a league.  Well, if only the potential players could shake off the cobwebs and get back in the game, so to speak.  No offense meant; they no doubt earned their extended 7th inning stretch….

After noting a few of the older stones and reading a sign that informed us that at least one burial dates back to 1810, we proceeded to the significantly larger Rose Hill whose earliest residences arrived around 1820.  Barb and I truly didn’t do justice to the cemetery.  I’ve been there on walking tours, brochure in hand to help me locate the graves of some renowned figures, find especially interesting monuments and carvings, and learn some tales about nicknames and colorful local history.  But on even a quick walk around the perimeter, doing our usual jabbering, we did spot songwriter Hoagy Carmichael’s tomb.  And those buildings on campus, ones in which I taught through the years–Ballantine, Wylie, Kirkwood–why… those were more than names picked from a hat (duh!); they were named for professors who have long-since hung up their tweeds and set aside their pipes in order to rest on “the hill,” amidst plentiful roses.  As we walked, we spotted a monument shaped like a guitar, others, very old, in the shape of tree trunks, one with a scene of Dorothy skipping along with Toto, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion.  There’s a story there I’ll not likely ever know.  Stories.  Lots of stories.  Known and treasured by some who remain behind, but by fewer as one generation gives way to the next.

But brrrr!  The day wasn’t getting any warmer and some clouds were moving in.  In addition, our tummies were talking.  As we walked towards the town square for our soup–thrice-roasted eggplant for me, cabbage for Barb–an idea began forming in my head.

“What would you think, Barb, if I walked you half-way to your house, and we went by way of Covenanter Cemetery?” I asked.

“Works for me,” she replied.

I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I have driven passed the corner of S. High and E. Hillside/E. Moore’s Pike through the years, but I had never stopped in to visit this sweet little corner-lot cemetery with its quaint and inviting fieldstone fence.  Covenanter isn’t a cemetery that “just anyone” can be buried in; I’m thinking that it is reserved for some of the city’s original families and their descendants.  My former next-door neighbor Mary Ina used to talk about it, knowing it would be where her body would one day be laid to rest.  And then, without any effort at all, I spotted her stone!  And that of her mother whom Mary Ina had cared for at home until the elder’s demise.  I would sometimes sit with Pearl when Mary Ina had errands to run, as  Mom was prone to taking off to wander.  Nice to have this mini-visit with them.  A little trip down memory lane, to when I was a new bride moving into my first–and present!–house.

Barb and I parted company, she heading south for her home via connecting neighborhoods.  I had walked a bit over 9 miles at this point.  The sun had left us permanently, but my handwarmers had plenty of heat left in them and I was cozy warm.  More than cozy: I had actually started to sweat a bit by the time we reached Covenanter Cemetery and had removed my fleece jacket and stored it in my backpack.  I had a decision to make: would I give my “blues” the full test?  Try to give them their 16-mile trial?  And if so, where would I head, because going home was out of the question; if I walked directly home I’d only get in 11 or 11.5 miles.

Was there really a decision to be made? Wasn’t it obvious?  I needed to head to another cemetery, didn’t I?  I recalled hours earlier when Barb explained that she had never intended to go to Valhalla, that she had merely misspoken or been confused about the name.  So yes, I retraced our route from the morning and when I came to the decision-making corner, I turned down the dead-end street, walked to the “no trespassing” signs,  and walked through the workers’ only area of this, the largest by far of the city’s graveyards.

Now I’m a Chicago girl.  Even if you’ve never been to cemeteries in Chicago, you can easily imagine–and rightly so–that they go on and on, for block after city block.  They have lanes and avenues and section markers and, truly, you would never find a grave if you didn’t have a map and a lot number to which to refer.  It would be insane to attempt it.  I won’t swear that I could get in 16 miles if I walked every avenue at Holy Sepulchre on West 111th Street in the Chicago suburb of Alsip, but surely if I also went to some of the adjacent cemeteries on that street I could do so.  (Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis invites cyclists to enjoy riding the 25-miles of roads there.  Just saying.)

Valhalla, I admit, is not huge in the same way.  But it’s big.  Big enough that a few years ago I drove into it at rush hour time, hoping to find a rear exit and avoid some traffic as I was in a hurry to get home to dinner.  Ten minutes later, though, I was still driving around, convinced that there was no other entrance/exit but unable to find the road which would lead me back out!  I felt trapped!

I had also been in this cemetery while on a bike ride (entering, as I had just now, through the “cemetery workers only” area).  On a bike, it is never that crucial to “get it totally right” when choosing your route.  What’s another mile or two or three or even four?  But I was walking, and I had quite a few miles under my soles already, so I was careful to pay attention and maintain a sense of where I was at all times.  16 miles would be good walk; 18 would be two miles too many!

It just can’t be heped: it is a lot easier to be mindful and to pay careful attention when you are alone.  Sure, companions can point out things you might have missed and can interpret things you don’t understand.  Still, somehow–at least this is the case with me–when I am alone I am more observant, if only because 1) I don’t want to get lost; 2) I want to have something to share with others when I am done; 3) being observant is like having a lively conversation with myself as I wonder and conjecture about what I am seeing.

I decided to walk the perimeter.  And quickly, as the day was getting on.  But I noticed the aging trees.  Hard to be absolutely sure in the winter, but, besides being huge, a fair number of them had seen better days, just might be dying.  I’m thinking that some of the trimming was done by untrained workers rather than by professionals.  It seemed obvious to me that Valhalla was not hiring the best arborists in Bloomington.  Somehow, though, the less-than-pristine trees created an eerie, somber, even decadent mood not altogether unfitting for a graveyard.

I noticed also the diversity of the cemetery.  Why should I be surprised in a university town as diverse as Bloomington?  And yet I was.  I came across the Korean section and then, to my surprise, quite a significant section where the names were… I’m generalizing and guessing “Middle Eastern” and the lettering on the stones… Arabic?  Stories.  More stories.

I saw a large family stone with a familiar name.  Ah, I had just seen Becky not two days earlier.  So that is where she will rest when she joins her “Dr. Frank.”

No sooner had I wondered if there would be a so-called Catholic section and, if so, if I would recognize it, when I came upon a sign announcing that very thing.  Without leaving the paved lane, I kept my eyes open.  Over there, Mary Jo’s name carved on the stone where she’ll some day lie next to Kenny.  And over there, Barbara’s name and a spot waiting–a long wait, I hope!–for Barb to take her place next to Mike.  How many names might I have recognized, how many faces conjured, had I walked through the stones themselves rather than merely catching glimpses from the road?  I’ve been in Bloomington almost 50 years now….  On this side of the earth for almost 70 years.  Dust to dust.  Ashes to ashes.  Sobering, on many counts….

I was not sorry to come back around to the office and the back lot where the cemetery work trucks waited to be put into service.  I once again trespassed in order to head towards home.  It was time.

I had logged 16 miles on my own Mardi Gras “parade” by the time I walked through the back door, tired, but, I’m happy to say, very much “alive.”   I’d visited four cemeteries.  I would receive ashes the next day, but I’d already had my reminder about coming from dust and returning to it.

My “blues”?  They seem to have passed the test, and remained on my feet until bedtime, another six or seven hours later. They are now my “Cemetery blues.”  They, like their owner, will be Camino-bound soon.  They will walk across northern Spain towards Resurrection Sunday, when, in word and in songs, we’ll ask:

Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?

¿Dónde [está], oh muerte, tu aguijón?  ¿Dónde, oh sepulcro, tu victoria?

                                                 1 Corinthians 15:55 / 1 corintios 15:55

The original title of this post, in draft mode, was “Training: use of technology and time management.” I know, right? Boring! But the truth of the matter is, I haven’t practiced creating a post using the technology I’ll have with me in Spain since September. (I wrote about that experience–in very brief fashion–here.) Since then, I’ve managed to roam and ramble, each post, seemingly, at greater length, editing, elaborating, editing, pruning–admittedly, seldom!–editing some more. No can do while I’m on the Camino.

This, then, is my attempt to write something succinct and more in keeping with what might be possible when I’m traveling. I’ve set a timer for 45 minutes and by the time it goes off, I’d better have sent this post out to the world. No frills, no fanfare, just the basics.

I want to comment on the highlights of a couple of walks I completed this past week. The first was a solo hike, and, at 16 miles, the longest of my entire life. The second logged in at 7 miles, a distance that might have seemed monumental many months ago, but which now seems more like a walk around the block with a bit extra thrown in for good measure. The second was a more social walk as it involved my Camino mate Barb and a restaurant stop mid-way. And sunshine rather than the snow flurries of the earlier outing.

What these two excursions had in common is that they took place within city limits, though neither involved running any errands or making any purchases (other than the lunch, and as it turned out, my lunch entree came complete with a few pieces of broken pottery which, fortunately, my teeth noticed before they–the shards–made it down the hatch. Result: my lunch was gratis.)

(I know what you are thinking: “elaboration” runs in my veins and there is no way I’m going to say anything of consequence before the timer rings and I need to post this. I’m going to try to prove you wrong.)

So what do I really want my readers–do I have any?–to know about the cityscapes through which I passed and my personal experiences while passing through them?

• Nature can still be found! At least in a town like Bloomington! Proof? I walked around a lake, crossed over a creek, saw cows in a field as semis whizzed by them, spotted a hawk high up in a tree, skirted a swampy area with abundant brush where sweet little birds flitted joyfully.
• Nature calls and woe to you if you don’t plan accordingly as there are precious few corn fields (especially in February…) and little privacy. On my 16-miler I found relief in one nursing home and one grocery store.
• We spend most of our time in our respective towns and cities rather than in the countryside, and we have a tendency to traverse the same tried-and-true routes. On both walks I/we shook things up a bit, adding spurs or linking neighborhoods in ways I/we hadn’t done before. Great way to keep boredom at bay and to challenge your sense of direction.
• For those who read my previous post on my struggles with silence and solitude, be it known: on my solo walk I didn’t make one phone call or listen to even one song. No electronics whatsoever. I conjured up all sorts of people–you may well have been among them–and smothered them with all manner of good wishes. When my mind strayed, I gently called it back.
• I was again reminded of the need to keep my eyes open. Sure, not to get run over. That goes without saying. But besides spotting three discarded syringes–they added such color to the drab sidewalk where they’d been dropped; such a nasty and dangerous temptation for kids who might happen by…–I spotted (and checked out) a new paved trail under construction, a wig stuck in a tree (there’s a story there, for sure!), and a sign outside a business which I just had to capture to share with you:

I mean, really, gives one a lot to think about, doesn’t it? And I wasn’t even at the half-way point of my 16-miler, so I had plenty of time to ponder the aphorism. (Conclusion: as I walked along calling to mind this person and that, each with his or her own set of problems and challenges, joys and heartaches, I suppose that I wasn’t minding my own “biscuits” at all. I think I’m more attuned to the philosophy that “No man is an island,” that we are all part of a greater community, a larger family, and that we can help each other tend our “biscuits” and perhaps, together, prevent them from burning. If that kind of “nosiness” keeps life from being “gravy,” maybe that gravy isn’t healthy in the first place…. That said, there’s more than one way to mind a biscuit, and some ways are definitely more acceptable than others.

Okay, so my timer just rang… and no posting because I have two more “sightings” to share with you, one from each of the two walks.

I mentioned stopping in a nursing home to use the facilities. In looking for a way out–the door I entered requiring a code in order to exit–I came upon a room labeled “relaxation room.” The door was open and I couldn’t resist. Oh, if only my friend Pat had such a room where she currently resides. If only we all did! Away from the chaos and distractions of daily life, away from “stuff,” from noise, from the need to “do” and offered, instead, the luxury of just “being.” You’ll see from the photo: comfortable chairs, no bric-a-bracs, low lighting, and a total of three lamp-type sculptures with slowly changing colors. Do believe me: I wanted to sit for a spell!

The next two pictures are of a tree. It might look like it is out in the forest, but I assure you, it’s smack-dab in the middle of the Sycamore Knolls neighborhood; the photos were taken from the sidewalk that butts up to the tree. Now I am used to coming upon the Little Free Libraries as I walk Bloomington’s neighborhoods, and I delight in the signage protesting hatred and welcoming diversity in our neighborhoods, but to my knowledge this is the first time I’ve seen poems thumbtacked on trees for the pleasure of passers-by.

Because I know you are wondering, and I don’t think this page is going to let you expand the photos: the poem on the left is an English translation of Estonia poet Jaan Kaplinski’s “We Started Home,” from his 1987 collection, The Wandering Border. Nature reigns supreme as father and son notice the moon, a bright star, snow, a marsh, a river, and the chimney of home on a winter’s evening.

On the right is a poem by Mary Oliver, the beloved poet who left us just a bit over a month ago. In “Stebbins Gulch” from Blue Horses (2014), Oliver evokes water descending rapidly down a gulch. She observes the rocks over which it washes, the fish who splash, and the kingfisher who watches them with more than a little interest. Of the rushing water and the gulch itself the poet comments:

its only industry

to descend
and to be beautiful
while it does so;
as for purpose

there is none
it is simply
one of those gorgeous things
that was made

to do what it does perfectly
and to last

as almost nothing does
almost forever.

Ah, that we humans could figure out what we were made to do, and then do it, perfectly, beautifully, almost forever…. Now there is food for thought for even the longest of walks.

As for this post, it is shorter than most of mine. You’ll give me that, won’t you? I’m not there yet in terms of brevity and concision, but this was, after all, a “training” exercise, and you know what they say about practice making perfect. With effort and practice, aided by lack of time to be expansive, there’s hope that my missives from Spain will not, like Stebbins Gulch, “last/ as almost nothing does/ almost forever.”

There is probably no post that has been on my “must write this” list for longer than the one you are now reading.  Even more: weeks before it made it to my actual list back in October, it was meandering around my mind.  Had it actually been written back in the fall, it would likely have been called “Seeking Solitude” or “Going WIthin” or “The Challenge of Silence.”  But my wandering thought, as it journeyed through my psyche for months, picked up extra baggage along the way. Isn’t that typical of any traveler?

And so, to the challenge of embracing solitude and being productively silent as I carried out my training walks, I recently added the challenge of coming up with more “s” words to keep those two company.  The catch?  The words had to be at least tangentially related to my trek across Spain.  (I’m practiced in this sort of thing.  To entertain myself on multi-day bike tours I’ve dedicated “empty time” to the task of coming up with words beginning with different letters of the alphabet.  [Try it with “f”;  I promise you that “f” words are to die for.  Have a go with “t” and “p,” especially if most of your energy is engaged in hill climbing; for the easier flatlands, you might play with “q” or “z.”  Only if you have masochist tendencies….]

You are totally within your right mind if you are starting to think that I have lost mine.  Perhaps you are wondering why you should bother to read this strange post.  You probably shouldn’t!  You have better things to do.  For that matter, I probably shouldn’t write it.  No, I definitely shouldn’t!  There, I’ve said it!  It is likely to be silly and superfluous, kind of like my “7 x 7”–“Seven x Seven”–post (find it here). But when have “shouldn’ts” ever stopped me?  And who knows what scraps and snippets of sabiduría [wisdom] I might come up with?

Seeking solitude

Oh, yes!  Silence!  Solitude!  Time to pray!  Find myself!  Dialogue with the One who first loved me!  Be one with everything and everybody!  It will be wonderful!  Such were my early thoughts as my mind placed myself on the Camino.  All that free time where the only thing my body would have to do would be put one foot in front of the other, my mind being free to wander where it would.  No distractions or interruptions.  No responsibilities.  No to-do lists.  Ah, heaven!

I remember exactly where I was when I came up with the “theme” of my Camino: “Walking the Camino / Touching the Worldl”   (If you haven’t read my “Come with me!” page where I explain this theme, please click here and check it out.) It was late May, I believe.  Ken and I were biking on a rail trail near Fillmore, Indiana, but in my mind’s eye I was envisioning myself on the Camino.  It was another month before I began to declare to the world that I was Camino-bound, but the theme came to me during that bike ride.  I was flying high as I imagined all the lofty, selfless, “other-centered” thoughts I would have.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I realized just how uncomfortable I sometimes am with silence and solitude while walking and how hard I sometimes find it to have deep conversations with either God or myself.  I wasn’t prepared for this.  Why was it different from biking?  Quite often I ride alone, or at least not side-by-side with another rider, and I find that  my thoughts generally keep me fairly well entertained..  But then I guess I am not usually anticipating “spiritual enlightenment” from those thoughts.  The Camino-training walks, on the other hand, were meant to be different, weren’t they?  I was expecting to do some soul-searching and, rather foolishly, I thought that would be easy, that all it would take would be the sum of two parts: me + those “lovely, dark, and deep” woods.  The magic formula!

Oh, foolish me!  It wasn’t–hasn’t been–easy at all!

The trees, the flowers, the plants grow in silence.  The stars, the sun, the moon move in silence.  Silence gives us a new perspective.

–SAINT MOTHER TERESA

That quote arrived in my email as my “Word of the Day” from The Network for Grateful Living on October 21. I immediately knew it was meant to be incorporated into this post which I was trying to birth.  Yes!  Growth and silence go hand in hand.  The saints have all known that.  I jotted it down for future reference.  Now get this: that same day, what does cousin (and–though unbeknown-to-us-at-the-time–fellow pilgrim) Ginny send me?  That same quote, from the same source, with this accompanying note: “Good thoughts for solo hiking :)”  How did she know that I was “fighting” silence?  That I needed some prodding and encouragement?  I sent Ginny this response:  It is SO SO funny that you forwarded this to me today.  I subscribe to this site as well (I think you got to it from something I forwarded to you) and so I saw this first thing this morning.  At 6:45 am I resent it to myself with a subject line:   something to incorporate into a blog post–quote about “silence”.  And then I added a “to do” on my “to do” list about it as well.  YES!  A lesson I need to learn!

Because that’s the thing.  I confess to the tendency to avoid silence, to pay it lip service while running in the opposite direction or at least putting it off until “later.” Need an enumeration of my sins?  Picture me walking for only a few minutes before I succumb to temptation.   I insert my ear buds and then:

• I leave voice mail messages until I reach someone free to engage in a long catch-up conversation
• I listen to an audiobook for “just one more chapter” (and you know what a slippery slope that is!)
• I choose an iTunes playlist and groove out to music I love

Then, of course, there is the granddaddy of all, the most tried-and-true way to avoid silence: make sure you are not alone.  I have both sought out hiking mates and stumbled upon them–figuratively, for the most part–and together, talking the proverbial mile a minute, we have traversed some drop-dead gorgeous terrain.  No regrets there; I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything.

Maybe I put off writing this post because I wanted to be able to explain how I finally managed to embrace silence, to still my restlessness, to direct my thoughts upward or inward with ever-increasing ease.  Instead, I think I’ve come to accept that I am who I am.  Yes, I’ve made a few rules for myself and they are, actually, easy to follow because they make sense to me: no phone calls or audiobooks in the woods.  On urban walks, maybe. Depends.  The music?  I’m over feeling guilty about the music.  I have some terrific, theme-based playlists.  Would you believe: 142 songs dealing with walking or hiking;199 songs about music and the power of singing; 140 about rainy days; 78 on a playlist called “Attitude / Choose Joy”; 166 about rivers; 241 in a list called “Morning/Sunshine/Seize the Day”; 210 labeled “Friends & Support”; 324 called simply “faith music.”  And at least another 200 playlists dealing with everything from birds to seasons to farms to fishing to sunshine.  There are lists with songs on aging, peace and brotherhood, angels, smiles, lullabies, happiness.  You get the idea.  Music moves and inspires me, picks me up and sets me down in a better place, makes me an easier person to be around.  I truly do believe that silence can result in growth and can give us, as Mother Teresa wrote, a new perspective.  So can music.

And quite obviously, so can conversations and fellowship with others, as long as we are listening with our ears and our hearts.  I refuse to feel guilty about spending too much time talking with friends!

When I first pictured myself on the Camino, I was imaging myself as a solo hiker.  Me and my thoughts and “the Way.”  I’ve come to realize that what will make this pilgrimage “my unique Camino” will have a lot to do with the people with whom I interact along the way.  Just like in “real life.”  There will be my two traveling mates and our negotiations as we feel our way and figure out how to give each other both companionship and space, and there will be folks from many parts of the world.  They will offer perspectives, challenges, good cheer, and lessons in compassion, empathy, tolerance, and community-building.  Socializing, I’ve heard from so many now, is a major aspect of the Camino. I’m reminded now of an ice-cream shop in Lanesboro, Minnesota, with a sign stating: “You want something healthy?  Go next door and buy carrots.”  Changing the words a bit, I can envision a sign on the Camino: “You want solitude?  Go to the desert.”

The same “word a day” organization that sent me the quote from Saint Mother Teresa back in the fall gifted me, just last week, with the following quote from the 15th century Indian mystic and saint Kabir:

I felt in need of a great pilgrimage so I sat still for three days.

I want to pair that with one of my favorite sayings of all time, attributed to another Eastern mystic and poet, the 13th century Rumi:

There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Different strokes for different folks?  Well, yes, most definitely!  One sits still in the desert for her pilgrimage; another embarks on a long journey.  They are both seekers.  There are a thousand ways.  There are, in the end, as many ways as there are people.  As many ways to do THE WAY as there are pilgrims.

I recall the way my mother ate, and her guiding philosophy: “All things in moderation.”  No fads.  No special diets.  No complicated formulas.  No great effort.  Moderation.  I like that word.  It gives one permission to relax a bit.  I think moderation is a good goal for me with regard to this notion of seeking solitude.  Moderation.  Let things balance out naturally.  Don’t lose sleep about it.

There is that saying about happiness, about how, like a butterfly, it eludes you when you are chasing it, but how when you shift your attention to other things, it comes and settles on your shoulder.  I think that at first I was concentrating too much on having a rich, fertile, “in-the-zone” experience on the Camino. Working at it too hard and, fearing or expecting failure, dooming myself to that failure.  I’ve found it better to relax,  The sacred will come.  There are, indeed, a “thousand ways.”

(Yes, in case you are wondering: I have had some marvelous solo hikes, with and without music.  Sometimes I have been the one singing.  Singing praises, singing gratitude.  Yes, I am sometimes able to lift others up in prayer.  Yes, I am awed by the beauty of what surrounds me and, though my feet may plod, my spirit seem to skip in delight.  Yes, I sometimes am struck with insight and wisdom and a sense of growth.  Does it last when I emerge from the woods?  Two steps forward, one step back….)

(Also, in case you are wondering: I did not–I promise!–count the number of songs in all those playlists.  The iTunes library has them all tallied, thank you very much.)

Sleep (or “Life in the refugios [hostels]”)

I’ve spent considerable time trying to get my body in shape for walking 500 miles in a span of six or seven weeks.  But as for readying my body for the rigors of life in the hostels, I’ve done precious little.  As in… zilch.  Unless you count the purchase of a silk sleeping bag liner.  I’ve told myself, more than once, that I should practice sleeping in that liner.  “At least take a nap in it, Katy!”  But who has time for a nap these days?  I mean, really!  It isn’t that I need practice slipping in and out of the liner; it is ample in size.  I should be able to turn over in it without difficulty.  What I need to test is the “warmth factor,” and since I fear it will be minimal, I’ve just put it out of my mind.  (“Sure, Katy!  Sure you have!  Which is why you are writing about it!  You don’t fool me–you’re scared!”)  Ok, it is a known fact: Katy likes to be warm and will do almost anything to get into that state and remain in it.  This is why her bedtime ritual involves three trips from the microwave oven to the bedroom: the first time she runs to her boudoir bearing one microwaved “bed buddy”–a 12″-long sock-like bag filled with grains of some sort–which she shoves under the blanket near where her torso will soon rest; the second trip involves placing a second heated “bed buddy” close to where her feet will rest when she gets into a fetal position; on trip three she bears her microwaved nightwear and slips it on top of one of the bed buddies.  Upon removing her daytime clothing and slipping into the warm nightshirt, she experiences perhaps the most blessed moment of the day.  Gratitude oozes out all her pores.  Ken’s warm body next to hers seals the deal: this is as close as one gets to heaven while still on earth.  (Oh, and I didn’t even mention her heated mattress pad, faithfully set at medium low about half an hour before bedtime.)

So… I need to practice sleeping in a superthin silk sack sans heated mattress pad and without bed buddies of either the man-made or the male persuasion.  Fat chance I’m going to try this in our unheated bedroom where more often than not we have one window open.  “Most hostels have blankets,” I was told by my friend Virginia.  I’m not sure I trust her observations and her memory in this regard given the fact that she has told me she rarely gets cold.  But what’s a pilgrim to do?  Who has room to tote an actual sleeping bag?  Perhaps a session of calisthenics just before bedtime?  And isn’t the energy expended in shivering and shaking designed to raise the body temperature?   Just wait: you’ll wish you could shimmy and shake like your sister Kate.

Moving right along….  How does one practice sleeping to the tune of the snores of strangers?  Or, for that matter, to the sound of their sniffles and their sneezes, and, oh! to the scent of their smells and those emanating from their shoes and from the salami and cheese they have tucked in their backpacks for the next day’s snack?  (I shouldn’t be writing this close to bedtime; something tells me that  slipping into slumber tonight could be a very slow process, bed buddies or no bed buddies….  And don’t you dare remind me that some pilgrims experience bed bugs in the hostels.  We are not going there!  We simply are not!  Satan, be gone!  Skedaddle!)

Hours before this most pleasant and much-deserved bedtime ritual, there is another eagerly-anticipated rite, that of removing the accumulated filth and sweat of the day in the refugio’s showers.  Do you think there’s a reason why pilgrim’s journals and the online forums don’t seem to spend much time describing them?  Like maybe they aren’t willing to conjure up memories of cold water coming out in a trickle?  Spare me, Lord.  I’m prepared for some sacrifices along the way, but could they be those of my own choosing?  Something like skipping that second glass of wine with dinner or setting my alarm for before sunrise?  (Does one need an alarm when sleeping in a room with forty or more people, all of whom have organized their possessions in plastic bags to keep them dry inside their backpacks’ many zippered compartments?  Crinkle, crinkle!  Zip, zip!  Must be 5 am.  Rise and SHINE!

Snacks ‘n sweets ‘n other eats

Snacks?  Sure thing!  Need I remind you that I’ll be burning beaucoup calories?  You may or may not think I’m too skinny, but for sure you don’t want me skeletal at my journey’s end.  Still, when it comes to adding food to a pack already brimming with “stuff”… that food will have to be carefully chosen: an orange might be the straw that breaks the pilgrim’s back; a banana or cheese the easy-to-forget items that might stink up her pack and make her a persona non grata to other pilgrims.  Perhaps just a granola bar or two for emergency situations and otherwise, hit the cafes and bars scattered here and there along the route.

Yes!  Cafes.  Support the small towns and entrepreneurs, pick up something sweet or savory, and use the servicios [restrooms].  Spanish tapas are known the world around.  However, an allergy to all seafood and shellfish means none of the Galician delicacy known as pulpo en su tinta [octopus in its “ink” or “blood”].  Oh, darn!  I’ll also be skipping the calamares, the gambas, the langostinos.  “Such a pity,” some would say.  Me?  I feel like my seafood allergy is the perfect excuse.  No, I’ll be going for the famed tortilla a la española [Spanish potato omelette] and the pinchos morunos [little cubes of meat on skewers].  I divorced myself from caffeine 37 years ago, but I may well succumb to the occasional treat of café  con leche or chocolate con churros, especially if I have been hiking in snow or, more likely, showers.  The latter could be plentiful, especially in the more elevated areas; I’m traveling in the spring, after all, and from what I have heard, the rain, contrary to what Professor Higgins has to say, is not mainly on the plain (the plain [the meseta] being more likely to soak us in sunshine and our own sweat).

“Slow down, stop often, and smell the roses”

I’ve heard this advice from many a wise pilgrim, especially from: those over the age of 50;  those who are compelled to take many photos; and those who have made reservations in advance in a nice albergue, and thus won’t be competing for beds (and bottom bunks), hot water, sinks in which to wash clothing, space on clotheslines, and available outlets for their electronics.  It will be, no doubt, a balancing act.  Will I take the time, as suggested, to remove my shoes and socks and tend to my feet every five miles?  Will I find ways to engage in conversation with some locals in the villages through which we pass?  Will I take the occasional spurs to visit monasteries located a few kilometers off the route?  Will I find a spot to call “home” for the night if I linger too long amidst the “roses”?  Will we decide at some point that it would behoove us to make reservations a day or two in advance, even if that means staying at refugios that charge a bit more?  Will we get a system going or will we depend on a good bit of serendipity?  And will the roses really be ready for us to sniff before we reach Santiago?  The early-bloomers perhaps.

Stay tuned!

Pre-trip, this much I know for sure: hurrying doesn’t necessarily put you in the lead.  Recall the lesson of the tortoise and the hare.  Speed can have nasty consequences.  I know of what I speak.  It was February 1 when I safely completed a 10-mile hike, crossing iced-over creeks and maneuvering around or over slippery rocks.  No problem.  Thinking, however, that I needed to make up for my playtime once I got home, I went into overdrive.  At one point, realizing I had left something behind in the car, I reached for the jacket I had flung on a chair, pushed my left arm through the sleeve in great haste only to have my hand bust out of said sleeve and slam into the back of said chair.  That wasthree weeks ago.  The middle finger of that hand still hurts.  I can see myself years from now explaining why the arthritis in that finger is so bad….

Is there a better song from the 60s  than Simon & Garfunkel’s “59th Street Bridge Song” (Feelin’ Groovy)”?  Allow me:

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feeling groovy

Ken probably tells me to slow down at least once a day, fearing that any day now we’re going to have a collision in the kitchen or when rounding a corner of the hallway.  A miracle it hasn’t happened yet.  The “hurry-up-so-you-can-eventually-slow-down” philosophy is a syndrome and those who suffer it rarely manage, for all their speed, to enjoy quiet moments of relaxation.  (I should know….)  Recommended treatments include the very things that such people are so poor at doing: deep breathing, meditation, stillness.  Eyes open.  Ears open.  Heart open.  More deep breathing.  Practice!  Practice!  Practice!

Selection of “s” words somehow related to the Camino but scarcely worth their own section; short & sweet & simple says it all

• sticks (aka: hiking poles): don’t leave home without ’em (well, actually, secure them upon arrival in Spain or in St. Jean Pied-de-Port to avoid strife with the airlines….)  
• symbol par excellence of the Camino: the ubiquitous yellow-painted scallop shells.  They mark the route; if a pilgrim has been walking a while without seeing one, he or she might want to backtrack a bit
• soles and souls: take care of them and they will take care of you
• Santiago: the destination city and the saint (“Santiago” = Saint James, the Apostle)
• sepulchre: that’s the point (or one of them): to get to the tomb where St. James’ bones are purportedly entombed
• stars: the full name of the city of Santiago is Santiago de Compostela.  One theory is that the “Compostela” is derived from the Latin “Campus Stellae” meaning “field of stars.”  Legend has it that a shepherd came upon the bones of St. James buried in a field over which a star was shining.  A simple church was built there, and then replaced with the splendid cathedral.  Wondering when I’ll glimpse the most stars on my journey: before bedtime or as I’m heading off on the trail some mornings?…
• senda / sendero: Spanish for “trail,” “path,” “footpath”
• speaking Spanish: I am so incredibly rusty!  ¡Socorro!
• sherpa: now wouldn’t one of those be wonderful to help me schlep my stuff?
• spiders, snakes, scorpions: I haven’t heard anyone caution about these dangers, but I’ve read that a hiker’s sticks can be handy weapons to ward off the snarly stray dogs who threaten pilgrims on occasion.  Oh, joy!
• shave: must I?  Maybe I just won’t wear shorts…
• Semana Santa: yes, we’ll be in Spain for Holy Week
• saints and sinners: don’t we all possess the characteristics of each, depending on the day, the time, the circumstances?  I speculate that I’ll be marching with “the best” of them and stumbling with “the worst”
• serendipity, synchronicity, shenanigans: surely we’ll find examples of each along the way (and who could resist those scintillating multi-syllabic words?
• snow, slope, steep, slip, slide: please, no!
• strength and conditioning: folks in the know have been telling me not to neglect my core; I must strike them as a bit stubborn in my tendency to sidestep their suggestion….
• storytelling: where better than on the Camino?  Life stories will speed up the passage of time, swell our hearts with compassion, cause us to forget sore body parts, and, in general, help us sort out our companions on the journey.  Some will likely sugarcoat their lives with silver linings; others will skip the less flattering or sordid details of their past.  Who will know the difference?
• back scratches: I wonder if Ginny will pinch hit for Ken; if not, I’d better find some scratching posts
• solemn, spiritual, sanctified, surrendering to the sacred: sounds good, at least in theory
• psalms: if you think it is cheating to count this an an “s” word, that might mean you are a bit of a purist, a snob–heaven forbid!–perhaps even a sanctimonious or even a supercilious one.  As for me, I’m thinking those psalms could be just as useful as the hiking sticks to keep me upright and on the right path
• sunrise, sunset, sunshine: oh, to be surrounded by beautiful surprises!
• secure, safe & sound, and absolutely spectacular: we’ll hope the Camino experience is all those things!
• spoiled: Yes, I know I am.  Spectacularly so!
• stalling: what Katy is doing as she writes this post.  And she wonders why she doesn’t get things done!  I’d label her “stupid,” but that’s a word that her mother worked so hard to suppress from her vocabulary….

Sex….

How can “sex” be omitted when searching for “s” words?  What can I say?  Maybe it’s your turn.  Select one or more from the following group.  After all, if the shoe fits, wear it….

• 
• Shhhh!
• “Sex”?  Sounds familiar.  Kind of rings a bell.  Remind me what that is again.  I seem to be having a senior moment.
• Save it; shove it!  You’ll survive ’til summer!
• Shame on you for coming up with this section!  And, for that matter, with the next one!  Where’s the bar of soap to wash out your mouth?

“Sh*t!”

There, I said it again!  Where were the hands that were supposed  to speed towards my mouth, stuff that word back in, make sure it didn’t hit the air waves?  The thing is, with that particular word, there is no advance warning.  It doesn’t signal that it’s on its way, doesn’t give an estimated time of arrival.  It is, rather, spontaneous and yours truly fails time and time again to stop it from slipping out.  As part of my vernacular, it means one (or more!) of the following:

• I dropped it!
• I forgot it!
• I broke it!
• I deleted it accidentally (or, even worse: I sent it!)
• I tripped (over it)!
• I spilled it!
• I goofed!

Or, to sum it up, something didn’t go as planned and I express an uncensored gut reaction.  Generally speaking, whatever the goof-up, whatever the “it” was, is of no particular consequence,and, therefore, equilibrium is quickly restored.  Unless, of course, I’ve been overheard by someone, in which case I’m a bit embarrassed.  Closet cursers do not like to be exposed to the light of day.  In the case of this particular curser, she would really like to train herself to come out with the much-more pleasant-to-the-ear “oops!” or even the toned-down “darn!”  “Uh ho” might do in a pinch, though it lacks “drama,” failing to convey both the intensity of the surprise factor and the possible depth of disappointment and/or dismay in the face of whatever has just occurred.

So on the Camino I can foresee so many occasions when I might drop things, leave items behind or misplace, break or spill them, or perform any number of unintentional actions which might threaten to disturb the tranquility and flow of my days.  Sigh.  (Oh, there’s an idea! “Sigh.”  I could practice that four-letter “s” word, couldn’t I?  Better to be known as the “sigher” than as the “sh*tter“!)

There is one ray of hope, though.  I find that on days when “sh*t!” slips out all too easily, it is because I am hurrying too much, multi-tasking, running late, and/or surrounded by so much “stuff” that of course I’m tripping over things and spilling them and dropping them and otherwise being thwarted in my attempts to get to still other things.  Whew!  Stop!  Breathe!  Slow down!  Be intentional!  Remember that you don’t have to “do it all” or “be it all” or “have it all.”  That “hope” I mentioned a few breaths back?  It’s this: that on the Camino I will indeed be slowing down.  I will be simplifying.  I will be single-tasking.  The first book I read about this pilgrimage in Spain–Joyce Rupp’s Walk in a Relaxed Manner: Life Lessons from the Camino–offers a vision of calmness and serenity towards which I aspire.

Is it too much to hope that some of the other “s” words I’ve suggested above will help me turn the occasional “Sh*t!” into a peace-filled, tranquility-inspiring, lingering “ohmmmm….”?  Stand by.

The Indiana woods in winter strike me as neither dark nor deep, but yes, they are undeniably lovely.  They welcome and allure.  They invite going just a bit further, one more climb up to a ridge to catch another vista, one more descent into a peaceful valley, one more leap over a partially frozen creek.  Free of their leaves, the trees command attention for the diversity of their trunks and branches.  What a treat it has been to rediscover winter hiking and to visit our local forests on a regular basis.

Until now.

Until the rains came.  And the warmer weather.  Thus, until the temperature plunges once again (and for the first time in my memory that is just what I’m hoping for!), MUD rules the day.  Mud and flowing creeks too wide to jump and too deep to be comfortably waded.

What’s a Camino trainee to do, then, but settle for some urban hiking?  And so Barb and I did just that the other day.  Oh, we’re both walkers, that goes without saying.  Daily errands, plus, for Barb, dog walking, can rather easily give us five miles of pavement.  An “intentional” walk around town, maybe up to seven miles.  Been there, done that.  But an “urban hike“–which I choose to define as 10 miles or more–is something that we had not hitherto undertaken.

About time, really.  For the truth of the matter is that our Camino journey will, for better or for worse, involve a fair amount of pavement pounding to balance out the more rural, pastoral portions of the trek.  We will, on occasion, be skirting airports, traversing major cities, making our way around industrial areas, and walking just beside rather heavily-trafficked roads.  I do not expect to be enamored of those sections of the Camino, but I will not be shocked to come upon them.  I’ve been warned.

This past Tuesday was a perfect day to test out our city legs as well as our foul-and/or-changing-weather apparel.  Better to find out stateside just how serviceable our rain gear would be.  Not that we had the most typical weather pattern to deal with.  We expect, in Spain, to be experiencing days in which the temperature is most likely to rise during the course of our walking; our course of action will be to shed clothing as the day progresses.  That was not to be the case for us on the particular day about which I write.  We dressed for the unusual-for-a-February-morning 50 degrees, knowing that 1) rain was expected and 2) by the time we finished the winds would have picked up and the temperature would have fallen to the upper 30s.  If anything, we would be adding clothing as our hike progressed.

“Raindrops keep falling on my head / But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red / Crying’s not for me, / ’cause, I’m never gonna stop the rain by complaining / Because I’m free / Nothing’s worrying me” … unless maybe my feet….

Our conversation for the ensuing four hours was neither of a intellectual nor a philosophical nature.  No.  Mostly we talked about our equipment and how it was faring, of what was in our packs, of a few more items we had ordered or were thinking about ordering, along with the whys and the wherefores of each thing.  You would no doubt have been bored.  We couldn’t have been more engaged!  Our gear talk was interrupted occasionally by the need to consider our route and ponder whether such-and-such a street was going to have a suitable sidewalk.  We were, after all, on routes that we knew as drivers or cyclists rather than as walkers.

Statistics

Barb and I

• walked between 12 and 12.5 miles
• crossed over an interstate on a recently-completed pathway
• jay-walked* easily across the many lanes of 2nd Street somewhere between Walmart and Sam’s Club
• made quick stops at Goodwill and Rural King
• were on sidewalks or sidepaths for all but about 20 mostly-grassy feet (plus the parking lots of the two stores mentioned above)
• experienced, one after the other: mist; light rain; ice pellets/hail (we might not agree on the exact term, but whatever it was was both visible and audible); and, right at the end, snow flurries
• somehow didn’t get around to eating or drinking anything (nor did we need to use any “facilities”), not that any of those omissions is at all praise-worthy…. No boasting intended here; I’m merely reporting the facts
• were out-and-about for just a bit over 4 hours
• made no adjustments to our initial clothing, neither additions nor subtractions, with the exception of my removing one of my two pair of mittens for a while, only to put them back on when the wind picked up and the “ice balls” began pelting us.  Yes, we were chilled at the end of the walk, but not even close to what one might call “miserable.”  Our conversation, the last mile or two, trended towards the topic of food.  Hot soup in particular.  Hard to say whether hunger or cold prompted that conversation.  No doubt some combination of the two.

Conclusion

Both Barb and I saw this hike as an experiment.  We branded it “successful.”  We were, I must admit, rather tickled with ourselves for being of one mind, for thinking that we needed to get out in some rather adverse conditions.  And equally tickled that we had made good gear choices for the day, a day we felt might rather closely resemble some we were likely to experience in Spain.

But as an experiment goes, it was not very scientific in nature.  Not enough variables.  No control group.  Too short-lived.  So in the end, inconclusive.  For example, what if the sun had come out?  Would our rain gear have been warm, having us soaked with our own sweat in no time?  And what if the skies had really opened up, if instead of drizzle we had had the flood-like conditions of a week ago that closed many roads and caused schools to be dismissed early?  What then?  Any chance our rain gear would have been able to fulfill its part of the bargain?  Still an unknown factor.

Yours truly’s toes were not happy campers upon returning home.  Oh, they managed to walk another two or three miles–those pesky errands!–before the day was over, but they forced their master to wonder: was it the hiking boots or the socks or the weight in the pack or mutiny against all this training or the beginning of some kind of breakdown?  Yikes!  Each foot has 26 bones, 33 joints, and more than a hundred muscles, tendons, and ligaments; that’s a lot of stuff that could rebel at any given mile!  (It’s been two days.  Yes, we’re going to give those toes and the feet to which they’re attached another chance to show their mettle today….)

We’ll continue our experimenting.  With sun (hopefully!).  With rain (inevitably).  With mud (sloppily).  Even with less-than-happy body parts.  With good humor and gratitude and hope and resilience.  We’ll have all that and more on the Camino.  We’ve had, and will continue to have, all that and more in Life.  Even if practice doesn’t make perfect, it still makes a lot of sense.

*Just had to share the (slightly-edited-by-me) definition of “jay walking” as found online at urbandictionary.com:

When you cross the street through the middle and not at the intersections were [sic] you are supposed to. They call it Jay walking, because back in the 1900s in New York people (New Yorkers) would call tourist jays, and since jays were really impressed by all of the tall buildings they would walk up to the middle of the street to see how tall they were, therefore the word Jaywalking emerged.

I could be concerned about the fact that the Merriam-Webster online dictionary gives a totally different account of the origins of the word “jaywalking”, along with historical data (see it here; you might be surprised!).  I could also be concerned that the person who submitted the Urban Dictionary definition goes by the name of Cacahead305 and that the definitions in that dictionary allow viewers to give definitions a thumbs up or a thumbs down.  But I’m not.  In this day of fake news, why should we object to a fake definition?  It seems only appropriate that an article about an “urban hike” should get some back-up from an “urban dictionary.”  If only I could come up with an urban legend to round out the package….

If you’ve heard all the stories about academia that you care to hear in a lifetime and they strike you as highfalutin, injected with too much self-aggrandizement, then maybe this isn’t the story for you.  And if your feet are so firmly planted on the ground that any hint of the spiritual or, heaven forbid, the prophetic, makes you uncomfortable, again, maybe this story isn’t for you.  (But then, if either of those things are true, you probably abandoned this blog very early on.)

As for me, I love this tale, and I swear, every single word of it is Gospel truth!  Trust me on this one.

THE STAGE and ACT ONE

To set the stage, we have to go back in time.  Way back.  The year is 1975.  Let’s picture February.  Could have been March.  Same difference, really.  It’s winter in Indiana.  If you’ve lived here, you know what I mean.  If not, picture a near-endless succession of dull, gray-skied, moisture-filled days.  Dreariness personified.  Add to the scene a beyond-terrified graduate student preparing to “sit” for her doctoral exams.  Three of them, scheduled three or four weeks apart.  You would think that by one’s fifth year in grad school–and, what?  one’s 20th year of absorbing, analyzing, interpreting, comparing, contrasting, and otherwise showing understanding of any number of subject matters and disciplines–that one would have grown accustomed to the rigors of exercising the brain.  Taking an exam, even a 6-hour written exam–or, in this case, three such exams, would just give one a chance to show one’s highly-honed intellectual muscles.  Just another trip to an oft-visited gym, but staying to exercise a bit longer than usual.

You might think that, but you would be wrong.  At least in the case of this particular grad student who, as I already mentioned, was terrified.  C’est moi, of course.  But you already knew that.

So, are you picturing me cowering?  Deep circles under my eyes?  Nervous ticks?  Barricaded in my room and hemmed in by irregular piles of opened books, ragged, dog-eared notebooks, half-consumed cups of coffee?  Enough.  Let’s not dwell on the pathetic sight  I’m making my way through the genres of Spanish Golden Age literature; think: 16th and 17th centuries.  Prose, drama, poetry.  Cervantes, naturally.  Lope de Vega and Calderón de la Barca, of course.  And the poets, foremost among them Quevedo and Góngora.  The poets.  The sonnets.  All those rhyming patterns.  Those lines with the right number of syllables.  The ABBAs and ABCs and so forth.  (You had to learn that, too, like with Shakespeare, no?  Or Milton?  Do you remember the patterns and rules better than I do?  That was a long time ago!)

And all of a sudden, there I was, writing one.  Me!  A sonnet!  Oh, yeah: in Spanish!  The one and only poem I’ve ever written in Spanish.  Not one of those sing-songy ones like I write for people’s birthdays, but a real, honest-to-goodness poem.  With vocabulary that, if I may say so, sounded like the Golden Age era.  No surprise there as I’d been steeped in it, day and night, for years and with great intensity in recent months as I prepared for the exams.  The poem reflected my near-despair as I readied myself to face the “written exam gauntlet,” and yet, it was, at the same time, a release of tension.  I remember being excited to get the thoughts out in the open and to do so in the requisite sonnet form.  At least something was working for me!  Proof to self that I was retaining bits and pieces, that I hadn’t entirely gone out of my mind due to the process of trying to fill it to overflowing.

Yes, I was actually kind of proud of it.  And so I stuck a copy of it in the mail slot of Professor G., one of the five profs on my exam committee and the one whose class on Golden Age poetry I had taken.  There!  Got that off my chest!

What I didn’t expect was within 24 hours–perhaps in as few as 5 or 6?  I can’t swear to the time here, but it was a speedy turnaround, no question about it–I found in my mail cubby a sonnet of rebuttal, written specifically for me by Professor G!  Rhyme scheme, check.  Correct number of syllables per line, check.  Archaic vocabulary, double check.  The gist of it?  “You idiot.  Enough with the pessimism already.  You’ve got a solid brain and we know you’re going to do well.  Go get some sleep!”  All said very, very poetically and, besides, with great humor.

Wow!

Follow-up: I did somehow manage to pass those three exams back in ’75, though I never wrote the dissertation that would have promoted me to  “doctor.”  But that’s another story.  In ’76 Professor G. moved on to greener pastures.  I thought of him from time to time, just as I would sometimes recall other professors from those years, but I had no further contact with him.

Ok. I’ve set the stage.  You’ve got the background.

ACT TWO (or REPRISE)

Now, fast forward to mid-January, 2019.  Forty-four years have passed.  I am having lunch with Celia, a gal who did complete her doctorate at IU a bit more than a decade after I gave up the pursuit of same.  She has driven in from Columbus, Indiana, and she very generously has agreed to meet with me to talk about her experiences walking the Camino in 2011 and 2013.  In the course of our conversation, Professor G.’s name comes up.  Turns out he has written a book about the Camino and, even more amazing, he is one of the key people responsible for “finding” many portions of the forgotten and abandoned Camino route back in the late 70s; he clearly deserves considerable credit for its “rebirth”!

Another wow in my books!  (And his book?  Believe me, I’ve ordered it!)

Celia herself, it turns out, has done a lot of research on the Camino, starting back in 2000.  She has published articles and given many talks about it.  Who knew when we set up our lunch date?  Not I.  Upon hearing that she had delved into Camino history, I asked if she might be able to give me Professor G.’s contact information.  Said and done.  It just seemed appropriate to send him a line, thank him for his work on and dedication to the Camino, and let him know that I would be traveling there in a few months.  I formed in my mind what I might say in an email.

And then it occurred to me.  Those poems from back in 1975.  I was pretty sure I could put my hands on them.  Rather easily.  Hmmm.  That would be kind of fun.  Scanning them.  Attaching them to an email.  He’d be surprised.  He might get a kick out of that.  Yes, I’ll do it.

I head down the basement, open a file drawer, cross my fingers (full disclosure, as I promised that every word of this is true: it might have been a “mental” crossing of fingers…), and–I swear!–there they were, the two typed poems, in the front of the first file I opened!  Barely giving them a cursory reading, I rush upstairs, scan them, write the email, attach the scanned poems and also a photo of myself from 1971 to further prod Professor G.’s memory as to who I was, and hit “send.”  If this message ever gets opened, it is likely to be done in Mexico where Professor G. now lives. Wonder if I’ll hear back.

Indeed I did!  And in under 4 hours!  My email, he said, had made his day.  His response, with a bit about his life between 1976 and the present, made mine!

End of story?  Oh, no!  We haven’t even touched on the prophetic yet!

ACT THREE.  WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?…

In my excitement to send off the poems, I had barely read them.  A quick skim, nada más.  But shortly afterwards I went back to them, with a particular focus on mine, to get a better view of my 25-year-old self caught between the proverbial rock and hard place.

Wait a minute!  What is this I see?  The first word of my sonnet!?!?  “Peregrina”!  Peregrina?  Pilgrim!  I am calling myself a “pilgrim”?  Uncanny. Here I am, about to embark on a peregrinaje [pilgrimage] for the first time in my life and what’s this?  I come to find that forty-four years ago I was thinking of myself in figurative terms as a “pilgrim”?  What are the chances?

And I read on.  “Peregrina por senda interminable“.  Pilgrim on a path with no end.  Oh, like a 500-mile one?  How often when I’m on the Meseta in north central Spain is “the path/the way/the camino” going to seem endless?

The second line (“sujeta a los caprichos voy del viento“) talks about me being tossed around by the whims of the wind.  I think about pilgrim Bonnie’s description of the 40 mph gales that assaulted her on the first day of her Camino as she crossed the Pyrenees….

That wind, I say in the poem, is so fierce that it even robs me of all ability to think and it tosses me into “negrura inpenetrable” [endless or impenetrable darkness].  And I remember pilgrim Virginia telling me about her first day on the Camino when she and her walking partner for the day didn’t arrive in their overnight town of Roncevalles until 10:30 pm….

My second stanza summons “la fatiga inagotable” [the inexhaustible fatigue] and I recall any number of people who have described their Camino experience as “the hardest–as in ‘most physically challenging’–thing I’ve ever done.”

And then, get this question asked in the third stanza: “Pues, ¿dónde está la venta que al viajero / aguarda con vela encendida y puerta / franqueada?”  Where is the inn that awaits the traveler, [said inn having left] a candle burning and the door ajar?  Holy Schmoly!  I think about the hostels, how people scramble to get there before they fill up, how the refugios close their doors by 10:00 pm and woe to you if you’re not settled in by then.  The Spanish albergues don’t boast, like Motel 6, that they’ll “leave the light on for you.”

I won’t insist that every line of my sonnet coincides with a possible Camino experience.  The pilgrim in the poem–me!–refers to herself as being without friends and especially without a close friend who really understands what she is going through; she talks about being disillusioned, confused, and full of questions that have no answers, in need of some gatherings to cheer her up, distract her.  She is distraught and lonely.  The tone is, indeed, pessimistic.  It is not at all what I expect of my upcoming pilgrimage experience.  Even while admitting to being a bit nervous and apprehensive about my trip, I am also very excited and not in the least terrified! (By late March, it’s anybody’s guess….)

Still, what are the chances?  Really, what are the chances that a good twenty years before I ever had heard of the Camino and forty-three years before I seriously pictured myself walking it, just what are the chances of my coming up with the pilgrim imagery and references that appear in the poem?  What is at play here? Call it “coincidence” if you must.  Call it “prophetic” if you are willing.  Or how about this: yet another example of “synchronicity”?

I call it “delightful” and “fun” and proof that not all adventures have to be physical ones, nor all “plays” the kind that are performed on stage.  After all, as the Bard said, “all the world’s a stage.”  And so this humble “player” will now take a little bow and call out, for now:

“CURTAIN!”