Tag Archive - Beauty

Memento…

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It all started with the Pepé Le Pew ornament. As I placed it on the tree, I tumbled down a rabbit hole of remembrance. Each ornament from your box carried me further and further…

Perhaps you thought you would get away without a birthday post this year, since Dad, Josh and I spent that day driving across the state to be with you, then trotting all over Knoxville trying to find some establishment willing to feed us on Thanksgiving, then hugging you and saying goodbye and driving home. No such luck, dear one. Your old mama is too full of recollection for that. 😉 Our life together has been composed of so very many sweet moments. Here are a few personal favorites…

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Let’s begin with Pepé… When you were a little boy you had this wonderful habit of hugging everyone. You might see someone you loved across the church foyer. You would start running, picking up steam along the way, and crash into them with all that love. Even if the object of your affection was slightly terrified, he or she couldn’t help but be delighted. While your physical approach has become considerably more refined, you still only know how to love full on, with everything you have. It is one of your most endearing qualities.

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Somewhere, there is a picture of you, walking stick in your hand, dogs around your feet, as you explored our farm. Those were delicious days of discovery. The misadventures of “bloody peaks” were more than redeemed by the “tree of wonder”, skipping rocks in the creek, and the ancient tobacco barn with its mysterious tunnels and its steady supply of bones and fur and snake skins. That explorer is in you still. Whether trekking along the Appalachian trail or the trackless wilds of Alaska, you seem to be more yourself in untamed places.

Do you remember when we adventured abroad for the first time, and ate warm Viennese rolls every morning, and traipsed through nearly every art museum in Paris? I could hardly look at the art for watching you look at the art. Always, it seemed to me that you were seeing something I could not see. The intensity with which you connected to those glorious works was mesmerizing. And that moment, on the airplane, as we were flying home–I asked you what was your favorite part of the whole trip–and with this long, slow, exhale, you closed your eyes and breathed out “standing in front of the Mona Lisa.” I would have flown all the way to Paris just for that.

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It’s not surprising, of course, because you have always been an artist. Even in pre-school, teachers at church would remark on your extraordinary abilities. And drawing was necessary to your well-being somehow. I remember once, we went away for a few days and, inexcusably, I forgot to bring your drawing materials. As we were driving home, you were almost trembling as you talked about getting back to your pencils and paper. The way you call into being that which is not, simply by moving your hand across paper, is miraculous. I have never stopped being in awe of it.

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Then, of course, there is your love affair with music. When you were little, it was all about speed. Every piece. Even the ballads. Didn’t matter. Only fast, all the time. 🙂 Later, you became the ultimate pick-up man playing piano, saxophone, guitar, banjo, accordion, melodica, mandolin… And every gathering of family or friends, usually ends up with you attached to some instrument and–whether it’s “Boots and Cats” or bluegrass, or something in between–there will always be music.

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How fun it has been to cook for you (and with you) lo these many years! To explore the culinary world with you, at home and abroad; to have you introduce us to the gastronomic standouts of your adopted city; to watch the exquisite delight you take in food, have all provided me with great joy.

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There are a thousand other memories rollicking around my brain right now, and you know I could wag on forever. But in the interest of brevity, I won’t even mention Legos, Redwall, gymnastics, cub scouts, camping, long talks into the night… I will only say that my world is richer and deeper because there is you. I love you immensely.

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I thank my God every time I remember you. ~Philippians 1:3

A Legacy of Turtles

Whimsical is not a word I would use to describe my Grandma Howard. Oh, she had a fine sense of humor, and a wonderful smile–the kind that requires the whole face to get in on the act, chin to forehead, ear to ear–this despite the fact that as long as I knew her, she had nary a tooth.

Certainly she had an appetite for beauty: filling her home with handmade quilts, crocheted rugs, and embroidered dresser scarves; and her garden with peonies and cleome.

But more than anything, Elsie Goldie Collins Howard was practical. Life had asked too much of her for her to indulge in frivolity.

Perhaps that is what makes the turtles so unexpected. And so special.

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The first turtle quilt was a baby gift, given to my parents not long after I was born. It has been well-loved and much used in the intervening years and is barely hanging together in places. But I count it among my dearest treasures.

When I was a little girl, I thought it was so funny, all those colorful little fellas, some wearing familiar cloth, parading across a white ground, linking arms as if to play Ring a Ring o’ Roses. It was not til I started sewing and quilting myself that I realized how much work it had required. The basic block is similar to the one used for the familiar drunkard’s path. But to this was added a hand-appliqued head and tail. For every. single. turtle. VERY impractical.

I don’t think I ever told her how much I loved the quilt. It didn’t even occur to me, in the way it seldom occurs to children to say thank you for dinner or for new socks. Making quilts was so much a part of who she was I might just as readily have thanked her for breathing.

When she died, she left a number of finished quilts that had never been used. Additionally, there was a stack of quilt tops that had yet to be quilted. These were distributed among the children and grandchildren. When my mom saw that one of the quilt tops was turtles, she thoughtfully chose that one for me. She quilted it herself on my grandmother’s frame. I spent a few summer afternoons in the cool of the basement working on it myself, alongside Mom and my Grandma Nelson. I sleep under that quilt every night.

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Out of the attic of our new old house, we have carved a little playroom for Kenzie, and for the other grandchildren we hope are in our future. We included two sleeping alcoves, each sized to accommodate one twin mattress. As I contemplated how to dress the beds, I decided to make quilts for them–not to save money, you understand. Truth is, I will have as much money in supplies as it would cost to buy a nice enough, mass produced, machine quilted quilt.

But when my grandbabies climb under those quilts, I want them to feel the love I feel when I crawl into my own bed. I want them to know I have stitched something of myself and my love for them into the cloth.

One of the quilts is butterflies, in honor of Kenzie’s summer of butterflies. But the other, is turtles. I was intimidated by the curves and made one practice block first, just to make sure I could do it. Also, I should confess that I am considerably less patient–and far more lazy–than my grandmother, so I ran borders between them to cut down on how many turtles I had to make (a decision I have regretted somewhat because you lose the turtles linking arms).

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The top is finished and I have bound it to the backing, but a great many fall evenings will find me with a parade of turtles across my lap as I push a needle in and out, paying forward a legacy of love, and whimsy, and turtles.

p.s. The treadle sewing machine in the top photo is the very one my grandmother used to make all those quilt-tops, including my turtles. 🙂

East of Eden

“And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden…”

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My people are people of the soil.

My grandpa made his living as a dairy farmer. And now, when he sits on his porch in the evening, he looks out over the fields where he pastured his cattle, and where he made hay for their winter sustenance. In the middle of those fields sits the timber frame house where, one hundred Aprils ago, he was born.

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Over the past forty-nine years, my parents have planted gardens, fruit trees, and flowers; dug a pond and built some barns; raised kids, dogs, farm cats, and beef cattle; snow sledded, cut firewood, and canned a million quarts of green beans on the wild twenty acre plot of Eden they bought when I was just a baby.

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My brother and his bride have reared their babies and built a beautiful life, and now a business, on the very same farm where my dad was once a boy.

Deep roots.

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Mike and I have been somewhat more transient. Gypsies. In June we moved into our sixth house in twenty-nine years of marriage. And yet–something of this need to plant things, to intimately know my portion of earth, has pursued me.

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So I lovingly lift out my mama’s irises and haul them with me, wondering if any of the soil of Appalachia still clings to their rhizomes. I sift cleome and larkspur seeds into the new ground and bless my grandmothers who loved them so and who, though immensely practical, could not live without beauty.

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I study the vicissitudes of sun and shade. I tuck columbine under the dogwoods and border the walk with lavender. I make a home for Samra’s calla lilies and Lorri’s Lenten roses. I stand perfectly still when the hummingbird comes to drink while I am pulling weeds. I watch Kenzie charm the butterflies.

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And slowly
thread by thread
I stitch myself into this new soil.

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p.s. The barn pictured above has been transformed into a gorgeous event space. If you live in the East Tennessee area and are planning a wedding, reunion, or corporate event, check out River Ridge Barn HERE.

The Glass Menagerie

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The wall of windows wears permanent rain streaks, like scars. It careens into a corner where it collides with a second wall, solider, dominated by a lone portrait: A young man in a uniform. He gazes out over the worn apartment like some benevolent Christ. But something in his eyes suggests he is not to be relied on.

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When Laura enters the room, her movements are distinctly deliberate. And slow. It takes a minute before I notice the wrappings around one leg. The subtle limp. She is crippled. (Her family’s word, not mine.) More crippling than the leg itself is her excruciating shyness. It is the reason she has been expelled from business school, a fact which she can not bear to tell her mother. All the love which she might have bestowed upon a boy, or some babies, is instead poured into her collection of delicate glass animals. Their fragility she understands, better than  most.

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We meet Tom on the fire escape. It is appropriate. Between worlds. Not quite in, not quite out. He is trapped by responsibility, by the drudgery of working a job he hates, so as to provide for his mother and sister, whom he loves. But his soul is hungry. In snatches of time, he writes. He goes to the movies. He drinks. He goes out on the fire escape to smoke. All to find a moment’s relief from the stifling reality that is his life. He dreams of flight.

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Their mother is always bustling. Always scheming, scolding, or prodding in an attempt to secure a good life for her children. Her only diversions are the stories. Stories of her glory days when there were so many suitors vying for her attention, and the world was more cultured and polite, and the future was a bright sky full of promise. These stories drip with regret.

Theirs is a tenuous existence, fraught with perils both real and imagined.

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Enter Jim O’Connor. Tom has reluctantly dragged him home from work at his mother’s bidding. It has become clear to Mrs. Wingfield that Laura’s only hope is to make a good marriage, and as she will not go out to where the boys are, the boy must come to her. A great many preparations are made to show the apartment, and Laura, to their best advantage.

After a horrifying start, the evening actually goes much better than expected. To a point. But heartache has worn such deep tracks that–like the streaks across the windows–they are not easily scrubbed out…

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Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie has become a time-honored classic because it enters into difficult places with surprising clarity and honesty. Complex and layered characters ache to scavenge some bits of light from the bleak world that has been handed them.

Studio Tenn has rendered this weighty story artistically and sympathetically. From the set design which pulls you right into their close, beleaguered space to the spellbinding performances of the actors, it is impossible to watch without truly sensing the deep tragedy. And which of us does not have our own experience with tragedy? And isn’t it important, now and then, to have our hearts expanded by entering into the suffering of another?

The show plays again this weekend from Thursday through Sunday. I highly encourage you to see it. Find tickets HERE.

*All photographs in the post copyright Anthony Matula.

 

A Pilgrim Tale: day thirty-three

I don’t remember rolling up my sleeping bag or packing away my gear for the last time. I don’t remember walking down the hall to brush my teeth, or lacing up my boots. But I am sure I did all these things.

I do remember that the sky was the color of rose petals. And the air was cool, but soft. And we walked mostly downhill, til we were in the city. There was a monument. Then the city was like any other.

And not like…

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We breakfast at a cafe where we see the familiar tortilla. And the very unfamiliar rose tea. And all the tables are indoors and everything is clean and bright and the owner moves about calmly and easily and some people look like they are dressed for the office. And I wish we were bumping into one another and sitting out on the sidewalk and the owner was bustling and something about the place was a little run down, and friendly.

Jan, David, Mike and I stop at the inn where we will share a room tonight and drop off our backpacks. It feels wonderful to be walking without them. It feels strange to be walking without them.

We decide to head to the pilgrim office straightaway before the line gets too long. This turns out to be a good idea. But we almost miss Jorge, Kelly, Otto, Jose, and gang. Almost. We had walked with Otto for a while earlier this morning, but he and Jose went on while we were leaving bags. And yet, like iron filings to a magnet, we seem to be drawn to one another.

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We find Jorge and Kelly, Kathy and Catherine in the square just as several others arrive. We hail Otto who is walking away and take a group photo. This picture will be one of the treasures of the Camino for me. Then we run into Nathadeo who we haven’t seen since we sang with the nuns in Carrion de los Condes.

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This is one of my favorite stories from the Camino. These two gentleman walked the whole 800 kilometers of the Camino Frances, from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago, just like we did. All the mountains and valleys, all the rocky terrain and narrow, briery paths, all the puddles and cow patties. Here is the difference: the fellow on the left, he’s blind. Watching them move in concert is like listening to a duo that has been singing into one another for so long that they breathe together. Some friendships are given to us as examples, to know just how far love can go. This is one of those.

The Cathedral is undergoing renovations which means that we cannot access the Portico of Glory. We walk round to the other side to enter. We queue up to “hug” the statue of St. James. Then, we walk down to the crypt to venerate the body of our Lord’s own apostle. This is a solemn moment.

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Coming out of the cathedral, we run into Paul and Lasse who we haven’t seen for days. Mike is not with them. He too will arrive on this day, but we will not see him. Jan and David will find him in Finisterre, though. AND we see Adam, our friend from Poland, with whom we also have lost contact for a bit. We have one last beer with the boys and share a few final tales of the road. Bittersweet.

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We choose from a dizzying array of tapas for lunch, pop our head into a few shops looking for gifts for our kids, our granddaughter and our godchildren, then go back to the inn for a little rest. We head over to the cathedral around 6:00 to snag a seat for the 7:30 pilgrim mass and who should we find resting just outside, but Damien, Psicobeta, Filipe and Claudia! They have walked 40 kilometers today to be here for the evening mass. It is SO GOOD to see them.

Shortly before the mass begins, a feisty little nun comes out to teach us a couple of responses we will need later in the service. Then the mass begins. Like all of the masses along the way, this one is in a combination of Spanish and Latin, so I understand little. But it is nice to know the responses.

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You may or may not have ever heard of the Botafumeiro. It is an inordinately large censor. Incense has been used in worship since the pre-temple days of the Old Testament. It is still essential in the practice of Orthodox and Catholic Christians today. But I’ll bet you’ve never seen a censor quite like this one. The story goes that part of the reason for its size was to help cover the stench of the pilgrims. This, I believe. (The above photo is its support structure.)

The Botafumeira is not used at every mass as the cost of the incense is prohibitive. But we have heard that it is commonly used on Friday night. So we are glad to be here on Friday. Still, it’s not a sure thing. Til we see the men in red cloaks, one of whom carries a shovel (as in a garden shovel, you understand) full of charcoal and incense. Then we know.

However extraordinary you imagine it would be to stand here, it is a thousand times more so. I have provided you with a taste. But only a taste. The music, our prayers arising as incense, the weary bodies so full of miles, the stories, the love that has knit so many of us into one another…

And then it’s over. Except it’s not. We walk out into the night to find our young friends again: the newlyweds, Damien and Psicobeta, and friends Claudia and Felipe. We talk about their long walk today and they ask us if we remember the spiritual Mike and Paul sang at Granon. “We have been changing it up a bit as we walked,” they say. And right there, in the gathering dark outside a cathedral in Spain, they sing…

I believe it too.

Go with God, dear friends!

I miss you already.

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Once the soul awakens, the search begins and you can never go back. From then on, you are inflamed with a special longing that will never again let you linger in the lowlands of complacency and partial fulfillment. The eternal makes you urgent. You are loath to let compromise or the threat of danger hold you back from striving toward the summit of fulfillment.

~John O’Donohue

A Pilgrim Tale: day twenty-six

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Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes…

~Elizabeth Barret Browning

Breakfast at our albergue is delicious and fortifying. While eating, we meet Susan who was a late arrival at the albergue the night before. She had been having a frightful time finding any place that could accommodate her. Jose had prevailed upon our young innkeepers on her behalf and they had pulled out a cot for her and allowed her to sleep in the lobby, at the base of the rock. She will become a fixture of our merry band from here on out. (Thanks, Otto, for reminding me of this part of the story.)

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We head out into the darkness and promptly make a wrong turn. Happily, we discover our error before too much damage has been done and are able to make correction. Much of today’s walk is along the road, but on the other side of the path is a gurgling river which makes us mostly forget about the road. There is a remarkable irony as we walk past ancient, sometimes derelict, buildings, while in the distance, towering modern bridges convey commuters crossing the country at break-neck speed.

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We are just getting into cattle country when we stop for lunch at a lovely outdoor cafe overlooking a pasture, and the river beyond. Trees are being felled on the heavily forested hill just above the river and it makes the cattle dogs nervous. We feast on fresh, beautiful salads and fortify ourselves for the big climb that awaits us.

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Most of our friends stop in La Faba for the night, but we decide to press on to Laguna de Castilla. We are very glad of this next morning when we already have an extra 2.3k of hills out of the way.

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We lodge at Albergue La Escuela, right smack dab in the middle of a dairy farm. We even watch them drive the dairy cows to and from the milking barn. In some ways, this is all very familiar as my grandparents made their living milking cows, and I saw this scene played out more times than I can remember in the mountains of my childhood.

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Here we have Galician soup for the first, but thankfully not the last, time. Potatoes, kale, beans. Hearty, warm, and delicious. We visit with Boyd and James, a father and son from Australia. And we meet “Martin the Healer”. An odd bird, he is walking the camino for the second time, is covering long distances (40k/day) and claims to have healing powers. He trys them out on James who is having difficulty with his knee, but the jury is still out on his effectiveness when we leave them.

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There are autumn blooming crocus everywhere, mallow and foxgloves growing along the fence, and some other scrumptious wild flower I don’t recognize growing in profusion with deep purple buds that open to dark pink blossoms (see top of post). I can’t stop taking pictures. I know I will never capture what it is to stand on this mountain with these bright blossoms all around me, and the lowing of the cattle and the earthy smell of them, and the good, wholesome fatigue in my legs and feet, and the deep peace inside me. But I know that when I look at the images, I will remember.

And that is enough.

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Travel Note: At this point in our journey, we have begun making advance reservations at albergues most days. Opinions are divided on whether this is appropriate. Some albergues do not even allow them. But, the number of pilgrims grows daily as we near Santiago, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to find rooms at the end of a long day. So we are buying ourselves a bit of insurance. Each pilgrim must decide for himself. It does require having a phone with cell service (thx David), or a kind innkeeper who will call for you. You can, and should, cancel if you see you are not going to make it that far or decide to go farther. There is usually a limit to how late they will hold a bed for you before giving it to someone else.

A Pilgrim Tale: day twenty-five

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Up before dawn, as usual, so that we enter Ponferrada in golden lamp light. By the time we reach the 12th century Knights Templar Castle, however, there is light enough to make out its turrets and drawbridges.

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We breakfast in a cafe just across from the castle that looks as though it could be part of the castle cellar with its arched stone roof. Or a bodega. 🙂

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We are back in wine country. The Bierzo region. There is harvesting going on. And leaves are beginning to put on their fall dresses. The effect is spectacular. A glorious feast for the eyes. And the nose.

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When we arrive at Albergue de la Piedra, in Villafranca del Bierzo, the young hospitalaro offers us tea and coffee and directs us to tins of biscuits on the tables. He and his lovely bride receive us as though we are guests in their home. “de la Piedra” means “of the rock”, and it is so called because, well…

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This photo is taken in our room!! The whole structure is built into and around a giant hunk of granite. And our windows open out onto a flower-clad balcony and the gurgling river below. That river will be our lullaby. But that’s not all. Oh no! Jan, David, Mike and I are in a little alcove for four that opens into another room where a whole host of our pilgrim family is also sleeping: Otto, Jose, Jorge, Kelly, Kathy, Catherine… There is singing. Of course. And goodnights a la the Waltons.

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Otto keeps collecting stories. Sometimes the stories come looking for him. Like today. The words below are his. (It will be helpful to know that Otto’s much beloved late wife is named Maria Luise).

Today as I was walking alone, this 80 year old Spanish woman suddenly came out of her house and started talking to me in Spanish. I said no comprende. No espanole. She kept talking, she insisted on telling me something. Where is Jose when you need him I thought. I knew he was behind me. After a few minutes he showed up. Please I said …what does she want. She wanted to tell me that I reminded her of her husband who died years ago in a accident. So I politely listened to her story as Jose translated. When she finished I asked her name…she said my name is Maria Luiese ..I kissed her and she gave me a big hug…I know the door is open God but what are you trying to tell me…believe me you can’t make this stuff up…buen camino…Otto

Buen camino, friend.

A Pilgrim Tale: day twenty-three

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The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.
~Dolly Parton

Thanks, Dolly.

Thanks a lot.

Tough day for me. Rain coming and going all day. Jacket and pack cover on…off…on…off…ad nauseum. And stuff hurts. The front of my calf. My knee. My shoulders. Tired. Plus I have a bad attitude. Mostly, I have a bad attitude

And yet…

The whole day is braided with luminous moments. The best one comes early in the day. We stop at Meson el Llar for a little second breakfast. There we run into our friend Josh who we met at the very start in St. Jean. He has become a pied piper of sorts, gathering a whole group of young people around him. Almost immediately, we are also joined by Otto and Jose, Jorge, Kelly, Kathy…SO. Many. Friends.

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The counter is lined with all sorts of delectable temptations: tall, luscious looking tortillas, French toast, meatballs, fancy teas, a whole jar of muesli… And the busy proprietress is laughing and bossing people around while golden oldies are cranking on the stereo. And then it happens. A spontaneous eruption. Like a single spirit moves us all at once.

It is one of the singularly most memorable moments in an ocean of memorable moments.

We finally tear ourselves away from this warm, friendly oasis and resume the walking. Despite my best efforts to be a total grump, God keeps pelting me with beauty until my resistance is finally spent.

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In Rabanal, we attend an evening candlelight service. Several pilgrims read passages in a variety of languages. Our friend Jorge reads here in Spanish. A mercy of peace at the end of what has been, in some ways, a turbulent day.

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The Most High has wounded me with His Spirit,
filled me with His love,
and His wounding has become my salvation…
All the earth is like a memorial to Thee,
a presencce of Thy works…
Glory to Thee, O God,
Thou Who are forever the delight of Paradise.
Alleluia!

~The Odes of Solomon

*Hat tip to Mike who captured our proprietress at Meson el Llar.

A Pilgrim Tale: day twenty-two

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The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. And the hills. And irrigation channels and wildflowers growing in ditches. In small towns and big cities. On men riding bicycles. On allees of poplars. On pilgrims.

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It comes strong early, but by the time we reach Astorga in the afternoon, it is mostly mist. Astorga is a quaint, old city with winding, labyrinthine streets. The Bishop’s Palace, another Gaudi offering, is just around the corner from our albergue. It is the quintessential marriage of refinement and whimsy.

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And there is a civil building with figures on the clock who come out and hammer a bell to ring the hour. Mike and I walk back at 4:00 to see it.

Our albergue, San Javier, is in an historic building in the charming old quarter. A stellar location. The building has nice bones, with stone arches, heavy wooden beams, and a fireplace (especially welcome on this chilly day). But it is a bit of a run down affair. EVERYTHING creaks. The floors. The beds. It would actually be funny if it didn’t make it almost impossible to sleep. OK, it’s still kinda funny. But the beds are tight, there is no room for storage, and the laundry sink is out of doors with only cold water. Brrr.

We buy cheese and bread, olives and wine, and picnic in the common area near the fire. We stuff newspaper in our boots, hoping against hope that they will dry before morning, when we will walk back out into the rain. Again.

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Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.

~Paulo Coelho

A Pilgrim Tale: day twenty

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The world is silvered with frost, and the most common roadside weeds have become works of wonder.

I am wearing all my clothes.

Literally.

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After the frost burns off, we pass our friend Daniel, a former Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer, as he is resting his feet. He has had some difficulty with his shoes. He has even done the unthinkable and bought new ones along the way, keeping the old ones so he could switch them out while breaking the new ones in. He has just had bad news from home. A family member has died. But he will rally, and we will see him in the cathedral in just less than two weeks.

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We arrive in Leon on market day. The city is thronged with people. In the square in front of the cathedral, there is a farmer’s market where we buy nectarines. In another square, tents are filled with pottery. Still another street holds jewelry and cloth and other flea market type items. At one point, we have to step aside to allow an armored knight on horseback and his retinue to pass. I’m never sure what that’s about, but it’s pretty cool.

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Leon possesses a number of architectural masterpieces. Gaudi has a building here, Casa de Botines. Not all Dr. Seuss and sandcastles like in Barcelona, but still magic.

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Though a great many of our friends are stopping in Leon to have more time there, we decide to press on to La Virgin del Camino. There we stay in the very clean and efficient municipal albergue, Don Antonio y Dona Cinia, though it takes us a minute to find it. We are happy to discover an Irish pub that sells an assortment of beers, the like of which we have not yet seen in Spain. Though the basic blonde, fizzy cerveza is refreshing enough after a long day of hiking, it is nice to find something a little sturdier.

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Special Thanks to David for reminding me that this was the day I ate the largest hamburger in the world. And for capturing it on film. 🙂 (Hey, a girl gets hungry.)

Tomorrow, we will wake to rain. But tonight, my mind is filled with images of thistles against a blue sky and bright blossoms in sunshine.

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The difference between pilgrim and tourist is the intention of attention, the quality of the curiosity.
~Phil Cousineau

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