Were there any witnesses?

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A wonderful news story in the Irish Times reported that Michael Flannery was on trial for causing a motor vehicle collision while under the influence.  In response to the judge’s question, Mr. Flannery said, “Well, to be sure, your honor, there were a great many observers at the scene, but I don’t think there were any witnesses.”

His comment fits how people approach their own lives and experiences. They observe them; but they don’t absorb the details, the atmosphere or their own reactions well enough to be able to report on them later.  I know that has often been the pattern in my life.  I visit some impressive art museum or historical site and afterwards I can’t describe to myself or anyone else what I really saw or felt.  That sense of detachment shows up when we go to a movie and someone asks us the next day, “How was it?”  My response is usually something like, “It was okay,” or “It was pretty good.”  Perhaps a short, neutral response is polite, not wanting to burden the listener with details. But what I think is at play, at least for me, is a failure to internalize my own experiences.

That’s why this blog is about following the inner journey.  Having decided to walk 500 miles to get to a place I’ve never seen before, it would feel natural and proper to dive into all the preparations that have to be made, for there are many.  But I want to pull my attention back from an uncertain future experience to the present moment.  I was reading a forum question about El Camino online today and an inquirer asked, “What will I feel like on the 16^th day of my pilgrimage?”  I connected immediately with the question because that is how my thinking mind operates. But it is the wrong question aimed at the wrong time of the journey.

My ponderings are about what is happening to me today; about what I notice in myself and the world around me as I walk along the roadway.  To get to that point, I will share with you next time how this intention to walk the Camino of St. James took over my life this year.

¿a dónde vas, peregrino?

True to my wish to control life, I approached my third retirement with a laundry list of things I wanted to do in 2012 and 2013.  This year’s travels include the Grand Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, Disney World (all done—check those boxes!); and trips to Williamsburg, Shenandoah National Park, Great Smoky Mountains National Park (May-June), Michigan and Mackinac Island (August).  Then for 2013 I had gently persuaded Sandy (she might say “cajoled”) into traveling from Texas to Alaska on what I imagined would be the ultimate road trip, the “Alcan Highway.”

When I was in college, some of my classmates from Alaska would catch a bus to Seattle when school was over for the year.  They would go to luxury car dealerships and contract to drive new Cadillacs, Lincolns and Chryslers to Anchorage or Fairbanks.  It was cheaper for the buyer to have the car driven up than to have it shipped in those days.  The following September, they would regale us with their adventures of taping thick cardboard panels onto the rocker panels to protect the cars from the gravel kicked up on the road.  They described how they were able to drive all “night” without headlights because of the long days.  I longed to have that adventure, seeing all the bears, moose and other wild things along the way.

That trip is not going to happen—at least not in 2013.  Instead we will switch from being tourists to being travelers.  I think there is a difference. There’s an odd feeling I sometimes get when driving a long distance.  Our cars are as comfortable as sitting at home on a sofa; and we are just as isolated from the passing countryside as we would be watching a travelogue on TV.

So what will we be doing for travel?  About a year from today, we will fly from Houston to Paris. The next day we will take a train to the Bayonne/Biarritz area. After a day of adjusting to the time zone change, we will travel by train to St. Jean Pied-de-Port in.  The next day we will go through the Porte D’Espagne on the SW side of town and start our pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, Spain, on foot.

We are walking one of the great pilgrim paths of the world, El Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the Way of St. James.  It is a 500-mile journey along a path traveled by Charlemagne, St. Francis of Assisi, Napoleon, John XXIII (when he was still called Roncalli), and millions of other pilgrims.  We plan to walk the journey in about 37 or 38 days. (That’s 15 miles per walking day and several days for rest.)

That’s the reason for this blog, to describe the journey, our preparation for it and the things we learn about ourselves and our lives along the way.  If you do a search on Amazon.com, you will find nearly 1500 books about El Camino de Santiago. So I’m not trying to write a travel guide or how-to book.  What draws me is the inner journey, how the ground itself is a metaphor for life: sometimes a little lost or disoriented, steep climbs, steep descents, cold and rain, heat and dust, long and lonely stretches through the flatlands, refreshing mountain spring water and no water at all.  Then, after we achieve that which we seek—in this case the supposed location of the remains of the Apostle, James the Greater—there is a short pilgrimage to Finisterre (the end of the world) on the Atlantic coast.

You are probably thinking, “Are you nuts? You’re fat and lame, not to mention that you will be 69 years’ old when you start out.”  Believe me, I thought about, and still think about those things too.  But I will be 69 if I sit on my butt all year, so that’s just a number.  Since responding to this inner calling (I can’t even claim it as my decision), I’ve lost 1.5 bowling balls. That’s twenty-four pounds, but it’s such a better image when I imagine carrying around extra bowling balls all day long.  Sandy and I are now walking 3 to 6+ miles, 5 to 6 days each week.  The physical part of this journey is simple, measurable work. What I will focus on in my writing is the inner journey.

It was very helpful for me to re-learn the other day that the word travel comes from the word, travail.

So, off we go.

We all remember momentous days

My last blog ended with the comment, “Next time­, where the pilgrim’s way is leading and the reason for the blog.”  Don’t you just hate being led along?  At the time I wrote it, I intended to describe where the story is leading; but I have something else to share before the “announcement.”  This blog fills in a few more details at the foundation.

We remember momentous days.  We know our birth date from annual celebrations and the anticipation of gifts. We remember our anniversary date if we are married (at least we better remember it!).  When an American of a certain age is asked what happened on November 22, 1963, he can tell you where he was, what he was doing and precisely how he learned that President John Kennedy had been shot in Dallas.  And now most Americans have the morning of September 11, 2001, etched in their memories.

­

A date seared in my mind is October 24, 1962.  I had been in college for just over a month. I was struggling with my decision to be a thousand miles away from everyone I had known growing up.  That October evening was cloudy, cool and foggy in Spokane.  I was sitting on the dorm’s fourth floor fire escape landing listening to a portable transistor radio.  The news reported that American warships were in position to intercept Soviet Union ships approaching Cuba.  The President had just declared something called DEFCON 2, which I understood as being one step from all-out nuclear war.

Ironically, the week before I had read an article by John Hersey about the 1945 atomic bombing of Hiroshima for a Composition 101 writing assignment.  Thus on one hand, I wanted to keep my eyes closed so that the flash of the bombs wouldn’t blind me. On the other hand, I was eighteen years-old and would probably end up dying in the war anyway—unless I was already blind. (There is no accounting for the irrationality of fear, especially when we are carefully taught that we must live in terror of the things over which we have no control.) The Soviet ships reversed course and within days the news was on other topics.  But I vowed that night that I would never have anything to do with the military or war.

Eight years and three weeks later, as an Army infantry lieutenant, I was riding in a helicopter headed toward a “hot LZ” in Vietnam and feeling certain that I would not survive the rest of the day. I could not integrate any meaning for my life from these “dates” until I had lived another four decades; but what occurs to me now is that crossing over thresholds of this magnitude stirs the soul from its slumber. 

What I learned is that when you can’t see the other side of the chasm that opens before you, you can’t rely on your own knowledge and life skills to pass through.  And, there’s no point trying to “push the river.” The dark passage takes as long as it takes.  I’m glad the Soviet ships turned around in 1962. I’m thrilled every day that I came home from Vietnam 366 days after I arrived there.  But I know that I wasn’t in control; and that’s a hard lesson to learn for almost every man I have ever known.

All through the years, even though I say I knew better, I thought I was in control.  I would “pray about” what I was supposed to do.  Then I would decide and ask God to “baptize my project.” If my plans went well, it was because I was clever, confident and capable.  If things did not go well, I told myself it was because of someone else’s lack of cooperation or some outside circumstance.

So what happens when the summons really does come from outside my own mind? What does it feel like when the idea is born in my soul rather than in my imagination?  Stay tuned; the answer comes tomorrow (seriously!)

You're going to college WHERE?

While completing one of the college placement tests when I was a high school senior, we were allowed to send our scores to three colleges or universities for free.  Since Nevada had one four-year college at the time, I selected the University of Nevada (Reno) as one choice.  Second, I chose Utah State, because it was closest, I suppose.  In my heart, though, I didn't want to go to either of those schools.  I felt that if I went where all my friends were headed, I would mess around and flunk out. (Turns out I almost did that anyway!)  The more important reason was that, after 18 years growing up in a county of 9000 square miles with a 1960 population of 9808 people, I wanted to go somewhere new and different. By the way, the county has a population of less than 11,000 people today!

As I scanned down the list of universities, looking for my 3rd choice, I came to the name, Gonzaga; and I thought to myself, this sounds more like a disease than a school.  I checked the block, knowing nothing about Gonzaga, including where it was.

Several weeks later I received a recruiting brochure from Gonzaga and learned that it was in Spokane, Washington.  Bingo! More than 1,000 miles from home!  I applied and somehow was accepted. Gonzaga had just become a university, so I suspect they wanted to have students from as many states as possible, and I became the token kid from eastern Nevada.  And I learned, of course, that Gonzaga was a Jesuit university, which led to humorous encounter at our kitchen table.

Soon after I was accepted and the word spread around town, the pastor of Sacred Heart parish came to the house and told my mother that I could not attend GU. "Margaret," the Pallotine monsignor said in his best Irish brogue, "You cannot let Bobby attend that school. He will lose his faith!"  (Turns out that almost happened, too; but that's a different story.)

Something in me longed to be on new pathways. In September 1962, my mother and oldest sister deposited me at the entrance to DeSmet Hall and drove away.  I didn't know what it meant to cross a threshold into liminal space at that time; but I felt the sense of panic that was to come back several times in my life. It took several experiences of stepping across new thresholds to learn to hold the tension of being no longer "here," but not yet "there" either.

Looking back on the long walk taken (previous blog post) and the college chosen, I realize now that I was choosing the path of the pilgrim. 

Next time, where the pilgrim's way is leading and the reason for this blog.

Long Walk Taken

When I was a senior in high school, living in eastern Nevada, I went deer hunting alone on a late November day in 1961.  It was a wet, cloudy day and the first snow of the year was melting. Driving up toward the mountains on a little-used road that was just two parallel ruts with water seeping down them, I saw several deer get up and pass over a ridgeline to the south. I stopped the pickup and hurried down through a gully and up the far slope to the top of the ridge.  When I got there, I could not spot the deer.

I came back to the pickup about fifteen minutes later and found it sunk into the ruts so far that the running boards on both sides were resting on the ground. I tried to free the truck from the muddy ruts; but the more things I tried, the more mired it became.  The afternoon was quickly draining away, and as I rested I looked up toward the mountains to see a storm rolling down toward me.  About ten minutes later thick, heavy snow was falling. As the light faded, the intensity of the storm increased. 

I knew that if I stayed in place, I would be snowed in.  At this point of the year, deep snow could be on the ground for a long time.  My only option was to strike out on foot down to the ranch road and to head toward Ely.  I took with me only my father’s rifle, mostly because he would not want me to leave it and not because I thought I needed it for protection.

Within half an hour, the darkness was almost complete, and the driving snowstorm made everything disappear.  The only way I could navigate was to feel for the brush rubbing against my jeans on the right side. When I did feel it, I would angle to the left until I felt the brush in the center brushing my left boot. I had walked for over an hour when I sensed something in front of me.  I couldn’t see anything, but I had that feeling that comes when we come near something in the dark. I slowed down and, inching forward with my free hand in front of me, I bumped into a cow. I don’t know which of us was more startled; but the cow moved off the road and I passed by.

After walking for another hour or so, I came to the ranch road and turned north toward home.  The snow did not let up but, as happens when everything turns white with snow, there seemed to be a bit more light by which to navigate.  For the next hour I could feel the gravel crunching under my boots. Then everything was muffled as the snow continued to fall.
Looking back over all these decades, I don’t know what I might have been thinking about as I trudged along that road. To this day, however, I can feel the almost perfect stillness that surrounded me.  It was the first time I experienced a true sense of detachment, almost as though I were watching myself walking mile after mile.  I lost track of how much time passed and just kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

As I walked I eventually came to the road that turned right off the ranch road and went to the old charcoal ovens that had been used in the late 1800s for charcoal production.  I knew that from this point I had about two more hours of walking until I came to the paved highway that led to town.  I had not eaten for several hours so I was growing tired; but the hope of catching a ride home on Highway 93 kept me moving. 

After a few minutes, I heard a distant sound to my rear.  Soon I recognized it as a large truck.  My sense of relief grew as I heard it coming closer. Soon I could sense the headlights illuminating everything in front of me. Since the snow had been coming against my back from the south, I did not bother turning around.  The cattle truck rumbled right past me, and I watched the tail lights disappearing in the storm ahead. Just as it occurred to me to fire the rifle at the truck’s tires, it stopped.  I trudged up to the passenger side and opened the door.  The old rancher stared at me and said, “Jesus Christ, son. I thought you was a ghost.”

I don’t know who that good Samaritan was, but he gave me a ride into town, dropping me off on the main street just a few doors from our house.  I arrived home after 2:00 a.m., to find my parents and oldest sister anxiously waiting to hear from me.  Once I told my story, my father said that we couldn’t leave the pickup out there all winter.  He called my brother-in-law, who had a Toyota Land Cruiser and headed back into the country within an hour.  I was exhausted, but since I was the only one who knew exactly where the pickup was, I had to go along.  I don’t know what time it was when we arrived where the pickup was stuck, but by the time we got it pulled out and turned around, the sky was beginning to lighten.
I had the presence of mind to ask my father to clock the mileage from that spot to the coke ovens.  He asked me several times, “You sure you walked this far?” Passing the turnoff, he announced that we had come just over 21 miles.

Maybe I should have realized then that the long walk taken would lead to a life of travel and long walks along paths and roadways.  That experience as a teenager of seventeen seems to have marked my life—and set up what now lies ahead for me.

Monday Meditation, December 27, 2010

What can we say in the awesome experience of the Incarnation of God?

For this week, let's reflect on the words of three Wise Persons:

From the 2^nd Century:

“The Son of God became a human being so that humans might become sons and daughters of God.”

--St. Ireneaus

From the 20^th Century:

"We are all called to be contemplatives in the heart of the world -- by seeking the face of God in everything, everyone, everywhere, all the time, and [God's] hand in every happening; seeing and adoring the presence of Jesus, especially in the lowly appearance of bread, and in the distressing disguise of the poor."

--Mother Teresa

From the 21^st Century:

The Word did not become a philosophy, a theory, or a concept to be discussed, debated, or pondered.  The Word became a Person to be followed, to be enjoyed, and to be loved.

--Roy Lessin

Monday Meditation, October 4th

Mary Oliver, one of my favorite modern-day poets, often takes my breath away with her poetic insights.

 

To live in this world

 

 you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

 

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

 

Today is the Feast of St. Francis, and I can hear him saying about her message, "Well, of course, what do you think I was always talking about?"

 

For a more complete meditative moment, read her poem here: http://www.panhala.net/Archive/In_Blackwater_Woods.html

Turn on your computer speakers!

 

Happy Autumn,