Visiting the Cathedral for Christmas Mass

Dec 27, 2015
I love going to Mass at a Cathedral. What Cathedral, you ask? It could be any Cathedral. In our country or in foreign countries. The word "Cathedral" means "chair".  A Cathedral has the chair of the Bishop.  Cathedrals are interesting places of worship and hold within many pieces of history.  In Europe a Cathedral may contain the crypts of  religious, royalty and even local politicians.  Cathedrals usually have  above average liturgical music.  There may be exquisite stain glass, statuary or other art. The architecture of the ancient  Cathedrals causes my  mind to wonder "How did they do that?"

The Catholic Church is universal. Being universal means anywhere in the world you go, the Mass is the same. Without  understanding or reading the Mass in English, a Catholic understands what's going on.

I have visited many Cathedrals and churches in Europe. This year alone  I have visited the  Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the Burgos, Spain Cathedral which is a UNESCO site, the Cathedral in Leon which is often referred to as the Cathedral of Light and, the Cathedral of St James in Santiago de Compostela, Spain.  In 2009 I visited many Cathedrals in Germany and France, yet my favorite will always be the Cathedral at Chartes, where a labyrinth has adorned the floor since around the year 1230.

I "googled" Catholic Churches to find one nearby for Christmas Mass. Exploring the area early, we drove by the Cathedral.  Its a red brick building.  It looks to be three stories high with a very tall steeple.  I wonder what will strike me when I visit the Cathedral in this city. Christmas morning about 10:30 am we arrive at this Cathedral... St Andrew.

As I enter the sanctuary, I hear the choir.  The choir seems so very far away in the choir loft which is  up above a balcony.  The choir is accompanied by organ and trumpet. The music is breathtaking. When I hear such special music I do not sing.  I listen with all my senses.  Thirty minutes before Mass the Cathedral is almost full.  Charlie and I work our way to open seats near the front. The congregation is so diverse!  There is a man with Down Syndrome sitting in front of me. His mother helps him find the pages in the hymnal. A man with a walker is in another pew.  The usher bows to this man as he relocates to another seat. I hear foreign languages around me as more church goers find their places in the packed pews. I see people who have physical characteristics much different than my own.   There are people native to this area. People of all ages. All different types of flesh tones. Brows which are  heavy or light.  People who are tall or short in stature. A beautiful East Indian family with the women dressed in saris  and the men in finely tailored silk suits pose for photos in front of the creche. And of courses there are people who look much like this blonde North American girl.

The language of the Mass is English, but it's noticeably difference from eastern Oregon English.  The lectors, a man and a woman, proclaim God's word in British English, more specifically British Columbian English.  I think of Fr Luis as I listen. I have the urge  to model  a different pronunciation  as I have often said to Fr. Luis "this is how we might say that here". This is their territory, and I must mind my manners as a guest.  I listen very carefully to the  epistles, one Old Testament reading, a psalm lead by the cantor and then a  New Testament reading. I admit I continue to be  distracted by the accents of the lectors. Although  their reading is totally intelligible it is noticeably different  than the familiar voices I have listened  to read for the past 40 years in my home church.  The presider stands and the book of the  gospels is well blessed by incense. As he reads I am worried that this flat monotone voice will deliver a flat colorless homily. 

But I am surprised,  astonished at the depth my heart is moved. It is two days later,  and I am still pondering this message.  This is my recollection of this priests words and I have filled in quite a bit more detail from research.  I hope you as the reader will respond to what follows.  

He begins:

"Masses of Christmas Eve were celebrations of the coming of the child Jesus.

Masses of Christmas morning have different readings. We do not so much celebrate as we reflect."

Continuing he says

"Last night the bishop presided and I con-celebrated  the mass. As we  made our way to the sacristy after mass, Bishop turned to the me  and asked, would you forgive a person who confessed to you he was responsible for the murder of 6 million people?."

"Did this happen to you, Bishop?"

"No this is in reference to the book  The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness"

 (By Simon Wiesenthal,  this book recounts the thoughts of 50 renowned theologians, world leaders and peace advocates who are asked if  the horrendous crimes of the holocaust can be forgiven.}

The homilist now shifts away from forgiveness and reads  a litany of recent "head lines". . . 

Lunch room worker fired for giving free lunch to middle school girl with no money

China  ends one child policy

Star Wars movie hits one billion dollars

But then he pauses

Woman who survived for three months hidden in 3 foot by four foot bathroom with 7 other woman takes oath of American citizenship

The Cathedral becomes totally still.  No one is shifting  in their seats.

Even the soft baby babbles and squeals are silent.  The congregation listens even more attentively as the homily continues (I have added further background information)

In 1994 Immaculee llibugiza, a young Catholic college student in Rwanda was home for the Easter holiday. Her world changed drastically as the Rwandan president’s plane was shot down over the capital city of Kigali. The assassination of the Hutu president sparked months of massacres of Tutsi tribe members throughout the country. Not even small, rural communities like Immaculee’s were spared from the house-by-house slaughter of men, women and children. Seven other Tutsi women joined her in hiding in that three by four foot bathroom. The space was so tight the women took turns standing and sitting.  Food was scarce and Immaculee's  weight dropped significantly.  Horrendous bloodshed  occurred directly  outside the thin walls of their hiding place.   Her father had given her a rosary.  She started praying the rosary and  the chaplet of divine mercy.  She prayed 27 complete rosaries and many chaplets each day. She became very peaceful and remained at peace and learned to have mercy on, and forgive the murderers just outside the walls of her hiding place.

After 91 days of terror, Immaculee's’s prayers were answered. She was liberated from her bathroom prison cell and faced the horrific reality: Her entire family had been brutally murdered, with the exception of one brother who was studying abroad. Nearly 1 million Tutsis were massacred during the 100-day genocide.   Her family, her townspeople, fellow college students were viciously murdered, chopped apart with machetes. Their bodies were used as roadblocks or dumped in the streams that created a river of blood to Lake Victoria. Later after emigrating to the US she tells her story in her first book:

Left to Tell.

 

My thoughts:  I would not have survived.

She did.

The priest continued to deliver his homily

Another woman, also a Catholic walked across the killing fields shortly after the massacre had ended.  She came across a boy who she had known to be a Catholic.  

"I no longer believe in God," the boy said.

"Why?"

"God made trees and a tree can make another tree

God made elephants and an  elephant can make another elephant

God made Jesus but he will not make another Jesus."

I don't remember if the priest said anything after this.  I was puzzled and awestruck and moved...so many questions and responses welled up inside me.

What exactly does this mean?

How do  these stories all relate?

Today, as Charlie drove us home through the snow and rain, I sat in the back seat pondering this homily.  This is my response.

I believe God the  Father did make other Jesus's.  

Each one of us.
The boy was blinded by the massacre, the hate, the blood
How could he see?

I am thinking ... its up to us to BE the Jesus we are. 

To be for others the Jesus we are

To make the Jesus we are real

To make the Jesus we are come alive 

The others will then know the Jesus alive in them

And be the Jesus they are

To make the Jesus they are real

To make the Jesus they are alive to others

Then these others will BE the Jesus they are..

 Truth  Forgiveness Mercy Justice

Pope Franscis declared this a year of mercy

I will visit a Cathedral, somewhere...

I will take my beads and kneel in a pew.. I will imagine the horrific situations of the Holocaust, the genocide which continues throughout the world, the results  of terrorist activity, the mass shootings in schools and churches and malls...

 I will pray for mercy.

Have mercy on us and on the whole world 

After the voice evaluation...the rest of the day.

I am glad my husband is also a speech pathologist as he understood the measurements taken in the baseline evaluation.   

We left the Center for Health and Healing at OHSU and retraced our steps on the busy Banfield freeway until we found ourselves at Gateway.  We were to meet Patty at  the Applebee's.  Patty was able to help me explain to  Charlie  how you can have a good friend although you have never met face to face.  Facebook provides us with pen pals and you get to exchange thoughts with them with immediate gratification instead if waiting weeks for a reply. Patty is a pilgrim.  Her hospitality in sharing   the warmth of her home, a pleasant conversation, some great pie and tea reflected her pilgrim experience ( you know where you give because you have received). Patty got me to the airport in plenty of time to get on the 6:55 pm SeaPort flight to Pendleton. Why did I fly home? Charlie left after lunch to complete his annual "meat delivery ". 

 

The flight was full.  SeaPort did not offer any of the 8 passengers a voucher for a free flight if they gave up their seat.  I would have gladly spent the night on Patty's couch.  The plane was able to leave a few minutes early. But if it would have hung around it would have been there when the two pieces of checked baggage arrived to be loaded.  The plane was flying over The Dalles when the mistake was discovered.  The only other woman on the flight had her car keys in her luggage.  I never check baggage on SeaPort.  I just put my back pack and trekking poles in the black equipment chest in the back of the plane and I am good. 

The ride was smooth but very dark. No moon tonight.  I slept and dreamed I was the pilot. The landing was bumpier than the typical SeaPort experience.   My trusty car was right where I left it at the Pendleton airport.  The Ford does not know the way home like my Buicks did. After waiting for the car to warm up  I actually had to drive it home.

Exhausted.  I was sore. No, more than sore. I was in pain.  The strange Parkinsons pain. Tomorrow...gym workout , yoga.  I dreaded the thought.  Yet if I didn't exercise the pain and stiffness would be worse.  Buck up Carol. Buck up. 

Being called

10/26/15 Perhaps my choice of seating at church this Sunday is a precursor to my future physical abilities.  The second row on the left front is informally reserved for a group of senior ladies, some of which have health issues.   That's where I sat, right there in the second pew with these longtime matrons of the church.  At first I did not notice my location included me with the group.  But it did.  I tried to stand taller, to appear to not belong as time and illness has decreased their stature.    I tried to look strong and indepentdent as I noticed how they helped each other with sweaters and coats, reaching for hymnals and getting a Kleenex from a purse on the floor. These ladies also assist each other in getting to and into the church. These women have no men left in their lives to assist them I guess.  And where is my man? He is up on the alter assisting the priest.  So I am seated right where I belong. With the women who have been lifelong friends and care for each other.

Today the scripture teaches us  about Jesus healing yet another blind man.  But in this reading, and the only time in the Gospels, we learn his name.  Of all the people Jesus comes in contact with, why do we get to learn this blind man's name.   It is because  Jesus calls to him. Bartimeus.

 I used to think that it was pure luck when I was in the right place at the right time for something good to happen to me. So much good happened in my life.  I was a self proclaimed "Golden Girl".   Over a short period of time the plans I had for my future changed  dramatically.   I know now what I should have then. It's all  a part of the Master's plan.   Bartimeus was there because it was in the plan for him to answer when Jesus called. The bonus for him was he could now see.

The scripture passage told us he stood up and flung away his cloak

The cloak is as significant to this story as learning his name is Bartimeus.  He could hide in that cloak, covering himself, protected from the world. And the world was protected from seeing him.

It's hard to look at a person with a disability. It takes love, kindness, compassion, understanding.  Some of these traits are inborn, some learned and sometimes never learned.   I have a hard time even looking at my own body.  Media represents the human body as perfect, without deformity or blemish. It's just not that way for me. When my skin crawls and I want nothing more than to crawl out of it, I want to hide. When my hand or leg tremors uncontrollably I want to hide.  Once upon a time I was a lean and muscular athlete. I could run very fast.  Now I am chubby and flabby and slow. I want to hide. Dyskinesia are setting in and my body wiggles and twists.  I want to hide. 

It wasn't that hard to sit with the ladies of the church after all. Although their souls exist in worn out bodies, most people can look at them. They have thrown off their cloaks. They do not hide.  There have been times when individuals have sat in front or in row two on the left and it hasn't been easy to look at them. As I sat in the second row I decided it was time to throw off my cloak. 

I have Parkinson's Disease.  I cannot hide it anymore. I don't want to. Jesus called me out of the crowd.  My crowd included  successful beautiful hardworking peoplle.  Jesus granted me the courage to have this disease. That's a weird thought, being granted courage to have a disease.   After my diagnosis  I did not get angry for awhile.  When  God the Father told me to do something good with it I didn't rebel. My anger let loose a few years later, on the Camino de Santiago. It was 15 days into the walk when my soul reached this desolate spot.  I stood out on the Meseta on the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain in over 100 degree heat and screamed at God,  letting loose my anger until it took me to my knees. He listened.  God listened.  He said to me "Carol look where you are. Look what you are doing". I stopped my wailing. i took a look around.  Blue sky.   Miles and miles of wide open vistas.  I realized that while most of my friends may be home right now ... on summer break ...lounging in their air conditioned house... reading novels and eating Bon Bons I was walking 500 miles across Spain.  I saw in myself a new strength and a new courage. I could do this thing called El Camino.  And I knew then that I would be ok with this disease  Do something good with this. God the father said. 

So I did.  And I do. 

I have thrown off the cloak.  Now, you can see me. I am visible to you in my strength and in my physical challenges.  

 In a way, they are the same thing.

What to keep and what to let go

What to keep and what to let go....

This afternoon I spent a little time in the disastrous "South Room" of our house.  Once upon a time it was a lovely room with wicker furniture and thriving plants.  Currently it is inhabited by piles of paperbacks, shelves of speech materials most ancient but some new, mountains of empty bins and containers, dresser drawers with notecards and paper, craft items in bags and boxes.  It's hard to walk through there.  Scooting some boxes aside I made room to plop myself on the floor.  I emptied two boxes of papers which went into three piles.   To the recycler: Sure there is good stuff in there. Papers and articles presented by professional colleagues from around the country.  I was drawn to read them, to glean the information and use it in my practice. Oh, yeah, I don't have a practice. Recycle.

To keep for awhile:  some of my best work or best lessons that I can't draw myself to part with.  Not today, but soon they will go to the recycler.

To give: worksheets and articulation drill books and story mapping outlines and my unit on humor for the middle school kids. Am I fooling  myself? Will someone actually use this stuff?

As I sat there in the middle of 35 years of professional life I came to a decision about what else I will let go.  My licenses and certifications.  I am not going to renew.   Oregon Teaching License with Speech Impaired endorsement.  Oregon School Administrators  license.  Oregon Board of Examiners Speech Pathology License.  American Speech-Language and Hearing Association Certificate of Clinical Competence.  I am going to let them go.

My college classmate, professional colleague and dear friend, Dana Wood and I used to have long conversations about what we were going to be when we grew up.  I saw her a couple weeks at her retirement party.   " We are now grown up" I said.  "What are we going to be?" Dana may be still pondering the question.  But I know.  Now that I am grown up I am going to be me.   Not the me that is defined by career or professional affiliations.  

I am going to be me.  Just Carol.  I am getting rid of everything else: The framed papers hanging on the wall that tell the world it's ok to use my God given skills, the papers in the boxes and the books on the shelves. keeping me tho.  😉

The Last Entry....home

Portland International Airport passport control and immigration were a puzzle to me.   Of course the confusion contributed to my anxiety level as I had a limited amount of time to get to my Seaport air flight home.   We disembarked at the International flight terminal and walked into a large room where all passengers from all incoming flights were lined to scan their passports into a machine.  With 400 people inline, 6 of 8 machines were functioning. Two attendants were available for assistance and one was fixing machines while the other was directing passengers to the immigration officers.   My turn to scan my passport and answer the list of questions and then have my photo taken, resulted in a successful first attempt.  At the next station the officer looked over my scanned photo, passport and declaration card and then sent me to the another officer who stamped my passport.  Then I ran the hallways to the baggage claim area where I found my pack intact and was directed upstairs to my connecting flight.  I did not expect another security check and I had a knife, liquids and my trekking poles in my pack.  The backpack made it through the scanner just fine.   My day pack got examined as well as my body!  I forgot I had placed a bottle  of water in the pack.  The scanner  did not like my ankles or belly so the woman officer did a pat down to check things out.  Quickly , I got my shoes on, my pack went on my back, I held the day pack and I ran.  Sorta, well jogged, well kinda.  Anyway, my ambulation was much faster than my usual pace.  Coming down the stairs to the Final E gate  I heard the Seaport employee call my name.  There was a quick visit to the bathroom and I walked to the familiar Cessna 9 caravan. With three other passengers on board, the rattling plane gave us smooth and beautiful ride to Pendleton.  Luke and Charlie were at the Pendleton airport, with roses in hand to greet me. It was so very glad to see them I about squeezed the stuffings out of them.

So ends the travel log of my most recent adventures in Spain.  I have not posted to my blog so there will be new stories and pictures coming as I reflect on the events since Sept. 4, 2015.

Buen Camino

Acknowledgements

Bikers (as in motorcyclists) acknowledge each other in passing.  You see the subtle wave between the oncoming biker and the one you are following in your car.  There is a  connection between those who are out on the road, feeling that engine roar or purr (depending on the bike) beneath them.

Cyclist (as in bicyclists) also share a camaraderie.  Pedaling my way between Stanfield and Hermiston on 395 I was stunned by the sudden presence very very close to me.  "On your left" I heard the deep voice say. I knew exactly what to expect and that he expected me to hold my line so he could safely pass. The someone passing me was a tall lanky cyclist. He looked back and said "hope you are having a great ride" as he distanced me.  Coming down the hill by the water tower (yes the one responsible for many letters to the editor. You know... the trade mark watermelon replaced by "Watch Hermiston Grow") I saw another riding pedaling up.  My speed was picking up and I hardly ever remove my hands from the handle bars.  The rider looked up and acknowledged me with a nod and a wave.  I manged to  return these friendly gestures.  There is an understanding between riders. And we acknowledge that with these greetings

When Anne and I first started riding together, I was very slow.  I am slow now so you can imagine what it must have been like for Anne to ride with me then  We planned to meet at the Mormon church (in contrast to my meet up spot with Nancy, the Last Chance Tavern).  I watched for Anne and when I spotted her, I  spotted another rider with her.  Anne must have acknowledged the rider coming in as she was headed out.  The rider turned  around to join her.  The very fit 60 something gentleman saw two women who looked like they were "riders" and decided to take another spin. We can really look the part wearing our bike shorts and jerseys, don't ya know!  We  slowly pedaled out to Space Age and gentleman rider (GR) left us in his dust. We stopped to use the bathroom and hydrate.  After our defueling and fueling break, GR  pulled up.  "Where have you ladies been?" Um, well we had gotten there  in our own time, that was for sure.  We crossed the  highway and  rode out Echo Meadows . GR started commenting on Anne's bike and giving riding advice.  His manner was not too appealing to Anne (she lets her thoughts be known) and  before too long he was at my shoulder offering cycling tips.  Not wanting to lose my balance, I ever so slightly turned my head to him and said "Look, its enough for me to stay upright on these skinny tires.  I don't need your help right now!!". I don't make a habit of being rude to other cyclists, or really to anyone. It must have become obvious that neither Anne nor I were interested in improving our riding under GR's tutelage that fine day. Another rider turned onto the road heading our direction.  GR acknowledged him, and was acknowledged back.  "See you girls, I am going to ride back to town".  Off he went.  Harmless.  GR gave us alot to talk about in rides to come.

About 10 years ago I offered to help a young deacon with some accent reduction so he might be better understood by the congregation. Last fall he returned to our church as a priest. After the long passage of  time and the thousands of people he must have met in numerous churches he served in, he remembered my name! WOW I was impressed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out my business card.  He said "I called you but they didn't know you there". (How quickly one can be forgotten by some but remembers by others)  I saw him again on ASH Wednesday, the first day of Lent,  You know...the reason behind Mardi Gras?  I went to a midday service to receive the ashes, the symbol reminding us to repent and be saved...that we came from the d

ust of the earth and shall return there.  I ended up in line to receive the ashes from him.  He very seriously dispensed the ashes, reciting the brief prayer. And then it came, the acknowledgement, the  wink, a quick smile and twinkling eyes.  We shared a memory of a pleasant time long ago working together. 

A wink, a wave, a nod, a smile,  catching an eye across the room... in that split second of acknowledgement we understand each other. In this world on misunderstanding its a good place to be. Pray for more understanding.  Pray for more connections in this unconnected world. 

When Your Pants Fall Down ( winter Spring 2015)

I rode the single out today. It was 60 degrees with a mild wind. I spent some time at the bike store wondering if I am ready for an upgrade. The nearby high school was letting out for the day and traffic was picking up so I pedaled on with dreams of disc brakes and composite tubing. Riding the familiar routes around town I noticed I kept slipping off the saddle. I adjusted myself back up and realized it was the nylon pants I had put on over my bike shorts. They were too big and too slippery. This was a pleasant problem, having lost enough weight that the pants kept sliding down, but the sliding off the seat,,,not good. I managed well until just about home. Whenever I turn right out of the driveway I have to face THE WEIRD INTERSECTION. I am sure every town has one. You know, the one where newcomers don't know what to do. Free right turn here. Sign that says "Traffic coming from left does not stop" there. And giant trucks full of onions or potatoes looming down and almost cutting across your front tire as you hustle toward the traffic island for safety. So if I have gone right out of my driveway, I usually meet up with THE INTERSECTION coming home. Up to this point in time I have maneuvered THE INTERSECTION a hundred times without incident. Today I waited my turn to go and got only a pedal turn or two, enough to get in the middle of the right of way for those cars that don't need to stop and I slipped right off the seat, lost my pedals and standing upright, also lost those slippery pants off my waist. Don't worry I had shorts underneath and they didn't go far, but it was a predicament .I quickly regained control of the pedals and forgot about the pants and got myself out of that intersection,,, I know there were no less than four drivers who were going to have a story for dinnertime conversation. Time to buy some nice tights I do believe.

Who assembled this group?

There are four women staying at this house.  I am 20 years older than the oldest.  Their life experiences reach far beyond mine.   When I first arrived there was a woman from Seattle, a Washington State Patrol Officer.  Merka had most recently lived in Bend.  Gwen called Portland her hometown.  Gwen's uncle once taught art at Hermiston High and her parents live in Goldendale.  To break up the monotony of  Pacific Northwest Americans there was Alise from Latvia.

Each of these women has had many different careers whereas I had the same employer for 31 years.  They have journied much further in seeking peace iñ their lives...and in fact still search that route daily.  I came to grips with that life journey long ago.  I listened and shared as I can and lifted them up in prayer and thanksgiving.   

Alise had several pages of "questions" for discussion after dinner.  Those around the table went from nearly strangers to close friends as the questions and answers  opened up the stories of our lives.

The State Patrol Officer left in the morning.  Alise, Gwen and I decided to walk to the Costa da Morte to see the lighthouse.  It was a delightful time I will treasure. We walked through the eucalyptus forest and I learned these trees were not it native to Spain.  

The Rio Grande is a lovely river.

  

 When we reached the estuary the white sand beach was covered with millions of tiny scallop shells.  

We took the long way which took us off the highway.  We were tired and stopped to eat at a family owned bar.  After a big meal and 12 km I was ready to call a taxi.  So we went on four wheels the rest of the way.  The lighthouse and coast line were well worth the effort. 

Today we walked a country path to a neighbouring village for groceries.   Then we said our goodbyes to our Latvian.  She insisted on  buying us coffee before she parted with us.  It's funny how in just a few short days you feel so close, like someone you had gone to school with from first grade on.  She is so alive and so beautiful and fighting so many demons.  She loves lighthouses and the ocean and mapped her course to Lisbon so she could see more. My last words to her were "love yourself".   It will be quieter around the dinner table tonight but we will all carry memories of these past few days in our hearts.

Carol, Gwen and Merka 

Alise, Gwen and Carol hiking to the lighthouse

The Little Fox House

Are you wondering what I am up to today?   I awoke before the alarm from a dream about chasing pigs off  Maryhelen Peterson 's porch.   After a luxurious hot shower  I headed to the bus station for tranporttation to a place  where I would still need to walk 18 km.   Just by chance the information office was open at that early hour.  I asked there and found an afternoon bus to the exact location I needed.  (Or so I thought). Now what to do with my time!    I went to a bar where I was served a cafe con leche grande, a small honey covered croissant and a shot of OJ.   It cost 1 Euro! !!!  I walked about 4 blocks from the bus station to the Camino...About 10:30 who should I see but Carol Lundeen and Ann on a fast pace to the Catherdral.  There was a quick exchange of greetings and well wishes and we promised to meet up  Friday.     Now I wait for a bus!.  Ease dropping on the women sitting behind me I heard a variety of American accents.  Southern, Western, Minnesotan.  I inquired if they were headed home.  As we talked I checked out their hiking boots. The condition of one's boots tell a lot.  These boots looked in good shape, almost new.   The woman nearest me explained they had met up in Lisbon for a reunion of Peace Corps workers and decided to walk a little on the Portuguese  route. The conversation was cut short by their bus arriving.  One thing for sure, they had enjoyed shopping.  They juggled  several bags along with their packs. I longed for some non pilgrim clothes..

The bus driver nodded yes when I showed him the name of the town where I thought I needed to be....I had written it on my hand for lack of paper.  I sat right in the front so I could see the countryside and get off at the proper place. It s very nice of the Spanish to have a sign to identify the town when you enter and exit. I did not recognize any of these names.  

The bus  carried workers and people who had been grocery shopping.  No other pilgrim looking person was on board.  One woman had 10 plastic grocery bags of items she had selected from the store. The ride became quite curvy as we wound our way through river valleys and over passes, occasionally stopping alongside the highway when someone flagged the bus down, or pulled the cord to tell the driver they wanted to get off.  Soon the bus was empty of all passengers except me.  The driver glanced at me with twinkly eyes and a grin and cranked up the radio.  We boogied along as if the big bus was actually a sports car. He slowed and stopped near the entrance of a town.  "Vimezeo" he said.  That sounded Italian.  Was this the wrong Bus?  If so it was really really wrong. I had to trust.   Two women sat in the small park  near the bus stop.  I showed them the address of The Little Fox House, thinking I was in the correct town.   They shook their heads and gestured "far far away". Ahah!  I asked if a taxi was necessary and the older woman nodded yes.    Across the street someone's grandmother was standing in a doorway.  She stared gesturing to me. And as I understood it she was telling  me " go down this street and take the first right ." I followed her gestured directions and I entered  a bar.  It made perfect sense to find the taxi driver in a bar. Yikes! Actually  It was siesta time the mentoring nearby  hung out and the women went home to prepare lunch for the children . I walked in the bar in full pack with my walking sticks.  I must admit I was confused when all the men looked at my boots. We're the checking to see how many miles. I walked?  We're they embarrassed for me? "Taxi?" I asked sheepishly.  "Is there a taxi driver here?"  The bartender came around the corner just then and told me to go back to the bus stop where the taxis were parked.   He assured me that a driver would be along soon. I walked out the door and back up the street.  I gave the grandmotherly woman across the street a thumbs up and she smiled.   Soon enough a man appeared at the taxi stand.  While he was taking the sun visor off the windshield I tried to ask in Spanish but I could not think or the word for "fox" and all I could think of was Casa de Ratone.    "Casa de Tracey Saunders?" I asked.  In perfect English he responded "The Little Fox House".  "Yes. Across from the white church". "Of course"  he responded and off we went to a tiny hamlet about 7 km away.  After a short drive I arrived!   Arriving where you are supposed to arrive is a good feeling.  It was especially nice to arrive at this place.

Backyard fences

 Growing up on Berney Drive in Walla Walla I learned a lot about fences.  The man who built our house, Ralph Bramlet, brought a load of lodge pole from his land in Dixie, Idaho.  I was given the job of peeling bark and painting a sealant and holding the poles while we built the lodge pole corral at my folk's house.  Over my backyard fence, pastured by the lodge poles was a big Quarter Horse Thoroughbred cross named Shawna Alate.  She was my first backyard fence connection. We spent all of my free time together.

The fence around the house was woven cedar boards.  My mom stained it red.  Every few years she would don old clothes and a shower cap to protect her hair and paint. I was supposed to help but ended up spilling a lot of expensive stain. What did I care.  For me,  it was fun to go to Van Patten's Lumberyard to purchase more stain.  I had a haircut just like the little kid on the Dutchboy paint can. I pretended it was me.

On the other side of Shawna's pasture was the Fazzari's. They had a short white fence so I had to keep a hot wire up so Shawna would not eat the petunias growing along the their fenceline.  I played a lot with the two younger boys, Greg and Rod.  As we grew up, all four boys and their mom Marie worked at my parents's drive-in, the Ice Burg.

Greg and I developed this saying:

"Meet you at the fence at midnight"

"I'll bring the wine"

"I'll bring the glasses"

And once,  after high school, we actually met at the fence at midnight. 

No one believes I was a rascally kid, but I was.  There are lots of stories about me sneaking into the school on weekends and even one about me escaping out the second floor drama room window and breaking the fall on the awning over the door of the Ala Room and falling into the flower bed...but believe what you will..this next story is true.

My friend in shenanigans was none other than Dawn Adams.  Imagine that.  We loved sneeking around. I think it started at 4-H camp.  One night I snuck over the backyard fences of all the neighbors on one side of her street.   She watched.  I was good! No one switched on lights. Only a few dogs barked. I thought I had a great future ahead  as a climber of fences.  But I was told to keep my day job.

Walking along the French way of the Camino de Santiago in Spain, there were many types of fences.   We also met animals that roamed without any fences.  A few fences come to my mind...and these thoughts have nothing to do with shenanigans, Dutch boy paint or meeting at the fence at midnight.These fences brought special meaning to the walk.

It was another spectacular day on the Camino.  We left Astorga as soon as we could see the yellow arrows painted on pavement, signs and curbs to guide us out of the city. I have  walked this way before and I remembered these places..

We passed the modern church and wondered why the woman holding the chalice and host in one hand  is blindfolded. We visited the small road side chapel and well of "living water"  where the drowning boy was saved by his mother's  pleas to Jesus. We walked across the countryside and farm land and into the rolling hills and then into the mountains. I walked quietly. I listened to the stories around me, the stories of heartaches, infidelity, abuse, alcoholism,   divorce,   addictions,  loss of children and parents and siblings...I carried all this for awhile until I could listen no more and I pushed ahead by myself.  I entered an oak forest. A fence ran alongside the trail. Woven into the fence were crosses....big and little.  I wanted to place my own cross there, but there were so many crosses there was no room to add new ones.  I wanted to build a new fence so I could make more crosses. With no materials available I  hung the sorrows  I heard on the crosses that were already there.    Then I thought of all of my friends at home who have followed my journey with Parkinson's.  I said their (your) names and saw their (your) faces and hung their (your) sorrows on those crosses.

As the trail joined the highway I said  goodbye to the sorrows. It was good to leave all the pain behind. Out in the sunshine now I turned my thoughts to the joys and celebrations and births and graduations and anniversaries. I thought of how much I love  Charlie and Luke  and Loren and Maryhelen  and Laura  and her beautiful Mariska and how much I miss my dad  and my mom.  I was sobbing in joy and relief when I walked into Rabinal with Karen.  Janet and Mary Jo and Deb and  other friends I met along the way were  there to greet  me.   It was a most amazing day.
 I wrote on the Facebook note  "I am spent and full and  empty all at once."

Fences keep things in.  Fences keep things out.  But not me.  I can climb over. 

C minus (almost) 3 but who is counting...why am I posting ridiculous things about Maryhelen?

My  friend  Maryhelen has posted some unusual happenings as of late. A skunk attack while she was hiking, an uninvited bear visit to the community of Fossil. These give me fodder for fun. You see,  Maryhelen and have shared some interesting and challenging  life events. And we have a mutual history  going back to our childhood  that was not identified until we were adults.  Some of the history of our friendship has been based in deeply spiritual encounters, and some has been etched into our lives as  pure mischievous, practical jokes and play, not to exclude water fights and a pink bunny squirt gun.

When I saw the Facebook picture of the "league of adventurous women" my imagination started running wild. The fodder became fuel.   I remember a card Maryhelen sent me picturing a woman trick rider at a rodeo in maybe the 1920's.  From that time on I thought of us as the "Godmothers of the Rodeo." There was a trip to Seaside when, upon  discovering the bar at the Shilo Inn was closed because of a special visitor, a  certain Tricia did a sheik imitation and Maryhelen and I were her bodyguards.  Flying out of Rome in first class on Air Aitalia we chose to rewrite the script to the "Three Musketeers" movie and annoy the passengers who paid for first class with our hysterical storyline.  

Life connections come  through many different avenues. I had just met Maryhelen through Diosesean church activities when we saw each other at her "aunt" and my "godmothers " funeral in Walla Walla. Loretta often mentioned taking me to Fossil to ride Arabian horses with her nieces. So it took me until October 1994 to trailer my paint horse to the Dusty Saddle Ranch and ride with Maryhelen, mounted on a grey Arabian, probably a descendent of the horses she and her sisters rode as kids.

Sitting on the steps outside the church in Medjugorje, Bosnia-Herzegovina, the church of St James, we shared deep personal stories of giving, receiving and letting go. We joined thousands of people from around the world kneeling in prayer so powerful that some souls were physically overcome as Satan left them kicking and screaming in the losing battle against the Holy Spirit. 

We walked daily from our lodging in a visionary's home to the church of St James, praying and playing.

And in a few days we will walk on another path, west towards the Cathedral of St James. We will walk as far as Maryhelen has time.  And then, another year she will return to sit on the steps of church of St James. Santiago de Compostela.

I laughed hysterically looking for the pictures of the wing walking women. It took my mind away from wondering which clothes to discard in order to make my pack lighter or if i calculated the correct amount of medications I would need for the trip. Or if I was going to really catch the commuter flight into Pendleton after flying  Madrid to Frankfurt to Portland and going through customs and passport control.  

Laughter is so good for the soul. It washes away anxieties and fears and worries of our ineptness. Thanks Maryhelen for allowing me to poke some fun at you.  It's all pure fun. You know I'm not actually a crazed lunatic setting you up to do rolls in a crop duster. And I know that if I ever was to reach a breaking point, you would put me back together with duct tape and bailing string and all would be well.

Wednesday Thursday and then Friday we fly.

C minus 6 But who is counting.

The last couple of weeks I have met many new Camino friends.  Women who set out solo or in pairs to walk the same path of the Camino Frances in early September have made connections with each other through Buddy System on the Camino,  APOC and the Portlandia Chapter of APOC.   Interesting how you can start online conversations trying to figure out which train to take because none seem to go where you want to go, or you make a post on  someones question about toe socks and end up feeling like life long friends.  I wonder if I will come across the walkers I've met online. They hail from Victoria BC, Saint Paul, MN, Vancouver, WA, Portland, OR, Australia and places I have forgotten.  Who will I meet in Paris,  Bayonne, Saint Jean Pied de Port, Ronscesvailles, Pamplona or other points along the way. The people, that is what the Camino has become for me.Their stories.  What they will carry.  What they will leave at  home.  What they will leave on the Camino,  And what makes their hearts beat.

A friend I actually met on the Camino in 2012 is  walking this fall.  ,,, Jennifer de la Riva.... a different path.  In response to her blog post tonight I wrote this...

The pilgrim paths I tread have felt the pounding of millions of heart beats. From ancient times to present days the rhythms remain unchanged.  Fast heartbeats when the path leads to acceleration and quick change and heavy heartbeats when the path leads to slow discernment.   The heartbeats  intertwine and murmur their secrets until they are known by all the Ways to Santiago.   Your Way knows mine.  My Way knows yours.   We walk different paths yet share the same Way,,, heartbeats of the Camino de Santiago.  I will carry your intentions in my heart.

I will carry you all in my heart.


My designated walking buddies are:
Maryhelen
Carol
Ann

I will try to interview them for their perspectives on walking the Camino de Santiago.