Women's March Speech

My speech from today’s Woman’s March.

I want to thank each of you for coming out tonight. It's been a long hard row. We've gone through a brutal campaign filled with vitriol, misogyny and racism. And for many of us the election of our newest president has only underscored those things.

But regardless of who won we've all been witness to a degree of brutality that had never been a part of a presidential race before this time.

We can't unsee the mocking gestures made. We can't unhear the ugly comments made about people of color, the LGBTQ community, Muslims, immigrants and others.

We can't unhear those things but we can choose to not let those words and actions cloud our vision of America. How we create the United States of America in our own families, in our own communities. We get to choose how we live out the noble ideals of our nation.

No president makes a nation. We do.

And we are choosing healing tonight. We are choosing to rise above the rhetoric of hate. We are choosing to speak the language of love.

We are here because we believe that when we gather in community, that's where healing happens. Not in isolation, not hiding behind labels of who's in or out. But in community.

A new era begins tonight. A new testing of our nation and what makes us strong. These are uncertain times but let us remember in the words of Gunilla Norris:

Each of us can make a difference.

Politicians and visionaries will not return us

to the sacredness of life.

That will be done by ordinary men and women

who together or alone can say,

Remember to breathe, remember to feel,

remember to care,

let us do this for our children and ourselves

and our children's children.

Let us practice for life's sake.

So let us go forth now. Practicing , for life's sake the art of being kind, of reaching across borders, of building bridges of hope not walls of divisiveness.

Let the healing begin now. let us remember that

"We must accept finite disappointment but never lose infinite hope." --Martin Luther

Parker Palmer states

“I continue to harbor the hope

that this political season of our discontent

will help us think more clearly and deeply

about who we are as a people.”

And I would add to then do the work to heal our nation

This is not about who won or lost

This is about who we will choose to be

As a nation going forward.

In the words of poet, David Whyte:

“This is not

the age of information.

This is not

the age of information.

Forget the news,

and the radio,

and the blurred screen.

This is the time of loaves

and fishes.

People are hungry,

and one good word is bread

for a thousand.”

I hope you will join me in sharing the loaves and fishes of hope and peace and justice and love.

And that way, no matter which candidate has won, we all win. May it be so.

What now?

Nov 13 2016

Tonight I was honored to speak at a city wide rally held to find hope in the wake of this contentious election. Many of us were stunned by the results, not because a certain “political party” won but because it seems as if something darker, more insidious gained the upper hand: hatred, xenophobia, racism, sexism, homophobia. Below are the words I shared at the rally.

Over these past five days I've run the gamut of emotions. I have felt the icy finger of fear, I have baptized myself over and over again in the salty tears of grief, I have felt the steely resolve of anger and defiance.

But today, as I speak to you now, what I'm feeling is hope. What I'm feeling is pride. What I'm feeling is a fierce happiness that we are all here.
Because that means we have remembered.
We have remembered that no president makes a nation; we have remembered that we have a choice.
We have a choice in how we will respond; we have a choice in how we will step up, and reach out, and speak out, and show up for justice.

We have remembered that an army of lovers is always stronger than the forces of hate.
We have remembered that we are stronger together than apart.

A safety pin brigade might seem kinda silly to some. It might seem as if wearing a safety pin gives us a pass from action. But that's not true.
What this pin does is send out a signal of solidarity to all of us in marginalized groups. It sends out a message of loyalty and commitment to the cause of justice.
It sends out a warning to those who would seek to harm or demean our kinfolk who are people of color or queer or disabled or women or Muslims or refugees or seeking asylum here or the indigenous folks and allies who are protecting our water and land and climate; it's a warning that says not on our watch. I don't care whether you hold the highest office in nation or if you are an anonymous citizen you are put on notice that acts of bigotry and intolerance and racism and misogyny and homophobia and xenophobia will not be tolerated. We will act.
We will act not only when we see bigotry in action we will also act in our free time and in the safety of our homes. We will act with our money and with our time by donating and volunteering at organizations such as planned parenthood and the NAACP and the ACLU and the Southern Poverty Law Center.
We will be upstanders and not just bystanders. We will be upstanders who show up and actively work for the safety and rights of the oppressed and not just bystanders who sing kumbaya and flash the peace sign.

So I'm happy today. I'm proud of us. I'm fiercely determined to enact and embody what this safety pin means.
It's not just a symbol. It's a commitment to action.
I know the grieving isn't over, the anger hasn't faded away, the shock and panic still reside in my gut. But I also now know this. I am not alone. And neither are you.
And together we can use our grief and anger as catalysts to create a community here in Colorado Springs and across this nation where peace and justice are the bywords, love is the path we travel, and safety and freedom is the common birthright of all our citizens.

So as we march let us affirm the inherent worth and dignity of every person. This is not a protest march where we let the oppression be the focus. This is an affirmation parade where all can be welcomed and affirmed. This is is diversity stroll where we will celebrate all of who we are.

The Morning After

I wasn’t in Colorado when Amendment 2 passed, though I remember hearing about it and watching with interest as the results rolled in on election night. I was positive it wouldn’t pass. Surely the good people of my home state would not vote to embed  homophobic bigotry and intolerance into the State Constitution.

The next morning I read with disbelief that, while Colorado had passed legislation protecting bears, that had also passed Amendment 2, taking protection away from their LGBTQ citizens.  Safe in the comfort of my apartment in Long Beach, CA, living, as I did, on the cusp of the Gay Corridor there, I was astounded.

Indeed, it was precisely because of the passage of Amendment 2 that I felt the strong call to go to the heart of the “hate state” as it was then known when the pulpit of Pikes Peak Metropolitan Community Church became open. As a queer minister in a queer denomination, I felt passionate about going to

my own marginalized people in Colorado Springs and being a voice of hope and justice and love and acceptance. A voice in the wilderness, calling, if you will, “prepare ye the way of Love.”

When folks asked me why I would want to go to a place where intolerance had been legalized, where tax-paying citizens were being denied their full and equal place at the table, I would always say two things. First, I would say, Dorothy Day said go where you’re least wanted because there you’re

most needed. Then I would add, and if I have to combat Nazi fundamentalism, at least it will be in a scenic place.

What struck me most was how demoralized the queer community was in Colorado Springs. New congregants and friends struggled to tell me about how it felt, the morning after the election, to wake up and realize that half of their neighbors thought they didn’t deserve equal rights; that half of their

state decided their rights didn’t matter. They told me how it impacted how they moved their days. Wondering did the nice clerk at the store vote to take away my rights? Did my co-worker? Some people they didn’t have to wonder about because they were actively, ardently vocal in the support of Amendment 2. Some of my friends, closeted at the time, had to endure conversations with not only co-workers, but with family members and friends who were also quite vocal in their support of Amendment 2. Some of my friends, loudly and proudly out also had to endure those conversations with families and friends.

It was a dark time in the history of Colorado, and of Colorado Springs. Ultimately the US Supreme Court overthrew Amendment 2, rightly calling it unconstitutional.

Many things have changed since then. I made the transition to being a Unitarian Universalist minister because my theology and ideology have changed to be more inclusive than believing true religion is one god, one savior. My son, who was born in the midst of Amendment 2’s  long weary journey to the SCOTUS is a grown man now, 21 years old, his own ideas and beliefs having been forged in the fire of this conservative town in which we live. And yet, today, I awoke feeling much the same as my friends did on that November morning in 1992.

With the election of Donald Trump as president, I feel that sense of demoralization, only on a national scale. Not only is Trump completely unqualified for the position of leader of the free world, not only has his campaign been littered with the victims of his hate speech—so many bodies that the New York Times devoted a full two page spread listing the groups of peoples and individuals he has insulted, demeaned, and just plain lied about, not only is his impulse control so poor that his own campaign had to take away hisTwitter account to stop him from those 3 AM tweets that said Saturday Night Live should be taken off the air because they made fun of him, not only did he dismiss his talk about sexually assaulting women as just "locker room talk"-- which caused he has made a mockery of this campaign process and faced the most qualified person to run for president and he still won.

Half the people of this nation said, essentially, “We’d rather have a man with no experience who blatantly lies about virtually everything than a woman with 30 years of experience in actually making a difference in people’s lives. We’d rather elect a man who has active criminal and civil cases pending than a woman who used a personal email server while serving as Secretary of State." It doesn’t matter that the Republicans spent millions of our dollars investigating her and found no wrong-doing; it doesn’t matter that Republicans serving in that position did the same thing; hell George W, Bush "lost" 22 million emails when he was president without any consequences--but that doesn't matter, either.

And worse, they say, we want a man who wants to build a wall on the border of our neighbors to south, who wants to deport all Muslims—or at the very least have them registered (how very Hitler-esque), he will overturn the marriage equality the SCOTUS gave us, and this isn’t mentioning the people he’s mocked—the disabled, the veterans, the poor saps who actually pay their federal income tax.

And this is why I spent the morning crying. Not because of Trump’s ineptitude but because half of my neighbors voted for him, knowing how racist and misogynist and xenophobic he is. Half of my neighbors—including family members and friends—voted for him knowing that he wants to take away my place at America’s table. People who I love, and people I don’t know said, essentially, “we don’t care about your rights or your safety, or the rights and safety of so many disenfranchised citizens. We’re going to vote for him because—“ well, frankly, I’m still trying to suss that one out. The only reason I can think of is that there was an "R" by his name on the ballot or that he pees standing up and Clinton does not, Certainly, research showed that hostility to women was linked most closely to those who chose to vote for Trump. Clearly, Clinton has been raked over the coals throughout her long history of public service for daring to think she could inhabit what had previously only been men-only space. Certainly, even when fact-checkers showed Clinton’s inherent trustworthiness while noting Trump’s consistent stream of lies, people adamantly refused to be moved. Their minds were made up; no need to confuse them with the truth.

At the end of day, yesterday, on, ironically, what would have been Dorothy Day’s 99^th birthday, our nation decided to go with the candidate that rejects a significant portion of our population,myself

included. In fact, he only seems to embrace those who look just like him—white, straight, successful with a bland form of Christianity that bears no resemblance to Jesus.

I’m at a loss. My son, Sam, wisely counseled me and others with his early morning facebook video today. I’ve watched it twice; it’s a message I need to hear. And it’s a message I want to pass on to each of you: You are beautiful, you are worthy of love, and I am here for you. Tomorrow I will dry my eyes, gather with colleagues and friends and others who still believe we can change the world.

Tomorrow I will once again pick up the gauntlet of justice and equality and human dignity. On Sunday, I will preach a message of hope going forward in the wake of the election; it is a sermon I wrote on Monday, before knowing these results. Tomorrow I will recall again Dorothy Day's wise words and the wise words of Unitarian minister Theodore Parker from an 1853 sermon, quoted by both Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and President Barack Obama:  "I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc is a long one. My eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by experience of sight. I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends toward justice."

I will do all that tomorrow; I promise.

Today, I grieve. I grieve for myself and for all of us whose lives have been discounted and devalued by this election; and I grieve for our nation that has shown us how deeply the divide of racism and sexism cuts.

Tomorrow, I will work to eradicate that. I hope you will join me.

Nori, At the End of the World

Camino Day 38

Yesterday, I travelled to the end of the world. It was a short bus drive away. Who knew that it was so close?

Yesterday, I travelled the “rest” of the Camino, the part reserved for die-hard pilgrims for whom the majestic cathedral in Santiago was not enough. I travelled along the a costa da Morte, the Death Coast, so named for the multitudinous ship wrecks that have happened in these often stormy waters off the coast of Galicia.

The end of the world, the death coast, is, as it turns out, beautiful.

Most pilgrims end their journey at the Cathredral in Santiago de Compostela but a few hardy ones go an extra 89 km (55 miles) to Finisterre which does, indeed, mean the end of the world in Latin. It was so named because when the Romans reached this finger pointing out to the horizon of limitless water, and, believing that the world was flat, after all, they thought they had done it!! Reached the end of the world, beyond that vast expanse of blue, they figured, was a giant waterfall spilling endlessly into infinity.

Of course, now we know, as Cris,  the helpful tour guide to the end of the world, told us that directly across the water from where we stood was Boston, MA. Known to us Unitarian Universalist as the Alpha and Omega; the beginning and end of the world. 

It really was an amazing day, though, and I’m glad I took the time to do the tour. I often think of bus tours as cheesy for some reason. I do happen to live in a tourist attraction (Colorado Springs: home to Garden of the Gods, America’s Mountain, and, now, legal weed!) and so I’ve see tour buses go by, so that might be part of the reason for my bias, but really, I love doing tour buses. And every time I do I learn so much about the area through which I’m traveling and gain a deeper respect for the region, the terrain, the people that live there.

Yesterday was no different. We traveled first to Muxia,(Spain, not China, despite what Facebook might say) which is where the final scene of the Camino was shot in the movie, “The Way.” For those of you who haven’t seen it, “the Way” was written and directed by Emilio Estevez and starred his dad, Martin Sheen, playing, well, his dad. In the movie, Emilio dies on the first day of the Camino and his dad decides to walk it and spread his ashes along the way. It’s a great movie. Anyway, it ends in Muxia which is this tiny little village with a beautiful coast. The waves were crashing majestically (see pics from yesterday on fb) and I realized again how very much I miss ocean. There is something about the crashing waves, the roar of the surf, the hypnotic drawing in and out of the tide that I think must be very close to what we feel in utero, as we lie still and trusting in amniotic bliss. Maybe this is why the oceans always calls to me; it speaks of new beginnings, birth and rebirth, and the trust in the universe to care and nurture for me.

From there we went to Finisterre. I was pleased to find that some of my tiny Camino family were there, as well. Natalie and Laura, and Laura’s 22 year old son, Daniel. I felt such a sense of familiarity when I got on the bus and saw them. And it was nice for all of us, I’m sure, to be seen in mufti as opposed to our Camino gear, and not sweating (well, okay, I sweated. Even in shorts and a tank top with no back pack. I’m a sweater; it’s who I am. I own it.)

At Finisterre, we all had our pictures taken with the iconic Camino cement mile marker showing 0.0 as the official end of the Way. And as I stood out on the bluff overlooking the ocean, as near to the end of the world as I could get, I understood why the Romans felt that way. Looking out at the ocean and seeing only the deep, deep blue (and in Galicia, where I completely lucked out with very sunny weather, but whose normal weather is rain and storms) it would be easy to think you were at the end of the line. Where else would there be to go? And now what, once you’ve reached here?

We stopped at a couple of other places on the way back, including the only river in continental Europe who joins the ocean as a waterfall. And though it was not as far out as Finisterre, that had an end of the world feeling to it, as well. It pours forth over a cliff of rocks and enters the Atlantic Ocean gustily, with a certain sense of bravado.  (Again, see pics on fb yesterday) I stood where a finger of the river was pouring into the ocean, though not as forcefully as the main body of it. Enchanted, I dipped my hand into the water as it poured over the rocks, just before it joined the sea; it was fresh water, no salt. I was fascinated by that. By how once it joined the Atlantic, it’s whole DNA would be overwhelmed with the vast body of water it had been pledged to since its birth as a stream somewhere high above the sea. 

Fresh water, salt water, just a few rocks separating them.

As we drove back to Santiago, I thought about the river and the sea, the pilgrim and the Way; the way we our changed in our sojourn on this earth; none of can escape that fact.

Jamie, another pilgrim friend, reminded me that there is a saying that the Camino begins when it ends; the journey does go ever on. Once you think you’ve reached the end of the world, you find a new world, or a new path to walk upon. And so it goes.

Of course, there’s more to write about this Camino I’ve been on, more insights, miscellany about the mundane events of every day, but I will save that for another time.

It seems fitting that I should end this post from the end of the world with one of the first poems David Whyte shared in his workshop that led me here.

 FINISTERRE by David Whyte

The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken,

into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you

as you stood where ground turned to ocean:

no way to your future now but the way your shadow could take,

walking before you across water, going where shadows go,

no way to make sense of a world that wouldn’t let you pass

except to call an end to the way you had come,

to take out each frayed letter you had brought

and light their illumined corners;

and to read them as they drifted on the late western light;

to empty your bags; to sort this and to leave that;

to promise what you needed to promise all along,

and to abandon the shoes that brought you here

right at the water’s edge, not because you had given up

but because now, you would find a different way to tread,

and because, through it all, part of you would still walk on,

no matter how, over the waves.

 

 

Journey of a Lifetime

Camino Day 37 

After 36 days of walking almost 800km of trails, roads, tracks, and stone, I walked into Santiago de Compostela late yesterday morning and made my way through the bustling modern city to the historic district where the vast Cathedral loomed. I found it ironic that I couldn’t see the cathedral from the hill overlooking the city; I actually had to walk almost all the way to its doors before it was even visible at all.
I was feeling a little rushed because I wanted to make the noon Pilgrim’s Mass and reminded myself to slow down and pay attention to this moment. I had started out in plenty of time for the final nine miles, leaving at 815 AM but soon after heading out, I ran into Laura, a woman from Florida who I met and walked with a few times in the final week. Although we had both travelled from St. Jean Pied-de-Port starting at about the same time, we never really ran into one another until after Sarria. 
At any rate, I felt it was good to chat with her for awhile as we made our final stage of the Camino. Natalie, another woman I had met, who was also part of Laura's "Camino family," also joined us. It was a good conversation, but I noticed that my pace had slowed considerably. Instead of arriving at a roomy 1115 am, I was now looking at an ETA of 1145. That was cutting it close so I said goodbye and picked up my pace, walking the rest of the way in solitude and silence.
As I have said, during the last few days of the Camino, I had been feeling nostalgic for the journey which was almost at an end. I had, it seemed, fallen in love with the Camino, with everything about it: the challenge, the beauty, the intimate connection with tree and stone and flower and wind, the flirtatious horizon that kept coyly beckoning me on. 

How was I to leave all this?

I had finally taken the time to get to know my body, as well: my feet and legs, where pain liked to dwell-- where it would be sharp and where it would be suffuse, the way my sweat pooled and rolled down my face and neck.

And so, I had, in some ways, been dreading this final day, this final homage to the Way. And yet, I found as I walked yesterday that I was content, at peace. It was right. It was the right time to end this pilgrimage. I knew that today I would be taking a bus tour of the coast of Spain, including Muxia, Ezaro, Carnota, and Finisterre: the End of the World. I found I was not at all disappointed to be taking a day long bus tour rather than taking four more days to walk!

So I felt that yesterday was a good ending, a completion. I got to the Cathedral with 10 minutes to spare, and, although there was standing room only, I didn’t mind. I stood for the hour long service, all in Spanish. A priest gave the homily in a gentle, kind voice. When it was time for communion, the only message given in several languages was given: You cannot receive the host unless you are a baptized Catholic. I wasn’t invited to the table, so I left at that point. It was a sweet service and though I did get misty-eyed a few times looking around at the ornate beauty of the church and realizing I had really made it here, I wasn't feeling particularly moved. 
There was one final thing I needed to do to officially complete the Camino. I had to find the Ofice de Peregrin@ and get my Compostela, my certificate of completion. In ancient times this was given for the pilgrim to take back to their local priest as proof of completion so that their penance or indulgence was noted. 
Adding just the perfect sense of rightness, as I rounded the corner to where the office was, there was Miriam, my Flemish friend and her group. They had just gotten their compostelas and even as we hugged and posed for one last picture, their bus arrived to take them to the airport. One more minute and I would have missed her.
While I had I stood in the long line of pilgrims awaiting their Compostela I got a lump in my throat, thinking of what an incredible journey this time had been, the experiences I have had. 

Last spring, as I was preparing for this Camino, my girlfriend said, “I wonder how your brother will show up for you on this path.”
I wondered, too. My decision to go on this pilgrimage was directly related to Erik and to his suicide, and how that had shattered my world. I had gone to hear the poet David Whyte speak on the subject of Solace: Asking the Beautiful Questions in Life’s Dark Times, solely as a means of trying to make some sense of the unimaginable grief I felt, and when Whyte spoke of the Camino de Santiago, and grief as a sort of pilgrimage, I numbly wondered if that might be something I could do as well.
And truthfully, Erik has been with me every step of this Way. Some days I would feel his presence walking with me. I think walking this Camino is something he would have loved to have been able to do. Sometimes I could almost hear his wry voice and his deadpan  sense of humor. Sometimes, I just time-travelled to earlier, happier days, revisiting some of my favorite memories of him; often tears would well up in my eyes, though I laughed aloud, as well, at some of the memories.
I thought, as I shuffled along in the steady but slow moving line, about how delicate life is, how a single action in one moment can forever altar the history as yet unwritten, how the ringing of a phone can be a herald of devastation and yet, also, how we can find the beautiful questions in life’s darkest times, if we look. The Camino had certainly shown me that.
As I neared the Compostela office, I noticed a sign advertising an additional document that would state the number of kilometers walked and the start and end dates of the Camino for €3. 
Obviously, I would get that, too!
When it was my turn, I approached the agents behind the desk, gave them my pilgrim’s passport so they could verify I had, indeed, walked from SJPP to Saniago de Compostela. The agent, a young man, who seemed to be training an older woman, asked where I was from. I said the US and the woman said she was from Georgia. We smiled at that, and the man asked if I wanted the additional document. I said yes, and then added, “If I pay for two, can I have one in my brother’s name. I walked this partly because of him.”
The man explained that they could only issue the documents in the name of the person who actually walked, but they could write in memory of the person on it, if I wished. 

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak, because tears were pouring silently down my face. I was overcome with emotion at my pilgrimage and my brother’s own shortened journey and I.could.not.stop.crying. 
The agent gave me a piece of paper; I wrote down Erik’s name, and waited while he added that to the Compostela and then rolled both into a cardboard tube for safekeeping. The woman from Georgia reached out and grasped my hand. “It’s beautiful what you did,” she said, her US southern voice sounding both incongruous and comforting. 
I could only nod, as the tears were still streaming down my face. I took my tube of documents and went outside where I found a quiet place. It was a few minutes before I could pull myself together.
Finally, I walked back out into the sunshine, the heat of the day, and made my way down the crowded streets filled with vendors, peregrin@s, tourists, and townsfolk. 

I carried the Compostela of completion. This Camino is over but in my heart I carry the journey itself, and that will never end. Neither, I know, will my grief; that, too is a pilgrimage that will wind its way down whatever terrain my future takes. And that’s okay. That's how it should be. There will always be beautiful questions to ask of it. 

Suddenly, I smiled. So, that's it. I thought to myself. 

According to my Certificate of Completion, I had walked 775km. 480.5 miles. A seven hour drive. A 36 day walk. A journey of a lifetime. 

Somehow We Get There

Camino Day 35

I am experiencing one of those (not too) rare moments of cognitive dissonance when outside reality tells me something must be true but inside it feels completely impossible; tomorrow morning I will walk the final 8+ miles to Santiago. I will leave Amenal, my final stopping point on this pilgrimage, around 815 so that I can arrive in plenty of time to make the daily Pilgrim’s Mass at 12 noon.

I confess, I feel a certain sense of nostalgia, already, a poignant sense of loss. These past few days I have gotten very verklempt at the idea of this journey coming to an end; it has made me once again reconnect to the trees, the flowers, the fields that grow next to my Way, the rocks underfoot.  

In some regard, this is very similar to the way I felt when my son, Sam, turned 18. I was suddenly panicked as I realized he had, as they used to say, reached the age of majority. I realized my definition as mom was going to change. I frantically thought back over the first 18 years of his life: had I hugged him enough? Had I told him I loved him enough? Had I shown him I loved him enough? Did I do the best I could to prepare him for this next step for both of us? Wait! I wanted to shout out to the Universe, This has gone much faster than it should! I still need time to read to him before bed, to carry him sleeping from the car after a long day.

Of course, the chance for that was gone. I had to content myself, to make peace with myself in accepting that it was what it was. 

And the same is true for this pilgrimage. I have had moments of panic as I realize it’s drawing to a close. Have I learned what I need to learn? Have I experienced what I need to experience. Again,I want to shout to the Universe, Wait! This has gone much faster than it should! I am not quite done experiencing all this.

And yet I must be, right? Because I have less than 15km to go. I was thinking yesterday about this long journey, this short experience and the lessons learned. I wryly remembered the ridiculous old joke: why did the chicken cross the road?

I thought, that’s what this can be classified as: why did the peregrina cross Northern Spain? To get to the other side.

And I knew in my bones it was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

To get to the other side not just geographically, but metaphysically as well. The terrain I’ve crossed, the blisters (three) I’ve gotten, the pain I’ve experienced and the strength I’ve gained, have not been experienced merely in the physical realm.  I have crossed a span of not just miles but milestones.

A few days ago I posted some pics that seemed to show dueling Camino yellow arrows. Some signs (official, concrete signs) seemed to point left and some seemed to point right. What was a peregrin@ to do? 

Luckily, a new friend I had met on the Camino, Masha, from Russia, had told me about this cool app called maps.me. It is an amazingly accurate GPS app that doesn’t’ require cellular or wifi connections to work. I just have to type in the name of the hotel and specific walking and it not only shows me the route, but also gives an ETA. Hah! That is based on an 18 minute mile which I haven’t attained, even on a good day. My average is about 2.95 miles an hour—which does include photo stops. Still, it is useful when I come upon these mixed messages. 

After I saw the first one of these, the day before yesterday, I was musing on how this was Camino 2.0. Now that I had learned to follow the signs, I was being asked to interpret them. Would I go left or right? Would I trust the pilgrims I could see ahead of me on one path or take the other? 

Ultimately, honestly, I would look at maps.me and scale it so I could see the road to come not just right where I was, and follow that. I thought of the wisdom of spiritual leader Abaham. Hicks, who has said, any path is good.You cannot get it wrong, Abraham says, so just choose!

And that was a great metaphor for a few hours. Then I ran into a woman I had walked with several days earlier. Miriam, a Flemish woman from Belgium, and I had had a great conversation last Friday but then we parted ways and I hadn’t seen her since.

Suddenly, on Wednesday, there she was!! It was so great to see her. She told me she had gotten an infection in a toe nail and had had to take buses the past four days. She was traveling with a group and so couldn’t just stay on her own to heal. She was as excited to see me as I was to see. She said, “It gives me energy seeing you again!”

We walked along again. She was with a group of 13 Flemish peregrin@s who had begun in Astorga. At one point, she pointed to a man about my age—we had been crossing paths for several days—and said, “he is our group leader!.”

So then the three of us fell in together and the leader (whose name I didn’t get!) told me that the confusing signs were due to the fact that the Camino de Santiago had been given historical, cultural standing (much like my church, All Souls, in Colorado Springs, Co, has been given recognition as a State Historical Society) but in order to keep that recognition the province of Galicia had to restore the Camino to its original route. Evidently, over the past 1000+ years, there have been changes made; shortcuts, perhaps, or accommodations to modern life and the Way has subtly shifted. The tour leader said that they finished re-vamping the route just last year.

He also said that this added 8km to the Galician part of the Camino!! I knew it!!!! But, at any rate, it is true to its core now.

I thought, then, about how easy it is, through the years, to get slightly off center, to let the beliefs of others, or the things we tell ourselves, lead us, slowly, almost imperceptibly, away from the core of who we are. And how good it is to stop, every now and again, to get our bearings, to find our true north, to see where we need to make course corrections, to get back to the road that leads to our center, to our core.

This Camino has certainly been a way for me to do that. And to recognize, as well, that all roads will eventually get us there. Some may be longer, some may be more scenic.

Today, I came across a Spanish family at just such a crossroads. Here was an “official” sign pointing left and here was an equally official sign pointing right. There was much consternation in this family, as they tried to determine the right way. I showed them my maps.me page which said to go right. They were not convinced. I wished them Buen Camino and went to the right (one of the few times I will admit that!!!) Not far up the road, I saw where both options now converged. Both worked, it’s just that one was more true to the core. 

But somehow we get there, as Melissa Ferrick reminds us. We just have to get going, to keep forgiving ourselves for our missteps, to keep relying on grace—Grace given freely to us from ourselves, from others, from those who love us, and those who will never know us but wish us Buen Camino, Good Journey, blessings, blessings, love love, love, more love, Mas amor, por favor. And somehow, we get there, no matter how far—500 miles or 50 or the distance between a thought and a healing. 

And tomorrow: Santiago. And the next day? Well, we’ll see.   

Confessions of a "True" Pilgrim

Camino Day 32

Today there was a marked change in how I experienced the Camino. I knew it was coming and tried to prepare myself as best as possible. This morning I left from Sarria, which is the port of entry for folks wanting to earn a Compostela—or certificate of completion—for the Camino by traveling the shortest distance possible. In order to get a Compostela, you need to show you have walked at least the last 100 km to Santiago de Compostela. Sarria, at a distance of 112km away is perfect for that and the town has clearly made that a successful tourist industry. Consequently, whereas heretofore I had enjoyed long stretches of solitary walking, interspersed with short pleasant periods of conversations with other pilgrims, today I would find myself swamped on all sides with fresh pilgrims, many of them young and traveling in groups, as well as couples and friends of all ages and from all around the world.

My trusty guidebook had tried to prepare for this inevitability. In fact, it had even shared this sage bit of wisdom with me: 

"Note to 'seasoned' pilgrims: Beware of signs of irritation at the intrusion on 'my' Camino--remember that many of the new arrivals may be nervous starting out and the last thing they need is aloofness built on a false sense of superiority. A loving pilgrim welcomes all they meet along the path with an open mind and an open heart... Without judgment." 

So this morning, as I arose and did my morning preparations (which consists of taping the balls of my feet with paper medical tape and using KT tape on my heels, as well as the normal morning ablutions I do, regardless of where I am) I tried to mentally picture the difference and imagine what it would feel like. Perhaps a little nervous of what this day might bring, I scarfed down a breakfast of bread and ham, with a side of mixed fruit (in another blog, I’ll talk about the food on the Camino) and hit the road at 815—which is early for me.

Sure enough, I had barely stepped into the street when I was joined by throngs of fresh-faced, energetic, noisy pilgrims. 

Almost instantly I forgot my best intentions but I soldiered on, actually churning along at a pretty good clip, hopeful that I could soon outdistance the new pack and find some peace. This plan was hampered by a) having to start by going up a really steep hill, and b) no matter how far ahead I got of one group, there was another still in front of me to surpass.

It wasn’t even 9 AM and sweat was pouring off my head and down my face and neck. Making matters worse, it seemed as if a lot of the new peregrin@s were American, which meant I could understand what they were saying and, inadvertently and unwillingly eavesdrop on what I can only classify as insipid conversation. I mean, seriously--- did they have to come on this sacred path for this?

Yes, yes, I prayed this morning, as I do each day, that I would see what I need to see, hear what I need to hear, know what I need to know, and say what I need to say. But did I really need to hear the latest about the mutual friend of the two young college students behind me? And seriously, there was a man my age wearing black slacks and a clergy collar! I mean, really! Why on earth would you feel the need to identify as clergy while walking the Camino? Time and again, I had to reign in my judgement, my resentment, my irritability at “my” Camino being taken over by these upstarts who clearly didn’t have the stamina to go the whole distance and therefore had no idea what a Camino really was.

Then, thankfully, the better angels of my nature took over, and reminded me to feel compassion for those just starting out, to remember that there were a lot of reasons they were starting in Sarria rather than at St. Jean Pied-de-Port. I was older than many of them and I had more resources and help in getting to the starting point at SJPP than they did. Maybe they took all the time off they had to do these next five or six days. And for them, this was everything.

I began to feel compassion rather than criticism toward the newcomers. And I realized it reminded me of something else I am currently experiencing on Facebook.

We’ve had some tragic times in the United States over this summer, most recently the completely unjustified shooting deaths of two Black men by white police officers, followed by the shooting deaths of five white police officers in Dallas, TX by a Black man who had access (as do we all, tragically, in the USofA) to weapons of mass destruction and who took out his rage and helplessness equally violently by gunning down a dozen police officers, killing five, and wounding 7, including two civilians.

All of this happening so suddenly, one after another, barely gave any of us time to breathe, to mourn, to question, to seek comfort, to seek change.  In the wake of the Dallas shootings, a number of people began to post a well known quote from civil rights prophet and activist, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in which he said, 

“Darkness cannot  drive out darkness;

only light can do that.

Hate cannot drive out hate;

only love can do that.”

That was the basic quote that people, including myself, shared.

I thought as I shared it from a friend who had posted it that this quote summed up such a key root of the violence and destruction that has been so much a part of the fabric of America. I wasn’t thinking only of the white Dallas police officers but of all who have been killed as a result of hate and violence—the African American men and women gunned down or otherwise killed by officers of the law because of a deeply embedded hatred and distrust of the “other,” the horrific shooting at The Pulse night club, all of the acts of violence that seem to be hand stitched into this crazy quilt of our nation.

I saw it, I shared it; I was not alone. And then, just hours later, I saw a reaction from my liberal friends—many, but not all, who have been on the road to racial justice and equality for a long time; many—but not all, who have stood arm in arm with our black brothers and sisters to proclaim boldly that #blacklivesmatter; many—but not all, who, like me, have stood on the front lines of this battle for the lives and wellbeing of our kin of color.

I read one friend’s post that said if you haven’t spoken up about black lives matter you don’t get to quote MLK. Others chimed in similarly saying things such as “just because you quote a black man doesn’t make you not a racist,” and I saw one meme that condescendingly said something to the effect of, “I see you’re taking a MLK quote out of context. Need some help with that?”

I confess, it had me wondering, were my credentials as a white ally and long time activist for racial justice and equality enough to give me a “pass” to quote MLK? And who should I get vetted by? And what if this was my first step into the conversation? Did it make it wrong if I quoted MLK after the shooting deaths of the white police officers? Would it have been okay if I had managed to squeeze it in between the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile?

And who gets control over the words of Dr. King? Or Jesus? Or Gandhi or the Dalai Lama? Who gets to decide who can “legitimately” use them and who gets excoriated if they try?

How long do you have to have been on this pilgrimage toward justice before you can be considered a “true” pilgrim?

I realized today that my resentment and criticism of the new peregrin@s left no room for compassion for how they came to be a part of the Way. When I respond with bitterness there is no openness that allows for the fact that people can step onto the path at many points different from my own, but no less valid, and that my judgment doesn't help propell them closer to the Compostela—the certificate of completion—but rather, puts up stumbling blocks to them getting there at all.

Actually, that quote from Dr. King comes from his 1963 book, Strength to Love, in which his essays point to the need for all of us to undergo a transformation of love. In a review of this book, Coretta Scott King is quoted as saying, "If there is one book Martin Luther King, Jr. has written that people consistently tell me has changed their lives, it is Strength to Love. I believe it is because this book best explains the central element of Martin Luther King, Jr.' s philosophy of nonviolence: His belief in a divine, loving presence that binds all life.”

Frankly, I think those folks who posted this on Facebook in the wake of the Dallas shootings (and we’ll never know if they meant if for all of the violence we see here in the US, but why not believe they did?) is not out of context at all. It speaks exactly to the point Dr. King tried to make, not only in this book, but in his life. The rest of the quote, equally profound, goes on to say:

Hate multiplies hate,

violence multiplies violence,

and toughness multiplies toughness

in a descending spiral of destruction....

The chain reaction of evil --

hate begetting hate,

wars producing more wars --

must be broken,

or we shall be plunged

into the dark abyss of annihilation.

For me, I see this as a cautionary note for those of us who have been on this road for a very long time. I don’t want to be bitter or resentful or critical of those who are just now finding their way onto the path. I want to make room for them. I want to give them course corrections, when they get off base (as in the whole all lives matter movement) but when they quote one of the heroes of my faith and activism, I want to applaud them and show them even more, reveal even more signs of justice that they can follow.

A few days ago, I arrived in the tiny (wifi-free) hamlet of O’Cebriero.  The church here, Santa Maria la Real, dates from the 9th century and is the oldest extant church directly related to the Camino. In this sacred place is the final resting place of Don Elias Valina Sampredo (1929-1989) the parish priest who dedicated his life to restore and preserve the integrity of the Camino, to encourage people to walk this holy way; it was his idea to mark the entire route with the ubiquitous yellow arrow showing the way to all of us pilgrims, guiding us from wherever and whenever we embark upon this path.

It was powerful and gratifying for me to see his tomb, to offer a silent word of thanks for providing signs to show us the way, and for encouraging all of us to walk this way, that it’s never too late to join in, that if (when) we make missteps, there will be other pilgrims to catch us and encourage us, not jeer at our lack of experience, and to set signs to help us remember that, at the end of the day—each and every day, as Ram Dass said, we are all just walking each other home. I guess that’s what makes a true pilgrim, after all.