What we are doing/ what are we doing??

As you likely know, Rachel and I are hiking the Camino de Santiago, or the Chemin de Saint-Jacques, as it is known in France. The many routes of the pilgrimage end in Santiago de Compostuela, Spain. Along the way, pilgrims rest at hostels spaced out for every night. Some towns have been hosting pilgrims for hundreds of years. 

On the first day of the trail, especially as my feet grew sore, I found myself asking... why are we doing this? We flew thousands of miles to Paris, and then took a train to our starting point in central France that covered a greater distance than we will actually walk during the next month (about 500 km). We are walking a trail that was at its height in the 11th and 12th centuries, all because of Jesus' disciple, James, who purportedly failed at evangelizing Spain and returned to Jerusalem. Soon after, he was beheaded by Herod, and his followers sent his bones to Spain in 44 AD. (In a stone boat, and apparently they only took a week to arrive.) Fast forward 250-300 years, and the Church decided to create a pilgrimage destination out of the place his bones were buried, partly to claim Spain from the Moors for Christendom. 

After reviewing the strange history of the Camino (some old bones? A stone boat? Anyone else incredulous?), it seems a little crazy to walk 6 or more hours a day for a month or more because of a saint who was co-opted by the church-state to essentially bless the Crusades. 

On top of that, Rachel and I actually don't expect to reach the destination, Santiago de Compostuela. So, why again?

It's a nice walk. Really, it passes through some beautiful countryside. And thousands of people from around the world (mostly Europe) hike the Camino every year. Many of them do the pilgrimage as a spiritual quest, though not all. 

For me, walking is both a physical and a spiritual exercise. It creates the space and rhythm for a kind of prayer, and it attunes my mind to my body. I usually don't have a lot of patience for prayer, and I don't like working out that much either. I do like walking, though, so I hope a month of it will make me stronger, and by that I mean both my legs and my soul! Maybe this ancient walk will help me to better carry some questions about where I'm going, how to travel through life more simply and with greater trust, and how to embrace both the gifts and risks I sense God preparing me for. 

And I hope that writing about it all will bring a sense of clarity in this work of walking. I'm grateful for the presence of family and friends who share courage and light. I hope I can use this blog to share a little of the journey with you! 

Paris

Bonjour from France! I am now on a bullet train heading to Le Puy, where my sister and i will start the Camino de Santiago tomorrow morning. 

Here is an overview of the week so far:

1.  Instigating a riot. Just kidding. Apparently Parisians are REALLY into their soccer team, because after they qualified for the World Cup, the streets were chaos! The team was supposed to make a public appearance near where Rachel and I were walking to the Eiffel Tower. 

We had no idea why shouting young men were running into the streets, smoke bombs going off, cars honking, motorcycles doing wheelies stopping traffic, etc. Luckily we slipped by the riot police under the Tower before they released tear gas into the crowd. 

2. The Louvre. Loved it. So much more to see (though we did get to see the Mona Lisa!) 'Nuf said. Here is a shot with some famous sisters (behind us).

3. Jet lag. I think I was supposed to be taking in the sights from the river Seine in this picture Rachel stole ;) 

4. Taize. We spent the last three days at  Taize, an ecumenical community in Burgundy that offered hospitality and refuge to Jews and others during WWII. Now the brothers host thousands of young people from all over the world for retreat, reflection on the gospel of peace and reconciliation, and to participate in their contemplative style of prayer through singing. For example: http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=t4Svh-9ohg4&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dt4Svh-9ohg4

It was the perfect place to spend the feast of Pentecost, surrounded as we were by so many different languages. I'm holding onto something Brother Alois said about the Spirit opening us up to go beyond our borders, and trusting in that expansion. 

Feeling rested and ready to start the pilgrimage!

Take care,

Kat

Trust

I was on a plane like this the first time I had a panic attack. 

I bent over to breathe between my knees 

and tears streamed down my face 

as we bulleted ahead at 500 miles per hour. 

It was the Philippines then,

six months committed to an unknown place and people,

35,000 feet above the ground and no turning back. 

It would be one of the best things I ever flew into. 

Now, I hurtle my way into France

and the turbulence over the Atlantic

makes me close my eyes and silently

list all the people I love. 

Do they know I love them?

I pray, "God, I trust You."

With each lurch, "God. God." 

How is it that we throw our lives

so easily at the mercy of the clouds?

Without thinking, I trust my body to this 767, 

triumph of human engineering,

a plastic and metal leaf 

shaking near Greenland now,

tiny bright dot in the dark sky,

with only the promise of an oxygen mask

and a floating seat cushion for comfort. 

I place my trust in computers and in the hands of this pilot,

but humanity is no consolation-

I know the deep exhaustion pilots carry,

the bags under my dad's own eyes. 

Yet he has no struggle with faith

in the mechanical birds he commands,

does not think about the craziness as I do,

just the daily-nightly grind of a job. 

There's a certain peace in function,

in guiding a plane safely home again and again,

the time-tested work and whir

of a million parts lifting and landing together. 

Perhaps that is my only comfort,

my father's faith in flight,

or at least the work of it. 

Stranger

How many times has your face appeared
in strangers' photographs?
Over a shoulder, behind a friend,
or in a crowd looking off, 
unknown and unaware.
Perhaps you are smiling
for a reason they will never know,
forever caught in someone else's memory.

How many facets of your own soul
do you still not know?
You would not recognize yourself,
even if they were lined up and set before you,
so deep and dazzling would they be.
Beautiful stranger, you might murmur,
who you are, God only knows.


-February, 2013