You Are the Salt of the Earth

                                    (AP Photos, John Locher)

A chill wind whistles

through the ice-covered streets.

Salt melts ice, you know,

and those who show up

are surely salty folk ~

well-seasoned by

witness and worry and woe.

They know where they stand,

and how to walk confidently

in slippery conditions,

these unlikely warriors who brandish

salt shakers as swords and

whistling warnings as shields.

A voice cries out

from the frigid alley wilderness:

    Heaven and Hell are here, now!

    You choose.

    Faithful-freeing or fear-filled freezing?

A brown-skinned preacher,

small of stature and mighty of word,

emerges slowly, donning a parka

and taking to the streets.

He has always loved the streets

and the people who dwell there.

They tried to ice him out once before, you know,

way back when he dared to open his arms

to the outcasts and the shamed and the strangers.

Today they just freeze his words into

an icily hardened hollow of hate,

cloaking them in diamond-studded prayer-farce

as they plot their latest chaotic cruelty.

He is so tired of being misquoted.

Weeping as he blesses the bodies, he speaks out clearly:

    Blessed are the peacemakers.

    Blessed are you when they insult you and

    persecute you and falsely say all kinds of

    evil against you because of

    me.

The words bounce off the ground as 

his face slams into the ice.

Shackled and cuffed, he is led away since

he is, of course, undocumented

and saying dangerous things.

Faithful whistles fill the air as

he calls out to his friends:

    If they do these things in the green wood,

    what will happen in the dry?

    DON'T LET THEM! DON'T LET THEM!

    SPILL THE SALT!

Mercy

For Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde

    Everything faded into mist.

    the past was erased,

    the erasure was forgotten,

    the lie became truth.

                                George Orwell, 1984

Some say love it or leave it.

I prefer to stay and fight.

Even as bloodthirsty gods of

perverse patriotic passion

demand - require -

blood sacrifice.

Let her bleed.

Let them bleed.

Let them be afraid as we

burn it to the ground and

recreate it in our own image.

Even as our domestic mirror warps,

shooting back a twisty-rotten reflection

of truth-death,

an amnesia of conscience.

Even as the blubbery god of 

vicious vitriol

slithers back into power,

smothering his victims with

slippery, slanderous slop.

Even as 47 drops of blood splatter on

the bundles of money the billionaire offers.

47 drops of blood will get you a nice new wallet

filled with Monopoly money.

We all know who owns Park Place and 

what they intend to use it for. 

Even as Jesus weeps under

a diamond-studded crucifix.

There a predatory rogues gallery circles up

to surround the woman who is slowly bleeding out.

Cloaked in robes of brownly-reeking double-think,

they spout the twisty truths of the tyrant as

she draws her final breath.

Respect life!

War is peace!

Freedom is slavery!

Love is hate!

Pillaging thugs are heroes!

Let her die.

Let them die.

Let us make them afraid as we burn it all to the ground and

recreate it in our holy image.

But the preacher-woman is not afraid.

She cries MERCY

for the multitudes who are.

Jesus wipes his tears.

Small of stature but

fierce in spirit

she glides past them,

speaking softly and carrying a big stick.

(A lady bishop is probably not what Teddy Roosevelt had in mind,

but there she is.)

Fearless ~

though her stomach churns.

Strong ~

though her legs are suddenly rubbery.

Forceful ~

for she knows who she is:

an open channel for her good friend,

that kindly, brown-skinned prophet from Galilee who

is so weary of being misquoted.

He, who famously said:

Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.

Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.

Give, and it shall be given to you.

Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over...

For the measure you measure with will be

measured back to you.

Woke pabulum, they cry!

Jesus, who learned about irony from

his streetwalker pals,

now starts to laugh as

the bishop slyly grins and

rolls her eyes.

They are not afraid.

They know who they are

and how conversion works,

how to play the long game even

in the cruelest of times,

when a good-troubling arc of justice

eludes.

    A spider's web is stronger than it looks. 

    Although it is made of thin, delicate strands, 

    the web is not easily broken.

                                            E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

Jesus, who's always loved to spin tales,

is not surprised when he spots whimsical spiders

weaving wakeful wonder-signs

just above the tyrant's head

and out the windows

and down the street

and around the nation

and beyond...

For Jesus, who's always cherished kids and their stories,

recognizes that it's Charlotte's namesakes who keep this

wickedly wild web of many colors going,

year after year.

They spin without pause for

they know their time is short,

these wily weavers of truth-telling who

keep hope alive while saving

a few good folks along the way.

Jesus, who's always loved a good laugh,

encourages the Charlottes to

weave the lewdly ludicrous lacquered locks

of the doddering despot into

silken missives of hope.

Their legs and spirits fly.

SOME BISHOP

the strands proclaim across his forehead.

SOME RESISTANCE

the baby-fine hairs on the top of his head announce as

the arachnid artisans skirt the substantial bald spot.

The tyrant's toadies scramble to put the obscene 

hairdo back in order but

they are not quick enough to block the

wispy, wondrous messages winging forth into 

an awakening web of worldwide proportions,

straight to the hearts of those who

are just about to give up.

There's no stopping them now.

And Jesus, 

who's always loved a good challenge,

smiles.

Dear Me

Dear.

She called me Dear.

Does she call everyone that,

or just old folks?

Oh Dear, now that I mention it

I realize I've started saying it, too ~

calling young folks Dear, that is ~

using an endearing term

to convey my caring.

It seems appropriate, given my elder status,

which is clearly no secret 

considering how often 

I get offered seats on the bus.

Manners are not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

But this particular Dear lingers.

Was it the way she said it?

The tenderness, the kindness

without a pinch of condescension?

A medicine, almost,

surrounding me and pulling me in,

a reminder of all that is

dear in the midst of the drear

that so easily overwhelms.

Isn't it a wonder

that the innocence of the dear 

hasn't been gulped up

by the snark of the fear?

Kindness is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

She called me Dear 

and I have decided to embrace it.

A Bad-Ass Dear, that's what I'll be.

Come, won't you join me?

You might want to bring a big walking stick ~

useful for navigating the frightening patches ~ 

but also imagination and faith to see

the dearly improbable transformations

just waiting to be freed.

Hope is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

________________________

Dear Me

Querida.

Ella me llamó Querida.

¿Así llama a todas --

o sólo a las viejitas?

Ya que lo menciono

me doy cuenta de que yo también

he empezado a decirlo --

llamando a los jóvenes Queridos,

usando un término cariñoso

para comunicar mi interés sincero.

Me parece apropiado, considerando mi estatus

de persona mayor

que obviamente no es secreto,

considerando cuantas veces me ofrecen 

un asiento en el autobús.

Los modales no están muertos, Querida.

Todavía no.

Pero esta Querida que me llamó permanece conmigo.

¿Fue la manera en que lo dijo?

La ternura, la bondad,

sin un pellizco del desdén?

Una medicina, casi,

envolviéndome y abrazándome,

un recuerdo de todo lo que es querido

en medio de lo triste que

facilmente nos agobia.

¿No es una maravilla

que la inocencia de lo querido no haya sido

devorado por el sarcasmo del miedo?

La bondad no está muerta, Querido.

Todavía no. 

Ella me llamó Querida

y voy a celebrarlo.

Una Querida Bad Ass, ésa voy a ser.

¿No te unirás conmigo?

Necesitas un bastón de madera --

útil para navegar las partes espantosas --

pero también la imaginación y la fe para ver

las transformaciones improbables

que están por liberarse.

La esperanza no está muerta, Querida.

Todavía no.

Journey

The answer to your heartfelt question

is no answer at all.

I'm sorry.

I know you're at your wit's end

and I can feel your frustration.

But did you know that monarch butterflies migrate thousands of miles,

just to survive?

Or that Orion, that fierce hunter of the wintry sky, looks surprisingly like a butterfly

if you tilt your head sideways

and look just so?

Now a menacing hunter ~

ready to clobber you into oblivion,

now a sunlit butterfly ~

ready to fire up your senses with ecstatic beauty. 

Chew on that for a while.

There might be an answer in there somewhere

in how a feather-light monarch

(for surely she is a migrant)

moves amiably with a well-armed giant

(though perhaps his ferocity is mostly for show)

how they twirl around a star-twinkly sky, taking turns in the dance,

showing different faces, 

and never, ever arriving.

How their endless journey still makes us shout with delight

whenever we spot them:

the mighty hunter and the cosmic butterfly ~

wheeling steadily downward into the void,

night after night,

leaving behind a mysterious trail of awe.

________________________

Jornada

La respuesta a tu pregunta sincera

es que no hay respuesta.

Lo siento.

Sé que estás desesperado

y puedo sentir tu frustración.

¿Pero sabías que las mariposas monarca migran miles de millas para sobrevivir?

O que Orión, ese cazador feroz del cielo invernal, se parece a una mariposa

si inclinas la cabeza y miras justo así? 

Ahora, un cazador amenazante ~ 

listo para darte un golpe al infinito,

ahora una mariposa alumbrada ~

lista para encender tus sentidos con una hermosura extática.

Piensa un momento en eso.

Es posible que encuentres una respuesta ahí escondida

en una monarca ligera

(pues seguramente es una migrante)

moviendo amablemente alrededor de un gigante bien armado

(pero puede que su ferocidad sea principalmente fingida)

como giran por un cielo estrellado-brillando, turnándose en el baile,

mostrando caras diferentes, jamás llegando.

Como su jornada sin fin todavía nos hace gritar emocionados

cuando los espiamos:

el cazador imponente y la mariposa cósmica ~

girando sin tregua hacia abajo al vacío,

noche tras noche,

dejando una huella misteriosa de asombro.

there may be trouble ahead . . .

There's something about walking on a path paved with centuries of prayer ~ you never quite know where it might take you.

Getting there is pretty straightforward. You decide that walking the Camino de Santiago ~ an ancient pilgrimage route in Northern Spain ~ is a great idea.You clear your calendar and your head (or so you hope); you start training; you whittle your gear down to what you can carry; you get yourself to St. Jean Pied de Port in Southern France; and you start to walk ~ over the Pyrenees and down into Spain. 

One foot in front of the other, mile after mile, day after day. 

This is what you came for ~ no surprises here ~ until one day you notice that the spiritual and physical discipline required to keep this rhythm up is cracking you open in ways that you never anticipated. You start to sense that by being here you have entered into a mysterious web of pilgrims, walking through time. You are fully present ~ and that means all of you, even the shadowy parts of yourself that you usually try to deny or stuff. Perhaps they are most important because on this camino, if you are faithful to what is unfolding, you cannot escape them. You realize you might as well surrender and get to know them ~ intimately ~ because you've got plenty of time and they're not going anywhere. 

Mile after mile, day after day . . . 

Traffic jam in the Pyrenees ~ if you listen carefully, you'll hear cowbells in the distance.

Pyrenees Pigs

Alto de Perdón

Remember what you have seen 

because everything forgotten returns to the circling winds . . . 

(From a Navajo Chant)

We long to go back there,

or so we like to feel

when it's not too cold.

We long to pay that much attention.

But we've lost the knack;

also there's other music.

All we hear in the wind's plainsong

is the wind.

(From Because We Love Bare Hills and Stunted Trees, by Margaret Atwood)

Path to Cruz de Ferro, where people traditionally leave a rock from their home

Cruz de Ferro

Cruz de Ferro Offerings

¿Quién dijo que todo está perdido?

Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón

...No será tan fácil, ya sé qué pasa

No será tan simple como pensaba

Como abrir el pecho y sacar el alma

Una cuchillada de amor . . . 

Who said that everything is lost?

I come to offer my heart.

... It won't be so easy, I know how it is

It won't be as simple as I thought

Like opening your chest and pulling out your soul

A gash of love . . .

(From the song, Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón, lyrics by Fito Paez)

Memorials are everywhere on the Camino.

Homemade paella at the albergue (hostel) in Hornillos, on the Meseta

Prayer corner in the church in Hontanas

Trail coming out of the mountains, into the city of León

Statue of Santiago the Pilgrim, along with the ever-present blue and yellow arrow and shell markers

A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise. They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.
~ Bruce Chatwin

View from O Cebreiro in Galicia

Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I worship each god, I praise each day splintered down, and wrapped in time like a husk, a husk of many colors spreading, at dawn fast over the mountains split.   Annie Dillard

Walking alone for hours (just me and my shadow!); unplugging from news and social media for a psychic detox; loving the evening camaraderie with pilgrims from around the world while recognizing that, for me, the essence of this journey was interior exploration ~ all of this, together, made me more present than I have ever been in my life. For 42 days. 

The poetry of that rascally Persian sage, Rumi, evolved and mixed with my own words as I sauntered along the way ~ offering prayers and intentions for my loved ones and forming mantras that I prayed, over and over, until they lodged in my soul.

Startle me back to the truth of who I am. 

(Thank you, Light)

which led to

Startle my woundedness into delight.

(Thank you, Shadow)

which led to words that describe, I think, what happened to me on the camino, mile after mile, day after day:

Something opens our wings

Something makes boredom and hurt disappear

Someone fills the cup in front of us

We taste only sacredness

I won't stop praying that one anytime soon.

**************************************

It has been quite a challenge, trying to put together words and pictures that might convey just a bit of what the Camino was for me ~ all 483 miles of it. But now, more than a month later, I realize it might all be as simple as a silly sign I came across on one of the early uphill slogs.

The over-sized exclamation point was alarming at first, but since I have an affinity for American Standards (Thanks, Dad) I quickly recognized the words. In case you didn't, click here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEpz18oxMX0

There may be trouble ahead, oh yes, and trouble right here, most definitely ~ and not just in romance. How well we know this. The challenge, I think, is to hold onto our joy as we walk through the trouble and respond faithfully ~ or, in the words of the poet Jack Gilbert:

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,

but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world. 

(From A Brief for the Defense)

Mile after mile, day after day . . . 

_______________________________________________________

there may be trouble ahead/puede haber peligro adelante

Andar en un camino pavimentado con siglos de oración es algo misterioso ~ nunca sabes a donde te va a llevar . . . 

Llegar allí es bastante sencillo. Decides que es una idea fantástica hacer el Camino de Santiago ~ una ruta de peregrinaje antigua en España. Haces espacio en tu calendario y tu cabeza (o eso esperas); empiezas a entrenar; planeas lo que vas a llevar en tu mochila; viajas a St. Jean Pied de Port, al sur de Francia; y empiezas a caminar ~ cruzando los Pirineos y bajando a España.

Un pie delante del otro, milla tras milla, día tras día.

Por esto viniste ~ no hay sorpresas aquí ~ hasta que un día empiezas a observar que la disciplina física y espiritual requerida para mantener este ritmo se te parte el alma de una manera que jamás habías anticipado. Empiezas a sentir que has entrado en una red misteriosa de peregrinos, caminando por el tiempo. Estás totalmente presente ~ y eso quiere decir tu ser entero, aun las partes sombrías que sueles negar o esconder. Tal vez sean las partes más importantes porque en este camino, si te quedas fiel a lo que está desarollándose, no puedes escapar de ellas. Te das cuenta que debes rendirte y llegar a conocerlas mejor ~ intimamente ~ porque tú tienes mucho tiempo y ellas no van a ningún lado.

Milla tras milla, día tras día

Embotellamiento en los Pirineos ~ si escuchas cuidadosmente, puedes oír los cencerros.

Cochinos en los Pirineos

Alto de Perdón

Recuerda lo que has visto
porque todo lo que se olvida
regresa a los vientos circulares

(de un canto navajo)

Queremos regresar allí,

o así nos gusta creer

cuando no hace demasiado frío.

Queremos prestar tanta atención.

Pero hemos perdido la capacidad;

también hay otra música.

Lo único que oimos en la canción del viento

es el viento.

(De Porque amamos los cerros vacíos y árboles cortos, por Margaret Atwood)

We long to go back there,

or so we like to feel

when it's not too cold.

We long to pay that much attention.

But we've lost the knack;

also there's other music.

All we hear in the wind's plainsong

is the wind.

From Because We Love Bare Hills and Stunted Trees, by Margaret Atwood

Sendero a Cruz de Ferro, donde la gente por tracición deja una piedra de su tierra.

Cruz de Ferro

Ofrendas en Cruz de Ferro

¿Quién dijo que todo está perdido?

Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón

...No será tan fácil, ya sé qué pasa

No será tan simple como pensaba

Como abrir el pecho y sacar el alma

Una cuchillada de amor . . . 

(De la canción, Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón, letra de Fito Paez)

                                                         Hay memoriales por todo el Camino.

                                                              Paella casera en el albergue de Hornillos, en la Meseta

  

                                                      Rincón de oración en la iglesia de Hontanas

                                                  Sendero bajando de las montañas hacia la ciudad de León

        Estatua de Santiago el Peregrino, junto con los ubicuos marcadores (flechas y conchas) de amarillo y azul

Un explorador blanco en Africa, ansioso por seguir adelante con su jornada, pagó a sus portadores por una serie de marchas forzadas. Pero ellos, casi llegando a su destino, bajaron sus bultos y se negaron a moverse. Ninguna cantidad de dinero les convencería a cambiar de idea. Dijeron que tenían que esperar hasta que sus almas los alcanzaran.
~ Bruce Chatwin

                                                   Vista desde O Cebreiro en Galicia

Cada día es un dios, todo día es un dios, y la santidad predica en el tiempo. Alabo a cada dios; elogio cada día astillado, envuelto en el tiempo como una cáscara, una cáscara de muchos colores, extendendiéndose rápido, a la primera luz del alba sobre las montañas partida.

Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I worship each god, I praise each day splintered down, and wrapped in time like a husk, a husk of many colors spreading, at dawn fast over the mountains split.
~ Annie Dillard

Caminar sola por muchas horas (con mi sombra!); desenchufándome de las noticias y las redes sociales para hacer un detox psíquica; gozando de la compañía de peregrinos de todo el mundo mientras afirmaba que, para mí, la esencia de esta jornada era la exploración interior ~ todo esto, junto, me hizo más presente que jamás he estado en toda mi vida. Por 42 días, 800 kilometros.

Lo poesía de ese pícaro persa, Rumi, transformaba y mezclaba con mis propias palabras mientras caminaba ~ rezando por mis seres queridos y formando mantras que rezaba, repetidamente, hasta que se acomodaran en mi alma:

Asómbrame de vuelta a la verdad de quién soy. 
Startle me back to the truth of who I am.
(Gracias, Luz)

Asombra (transforma) mis heridas en el deleite.
Startle my woundedness into delight.
(Gracias, Sombra)

que me llevó a las palabras que describen, yo creo, lo que me pasaba en el Camino, milla tras milla, día tras día:

Algo nos abre las alas
Algo hace que el dolor y el aburrimiento desaparezcan
Alguien llena la copa enfrente de nosotros
Saboreamos solamente lo sagrado

Son palabras que sigo rezando.

***************************************
Ha sido un gran desafío, encontrar las palabras y fotos que comuniquen un poquito de lo que ha sido el Camino para mí. Pero ahora, más de un mes después, me doy cuenta de que podría ser tan sencillo como un letrero chistoso que vi mientras subía un cerro en los primeros días.

                                                                       !
Puede haber peligro adelante.
Todos los peregrinos presten atención, por favor,
que mientras haya 
luz de luna
música
amor
romance
Se les aconseja que
enfrenten a la música
y bailen

El signo de exclamación gigante me alarmó al principio, pero ya que me encantan las canciones viejas (Gracias, Papá), pronto reconocí las palabras. Si tú no, haz clic aquí:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2zQA8WGvl8

Traducción de la letra al español: 

Puede haber peligro adelante
Pero mientras haya luz de luna, música, amor y romance
¡Enfrentemos a la música y bailemos!

Antes de que los violinistas se hayan ido
Antes que nos pidan que paguemos y mientras aún tengamos oportunidad
¡Enfrentemos a la música y bailemos!

Pronto estaremos sin la luna
Tarareando una melodía diferente, y entonces
Puede haber lágrimas por derramar
Así que mientras haya luz de luna, música, amor y romance
¡Enfrentemos a la música y bailemos!


Puede haber peligro adelante, ah sí, y peligro aquí mismo, definitivamente ~ y no sólo en el romance. Muy bien lo sabemos. El desafío es mantener nuestra alegría mientras navegamos los problemas y el peligro, respondiendo con fieldad ~ o, en las palabras del poeta, Jack Gilbert:

Debemos arriesgar el deleite. Podemos vivir sin el placer,
pero sin el deleite, no. Sin el gozo, no. Debemos tener
la determinación de aceptar nuestra felicidad en el horno
despiadado del mundo.

(De Un argumento para la defensa)

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of the world.

(From A Brief for the Defense)

Milla tras milla, día tras día. . .