Christopher Shepherd-Smith SJ 1943 – 1977

Posted on November 26, 2013 by John

Christopher Shepherd-Smith SJ  1943 – 1977

An account originally published in an older and lost version of the Raft-of-Corks Blog.

Christopher Shepherd-Smith

Posted on January 19, 2012 by John Fletcher

There were many tales about Shepherd-Smith. It is said that “Sheppy” reacted swiftly when the minibús in which he was travelling with some fellow Jesuits had a puncture on the M6. Before calling the emergency service or attempting to change the wheel, he invited his friends to kneel down with him on the hard shoulder and say the rosary. This man, for me, is the rudder of the raft of corks.
I didn´t know Sheppy well yet he has become present to me recently. We lived together in the early 70´s for a short time in Southwell House, a Jesuit community in London. The community was a wonderful mixture of older Jesuits, the Way community, university teachers and students. These years were the years when the champagne corks were popping out of bottles stored since before the Council of Trent, made loose by the fermentation triggered by the second Vatican Council: they were years in which Western Society was bathed in the warm waters of growing affluence rising on huge surges of creativity and freedom. As individuals we were like corks liberated from the bottleneck in an explosion, joyously floating into the sky and coming to land in a huge ocean where the horizons of possibilities, of personal choices and separate realities seemed infinite. In this huge sea we were separated from each other.
If my metaphors are mixed then it is because I lived these years in plenty of inner conflict. I certainly didn´t know how to navigate in this ocean and, in the currents of the time, I happily swept all the rules aside. One day Christopher Shepherd-Smith left a book on the table in my study bedroom. I didn´t know him and didn´t know from whom the book had come. It was an old book, a text for spiritual reading. I was puzzled. How on earth would anyone think I could take such a book seriously? The title was something like “The Wiles of Satan.” It is true that my life might have been interpreted as a bit decadent if you were to take into account my drinking, womanizing and laughter, my partisan passion for football as well as my lack of interest in religious ritual and order in general.
Occasionally I would attend community Mass and it was at one of these that I had my only real contact with Shepherd-Smith. The Eucharist was fairly informal and we were all invited to share our own personal desires in the form of prayers of petition. Christopher Shepherd-Smith prayed that he might die as a martyr, if that was God´s will for him. I had heard the story about the puncture on the motorway and had laughed. This had me chortling away silently. I was not, I think, laughing at Sheppy but at the absurdity, the anachronism that in this era anyone could pray for martyrdom. This was the age of tolerance not persecution. We had ended the war in Vietnam with our protests.
After Mass, Sheppy spoke to me the only words he ever addressed to me. “John, I left a book for you in your room. I think you might find it helpful.” I didn´t ever read the book but I was thoroughly amused.
Two years ago today I was on a walk to a local village where they were celebrating the feast of their patron San Sebastian, or Saint Spike as my children used to call him because of all the arrows sticking out of him. It was a warm January day and as I strode at a rhythmic pace Sheppy was, I sensed, beside me. Where has he come from? He had not crossed my mind for years and here he was present to me. It was not a physical presence. Nor was it that I was simply remembering him. He was there alongside me and I felt much warmth, even gratitude for his being there. I laughed again as I said to him, “Did you really get everyone to kneel down and pray on the motorway?” And I laughed at his leaving me the book on the Devil. Then it dawned on me that his being there was no coincidence at all.

 

San Sebastian
For the previous 18 months I had been slowly, every day, spending time on the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola. I spent some time on the final contemplation and have been experiencing what Ignatius calls “consolation”. Overall, the exercises help people to find a direction in their lives. The concept of sin, for St Paul, was that of being off target, going in the wrong direction: like the arrow which leaves the bow of an archer who cannot focus on his target. As I walked to the village of Hernan Perez I could hear the rockets and see the smoke of the celebrations of San Sebastian who had been martyred by arrows. I was thinking about the errors in my life, arrows going in all directions, deflected by the wind or even blown back on course.

San Sebastian, Hernan Perez, 20th Jan, 2010

San Sebastian, Hernan Perez, 20th Jan, 2010

Ignatius lived at the beginning of the 16th C so his universe comes to us in his own terms of that time. I used to think that all the old language of religion needed to be translated into modern terms. Now I see it is perfectly good because it aims to express truth and truth cannot be expressed fully in any language. When someone speaks the truth it is nothing more than an invitation to enter into an experience. Inside that experience every language is valid and enlightening. Translation is unnecessary. Good metaphors do the job and speak for themselves.
One of the central insights offered by The Exercises of Ignatius is contained in his notes on the discernment of Spirits. There is a most down to earth description of this in Margaret Silf´s “Inner Compass” or (“Landmarks” in the UK : they are the same text!)
Ignatius speaks of the movements we can notice within ourselves if we pay attention to our reactions. Here is an excerpt from an Australian web site: “God does not speak to us by an audible voice (except, perhaps, in rare circumstances). His normal way of communicating is by more subtle leadings and promptings. He may speak through circumstances, or by an ‘inner voice’ by which we know he has communicated with us, but we have not heard words. His communication may seem like a thought to us or an idea or a realisation. Yet his communications have a different quality, and as we grow in the ability to discern, we come to recognise ‘his voice’ more frequently.”
Today, I begin to see the tricks, or self-deceptions: the movements within me that divert me from the challenge to be just who I am and unbalance me. In very traditional terms, I am aware of the wiles of the devil. For the fact is that nobody can disturb our deep inner peace.
Yet sometimes I feel very disturbed, hurt, restless, doubtful or one of many uncomfortable and stormy states far from a tranquil shore. It is the wile of the devil but the commentators on The Exercises today avoid such terms. When all is going well something happens which brings down a fog. If we keep travelling in the fog we lose sense of place and time. We no longer have our landmarks, our security. It is often very tempting to keep going and to guess where we are. In the end we may emerge but at a cost, often at a very great cost. But if we stop, just stay still, we can be sure that the fog will lift. In my case I sometimes become disorientated but want to keep going. I may find an object, a person, to blame. Or I begin to take decisive action. All I actually need to do is acknowledge my feeling and wait. No one else is responsible for the reactions I produce and if I can stay still with myself I know the squall will pass.
I imagine Sheppy at the moment he was shot dead in Zimbabwe. For his prayer was answered a couple of years after he gave me the book when he was taken out of his mission house and killed by rebels, along with a Jesuit Brother, John Joseph Conway and Father Martin Thomas. Undoubtedly he would not have blamed the gunmen for his death.
So, as I continued my walk to Hernan Perez in this beautiful Sierra de Gata, I mused on the martyrdom of Christopher Shepherd-Smith, amused in wonder at the constellations which seem to make sense without reason of incomprehensible confluences in life and could believe that Sheppy was with me.

100% for God, no less.

I was aware of his single-minded purpose in life in which absolutely everything was focused. In the Exercises and every day he would undoubtedly have said this prayer Ignatius gave us:
Take, Lord and Receive
Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding, and my entire will.
All I have and call my own.
Whatever I have or hold, you have given to me.
I restore it all to you and surrender it wholly
to be governed under your will.
Give me only your love and grace
and I am rich enough and ask for nothing more.
Saint Sebastian, too, was radical enough to take this prayer seriously and I do not doubt that these men met their deaths giving thanks for their lives and knowing it was their destiny.
The notion of the Raft of Corks came to me one wet night at a meeting in Seés, in Normandy. Over 200 people turned up from the small scattered communities around this Cathedral town with a village-sized population. They had come to hear a priest talk about the Catholic Church. I was quite astonished at the turn out. I cannot recall what he said but I remember thinking that all of us there were like corks in the ocean, discarded from the Catholic Church, and carried along by our own currents and tides. Somehow we had come together that night and formed a unit, a raft. Those of us who drifted away from our traditional spiritual roots in the 70´s, 80´s and 90´s had not entirely lost our bottle. Some day we would find the others. This blog is about that story.
So I reached my destination of Hernan Perez, a small village in the north of Extremadura, where they grow olives and peppers. Next Saturday 30th January, 2010, they are sacrificing a large pig and cooking it for all comers to share. This is the common feast at the end of their annual fiesta in honour of San Sebastian.

Martyr's Mass, Hernan Perez, Feat of San Sebastian.

Martyr’s Mass, Hernan Perez, Feat of San Sebastian.

One week later is the anniversary of the death of Sheppy who is the patron Saint of this blog.
Father Christopher Shepherd-Smith (1943-1977)
killed 6 Feb 1977

 

 

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Loving our Planet.

Posted on November 21, 2013 by John

Loving our Planet.  

“I’ve just walked 500 miles!”  You must be mad.

Many pilgrims on the Camino say their friends think they are mad to try to it.  This is especially true of young people who set off for Santiago on their own.  In my student days, 40 years ago I would not have believed  that one day I would walk 500 miles in just over a month.

According to the most recent statistics posted by a fellow Glaswegian 60,000 young people completed the Camino in the first 10 months of 2013 and over 30,000 wrinklies.  One of the effects of the Camino is that we are learning to walk again.

At the start of a Camino. The early stages of the Camino de Madrid heading for The Sierra.

At the start of a Camino.
The early stages of the Camino de Madrid heading for The Sierra.

I remember an American student saying to me, in 1970, “the most important problem we have to tackle is cars.  We need to ban cars.”  At the time I was baffled and understood none of his reasoning.  One of my difficulties was in seeing how we could travel the distances we did without cars.  “You couldn’t walk to Rome these days,” I said.  The idea of a world without cars seemed non-sensical and many will say it still does.

The Camino showed me that for anyone moderately fit it is possible to walk countries, even continents.  This is not surprising since it is only in man’s recent history that he has stopped walking.

A UK motorway with unusually light traffic.

A UK motorway with unusually light traffic.

 

 The richness of the Camino

Walking day after day we learn that the horizon ahead soon becomes the horizon behind. The kilometres clock up just the same as in a car.  Of course, everything slows down.  This, too, is one of the benefits of the Camino and one which many pilgrims say is the best part of it.

Walking day after day we live the hours of daylight in a way which most of us rarely do in our city lives.  We are outside as the sun rises and our shadows are long.  We see them shorten and lengthen again.  Our faces sense the winds and rains and rays of the sun just like the trees and the flowers.

Early morning shadow
Early morning shadow

The Camino exposes us to our planet in its rawness and Spain offers enough extremes for us to taste, but not be extinguished by, the earth’s constantly changing weather.  We climb mountains; walk by brooks and rivers, through forests and meadows; and over the plains sown with corn or planted with row after row of vines.  We are surrounded by growth.  The birds along the Way are a constant source of sound and motion.  Spain is a bird watchers paradise and there are few who walk a Camino without seeing storks and eagles and vultures or the golden oriel which nests on the higher lands before the Iron Cross.

A cormorant at the start of the Camino de Madrid

A cormorant at the start of the Camino de Madrid

Depending on what we choose to bring with us we can help ourselves slow down to appreciate these rhythms of nature.  We need to leave behind our smart phones, for instance. (In the big supermarkets in Spain you can pick up a basic, social network-free mobile phone for 20 euros, which includes 10 euros credit.) Even if you are too attached to your social media to leave it behind the Camino is an immersion in another world where nature still reigns .  Let go a little and you will be refreshed, if not reborn.  The distances alone do the work, whether it is 100km or 500 miles or more.

Holding on to the Camino: to walk or to drive.

Inevitably a return to normal life after a Camino swallows up our good intentions and our desire to hang on to the new visions we have enjoyed on the Way.  Many need to return to it again soon.  This is a need, not a desire, because so many recognise the falseness of “normal” life and long for the authenticity of the Camino. They long to continue the new personal journey they have begun.  This journey is one with our feet on the planet we love.

One concrete thing to do is make a committment to help preserve the planet.  My student friend in 1970 was prophetic even if he smoked weed.  In those days nobody mentioned climate change and even “acid rain” was just being identified.  Recently I mentioned to my in-laws that I had noticed the air polluted when driving to their house which is near London’s huge ring-road the M25. “Pollution?  Are you sure?  How can you tell?”  I explained that you can see it just by looking at the sky.  Living in Madrid I have learned this well since the pollution levels exceed European limits on over 200 days in the year. Maybe we are not sufficiently aware that the damage is with us now.

Behind the city is a snow covered sierra completely obscured by pollution.

Behind the city is a snow covered sierra completely obscured by pollution.

I am told that the worst of the pollution is invisible.  Moreover most of us now know, atmospheric pollution is only a fraction of the damage we cause to our planet.  I am not much of an activist but I can walk instead of driving and I can use public transport in preference to the car. My hypocracy is that I hang on to my car and my van: they will need to go.  However, I walk to the shops with my rucksack and use the vehicles as little as possible.  It is a small reminder of the joy this planet gives me, that I live because of its health and that I can walk.  We often forget we can walk.  Together, on the Camino, we cannot forget.

As the Iona prayer says,

“The world belongs to God,                                                                                                            the earth and all its people.”

Easter Monday 2010 the Dehesa on the way to Caparra. The Planet we love.

Easter Monday 2010 the Dehesa on the way to Caparra. The Planet we love.

 

 

 

 

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The Canyon of Caracena. Ruta de La Lana

Posted on November 19, 2013 by John

The Canyon of Caracena.  Ruta de La Lana

Isolation, challenge, awe and majesty.

The Canyon of Caracena is a majestic gorge cutting through the limestone rock for over 7km.  Here is a secret landscape.  It begins in Tarancueña and ends in the mediaeval village of Caracena.  If you want to travel between these villages by car you need to travel about 40 kms because each village is at the end of a road.

The entry to the Canyon of Tarancueña

The entry to the Canyon of Tarancueña

I arrived at the Canyon at mid-day after a morning of heavy snow.  I had come down below the snow line and welcomed the rise in temperature.  At first the path was good, obviously used by shepherds although I was not to meet anyone till much later in the day.

The River Caracena has cut its path through the chalky rocks.

The River Caracena has cut its path through the chalky rocks.

I was pleased that the rain had not swollen the river too much.  It must be a dangerous spot when there is a flood for it would rise rapidly.  Flash floods are common in Spain and people are drowned every year.  They occur when a mass of cold air in the upper layers meets the warm air from below, usually at the end of summer.  The Spanish call it “gota fria” and warn against camping too close to rivers in enclosed valleys.

Caves are dotted along the valley walls

Caves are dotted along the valley walls

The sides of the Canyon have many huge caves and some of these have significant bronze age remains.  More recently, the Arab period of Spanish history has bequeathed the valley an Atolaya, a watch tower.  Pilgrims who are fit enough can climb up to and sleep the night in it, so I am told.  I have also heard that the entrance is three metres above the ground.  I think I remember noticing a staircase on the outside. It comes into view a few kilometres beyond Caracena.

Atalaya, Arab watchtower.

Atalaya, Arab watchtower.

 

The pilgrim does need to find a spot to sleep on this long stretch of the Ruta de La Lana with no albergues or hotels.  It is 43 km between Retortilla de Soria and San Esteban de Gormaz where there is a choice of accommodation.  The best place I spotted for sleeping out is on the road which has almost no traffic.  It is a well restored shelter beside a sanctuary and is on the camino just before you reach the Atalaya.  It was perfectly clean and sheltered me from the fierce cold wind while I had lunch.

The Sancuary with the shelter alongside.

The Sancuary with the shelter alongside.

 

I imagine that the shelter is used for the local fiestas and is used on feast days in the winter months when the weather can be very fierce.  In Spain places like this are safe to sleep in and nobody will bother you.  You may have trouble refusing an invitation to go along and taste the local wine, of course.

The shelter, perfectly clean, inside.

The shelter, perfectly clean, inside.

The walls of the Canyon press quite close together in several places.  Here the river has to be crossed.  There are stepping stones which I didn’t trust at all.  My balance is not all that good with my rucksack so I preferred just to walk through the river, socks and sandals still on.  This I had learned was possible on my first Camino, the Via de La Plata which had fords on many rivers.  Those on the Caracena were the only ones on the Ruta de La Lana, apart from one in Alicante.  I think in these 7 km I waded through the rio five times.

A crossing point to be forded.

A crossing point to be forded.

Alone in the Canyon

The  Canyon forms a space shared by river and rock, grasses and gorse, huge eagles and vultures and all those tiny birds which feed on the riverbanks and nest in the reeds.  It is a spot where nature gets on with life undisturbed.  Perhaps I could have felt I was intruding but such places feel like home to me, like the womb, I imagine, enveloping and safe.  I can hear its heartbeat in the running waters and its intake of breath as the wind finds a passage through this channel of layered rock.

Looking back down the cañon from Caracena.

Looking back down the cañon from Caracena.

In solitude and silence I stop and pray without words: I let myself be absorbed in love and gratitude for life.  These are precious moments, especially on this Camino, on which I rarely experienced few “highs”.

Writing this blog, I receive comments from all sorts of people, religious, spiritual and neither, alike. It seems that we all can experience and share such moments.  Some call them “spiritual”, others prefer to to say it feels like “being one with nature”, others,  myself included , choose to call it” a sense of the presence of God”.   I wonder about the language we use to express this deep awareness and appreciation of life, of being itself, of “being here” aware and alert to the enormous mystery of being alive, of beauty and goodness, of loving and being loved, of being sad, or afraid or depressed, of illness and pain and war, of frustrated needs like hunger or loneliness and helplessness.  The great religions offer us “language bundles” like software in a new computer and we get hooked on these and recommend them to others.  We think in the way the bundles programme us.  In Europe and North America the Christianity “bundle” was almost a monopoly and is still championed by a few.  For me the Catholic programme is rich and comprehensive because I was born with it in my cot.  It does the job of allowing my feelings, thoughts and concepts to find their place in myself and within a large community.  Others, sick and tired of all the bugs have gone to the East which is equally rich and they have learned a new language with words like, “reincarnation” and “karma” or practices like Zen and Yoga.  We are formed by the language we use but, in the end, the grounding is in the same things, and it is the same awe which lifts us beyond the everydayness of survival, food, money and entertainment to a sense of greater permanence and unity.

My blog is dotted with Catholic, Christian language and some readers who do not speak this language still understand it and I, I hope, theirs.   I imagine that we can do this because all religions are speaking about the same things.  This viewpoint is still unacceptable in most faith systems including Catholicism.   I see this as a defensive position, an insecurity and a lack of Faith.

We are all on a journey and unless we live in a permanent dwam we will have moments of profound awe like I found in this canyon.  We can drop these moments or we can grasp them to our hearts and take care of them.  They are the seeds of Faith, of every faith.

The Catholic church, present everywhere in my life.

Caracena The Catholic church, present everywhere in my life.

The Canyon has its delights and one of them is the hole in the rock through which the camino passes.  It is a bit of a climb to get up to it: not high, just 2m, but steep.  There are one or two of these on this path which is why it is not recommended for bikes.  (NB No cyclists!)

The hole in the rock.

The hole in the rock.

At this point the canyon is great fun.  There are obstacles but none are severe.  This is one of my favourites because there is something symbolic about passing through a rock tunnel, especially one which is natural.

It should be another world on the other side.

It should be another world on the other side.

In other places the path clings tightly to the rock leaving little room to walk and sometimes with a drop to the river below.

The red and white markings show the path.

The red and white markings show the path.

Perhaps at other times of year the river is lower and the path is not so exciting.  There are overhangs which can knock against a rucksack when you are trying not to step in the water.  My policy is to step in the water.

Here the path hugs the side of the river but there is little room with the rock overhang.

Here the path hugs the side of the river but there is little room with the rock overhang.

I left the valley just before the village and followed a steep path up to Caracena which, I believe has a bar, but I missed it.  (It has two streets)  The Canyon is majestic and one of the many gems on the Ruta de La Lana.

[mapsmarker layer=”25″]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Miracles. Two Days on the Camino Francés (2) Flying to O Cebreiro.

Posted on November 17, 2013 by John

Miracles. Two Days on the Camino Francés (2) Flying to O Cebreiro.

When your heart is in silence and sinks into God it sings.

Leaving Pereje.

Leaving Pereje.

This is a story which is short and simple but gives a flavour of the sort of strange experiences which people have on the Camino.  I have difficulty putting it into the category of “miracle” unlike the miracles of the day before which involved love and care and generosity.  This seems more like magic since I felt I was flying.  I can assure you that I was not on funny mushrooms.

Having gone to bed the night before feeling full of ‘flu I was surprised to find I could move my limbs in the morning.  I left Pereje full of apprehension about the climb ahead.  Although the ascent to O Cebreiro is not very steep, it is a long haul rising about 800 metres from the bottom of the Valley to the top of the pass into Galicia..  The weather was not good so I had decided to go by road rather than follow the path up the waterlogged valley.  Also I fully intended to book in for a session of physiotherapy in the tiny village of Ruitelan even if it meant halting my journey for the day.  To my dismay there was a sign of the physiotherapist’s door saying he had gone to A Coruña.  I considered staying in the albergue and catching him the next morning.  However my aches were not so bad and I decided I would continue, reminding myself, “Just go on in trust.”

Enter by the backside.

Enter by the backside.

I walked on in silent prayer, now unconcerned about the climb ahead or whether I arrived at a hostel with a bed or not.  Acts of Faith are very liberating.  Also the beauty of this quiet valley with its purple heather and gorse which shone as an adequate replacement for the lack of sunshine lent itself to that form of silent, wordless contemplation where my heart just rests in God.  As I began the climb I felt a sudden urge to sing.  On the Camino there are times when I like to pray out loud, especially a Gloria at the top of mountains.  I don’t like to wire myself up for music but I have put a few of my favourite hymns on my little voice recorder:  like Llama de Amor Viva by John of the Cross sung by Amancio Prada.

 

What came into my head was the hymn they sing in the procession at Lourdes – the old one which repeats “Ave, Ave, Ave Maria”.  I don’t remember many of the words but this refrain took hold of me and with a quick look around to ensure no other pilgrims were around I began singing it.   My heart through silence became a song.  It seemed to me to be a reminder of how easy it is for me to want to take everything into my control and how easily I forget the real joy of letting go completely and simply trusting in God. The Lourdes hymn welled up in me as if to say, “Don’t you remember the signs you have had?”

The ascent to O Cebreiro by road

The ascent to O Cebreiro by road

As if lifted by angels.

My singing faded when I heard voices behind.  It was the noisy Italians from my night in Ponferrada, I thought.  It turned out to be a noisy French group, too small in number to be Italian.  The Spanish say to me that the French think the Camino is theirs.  I struggle against stereotyping, of course, and only use it in emergencies.  I notice though that most foreigners do it a lot but I only ever hear good things about the Scots so I am rarely offended.  The French were coming up to overtake me with a cyclist not far behind clearly intent on taking one of our beds for the night.

About to be overtaken.

About to be overtaken.

 

The tune of the hymn lightened my spirits.  The road did not seem too steep and I wondered what had happened to all my pains of the previous day.  When the French caught up with me we exchanged a brief  “Bonjour” and they pushed on quickly saying it was about to snow.  I expected more rain but not snow.  Then a modern shepherd appeared in his 4×4 waving a stick at his sheep out of the window.

The good shepherd in his 4x4.

The good shepherd in his 4×4.

 

The rain became persistent and heavy.  I looked back down the valley at the mist below and marvelled at how straightforward this climb had been.  Just ahead was the little aldea of Laguna with a bar.  I looked forward to a coffee to celebrate conquering this mountain. Then the snow began to fall.

Wet snow and wind at 1000m.

Wet snow and wind at 1000m.

The path of the Camino reaches the road I had been walking on at Laguna.  By the time I arrived at the bar I was frozen and covered in snow.  Inside it was packed but the atmosphere was warm in every sense.  Many decided to stop in the village for the night and, indeed, all the beds were taken.  I would have stayed otherwise since the prospect of another two kilometres of climb, in the snow, wasn’t at all tempting.  There was little to be done but put on all my gear and move on.  I opened the door into a rush of cold air and set off.

As I walked I felt as if someone were lifting my rucksack behind me, taking most of its weight.  It wasn’t just that it seemed lighter: it was a different sensation exactly as if someone had put a hand underneath it to support it.  Then I noticed my legs take on a rhythm which was smooth, flowing and speedy.  This was not how I walk, but here I was purring along in the snow and the wind with an ease which felt almost as if my body had found a perfect harmony, balance and sureness of movement.  This continued until I reached O Cebreiro where I stopped in the little church.  I recall sitting there on a bench wondering just what had happened to me.  In the silence my heart rested in God, still singing.  I have difficulties believing in angels and the one I had met in France was at least a messenger.  People tell me I was helped up by angels.  In the little church in O Cebreiro I did feel I had been helped, physically, in an extraordinary manner.

Leaving the church in O Cebreiro.

Leaving the church in O Cebreiro.

Having given thanks for the help with this climb my whole body felt alive with wonder and I felt excited as if I had just received some fantastic news.  I could make no sense of it.  Why should I suddenly have experienced this “help”?  What had happened that I was walking so smoothly, so quickly, moving in a way I have not ever known? There seemed to be no spiritual “reason” for this.  However, I know that God does not seem to have much human logic and also that it had happened in a context of prayer and trust.  Also, beforehand I’d been helped up the longest part of the climb with the “Ave, Ave..” ringing in my heart.  It seemed to be a part of one continuous prayer.

The night of snow.

I continued on for 5 km after O Cebreiro to Hospital, arriving near dark with the snow still falling.  I hadn’t fancied staying in the albergue in O Cebreiro which is new and well equipped but the single dormitory is huge and would certainly be full on this cold, snowy evening.  The albergue in Hospital was also full.  I was the last to arrive and took the last bed.  My walking rhythm had returned to my own faltering and hobbling gait but these kilometres went by in a sort of dream of wonder at what had happened.

I remember lying on the top bunk listening to other pilgrims discussing how awful a day it had been to walk, how difficult the climb had been and how exhausted they were.  I wondered what had happened to all my fatigue and pains of the previous night.  I was tired but no more sore than usual.  All I could feel as I lay, glowing, on the bed was, “I’ve been in heaven today.”

The next morning in Hospital de la Condesa.

The next morning in Hospital de la Condesa.

 

The next day was another story with my body recovered and much better than it had been in Pereje.  My spirits were still fairly high and quite different from how they had been when I had left Ponferrada doubting my ability to continue.  The Camino was covered in thick snow so I put plastic bags over my sandals and set off.  Everything was back to normal including my arthritic parts and, still amazed at what had happened, I took out my voice recorder lest I forget:

http://www.the-raft-of-corks.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/O-cebreiro.mp3

 

 

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Miracles. Two Days on the Camino Francés: Ponferrada – Hospital da Condesa (1)

Posted on November 15, 2013 by John

Miracles.  Two Days on the Camino Francés:  Ponferrada – Hospital da Condesa (1)

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 Day 1. Ponferrrada – Pereje

Some days a rucksack is much heavier than the day before, even though it is carrying less; and some days legs which had happily and silently been gliding along like a Rolls Royce in a cortège creak and groan and puff like the Vital Spark. 

The vital Spark The creaking groaning puffer of Para Handy.

The Vital Spark The creaking groaning puffer of Para Handy. Photograph by kind permission of Alan Kempster https://flic.kr/p/8DCCt7

 

The day I set off from the pilgrims’ hostel in Ponferrada was one such day.  The hostel is very good indeed but was packed full.  My dormitory filled up after lights out with Italians about to begin their Camino.  Between their first-night excitement and the early-rising Austrians my night’s sleep was very short.  The voluntary hospitaleros offer a short evening prayer in the adjacent sanctuary.  The prayers are said in many languages and many pilgrims leave prayer requests written in the visitors’ book. I should have put in a prayer request that I be patient, kind and tolerant of Italians and Austrians, that I see only the positive in our cultural differences ( like tagliatellis and pretty girls in dirndls) and that I don’t mislay my ear plugs.  That would be too much of a miracle to ask for and, anyway, I don’t ask for miracles and signs.  They are graces which are scattered in our Path by One who loves us to be noticed and discovered rather than requested.

Praying did nothing for my complete lethargy the following morning.  My spirit was heavy, my legs were heavy, even my hat was heavy.  The Castle, too, was heavy, a huge Templar fortress almost blocking the Camino.

Heavy castle, Ponferrada.

Heavy castle, Ponferrada.

The camino has two routes out of the city.  I elected the one which passes through the shopping areas and is a bit shorter.  As usual, I set off with a desire to spend the day in prayer which at this moment consisted in saying to the Almighty that I was in a bad way and needed a shot of energy.  The way out of Ponferrada seemed interminable and after walking only half an hour I gave in to the temptation of the many cafés on either side of the road.  I resisted until I came to what seemed to be the last of them all.

Inside it was mainly a shop with a bar.  A woman behind the bar greeted me as if she had known me all her life with a warmth which lifted me.  “I’m Irèné”, she said and even introduced me to her only customer, a regular visitor it seemed.  I hoped that a coffee would revive me.  The dueña Irèné served me a large slice of sponge cake which I gladly accepted and ate while answering innumerable questions about my travels and being distracted from my physical woes.  I was feeling an urge to continue on my way especially as I had only walked 5 km so far and had a desire to make headway because the day threatened heavy rain. However, when I asked to pay she simply gave me another coffee and a larger bit of cake and said, “Stay a bit longer.”  Another customer came in and   I was introduced to the newcomer and then to the girl who had come to work behind the bar for the day, and then to the bread delivery man.  I left feeling recognised, pampered and included.  Irèné, and her customers, had made me rest and even laugh.  I had been encouraged not to rush on, but to linger and to share.

Unasuming bar La Parada. Serves a special welcome.

Unassuming bar La Parada.
Serves a special welcome.

As I moved on I said thanks to all and in my inner silence to God.  I was sure I had been guided into that bar.  My body seemed to have more life in it inspired by this small community whom, I had learned, were suffering badly from the economic crisis.  I had been particularly touched when a middle aged tramp had come in and señora prepared him what was clearly to be his lunch and packed it all up for him, adding a few treats before giving it to him with a huge smile. The bar was a mini-social centre and rescue mission. In a sense I, too, had been rescued from dwelling on my physical difficulties.  “A bit of a miracle,” I thought.

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After another 5km I arrived in Camponaraya, a village which is an outer suburb of Ponferrada which had sprawled on and on.  My physical strength was draining again and I saw a church open.  There are very few places to sit down on the camino and churches, if they are open, offer rest as well as sacred space.  My pauses on the Camino are usually short and I’d already delayed enough in Bar La Parada so I didn’t intend to stay long.

There was obviously some preparation going on for Mass and I wondered what feast day this might be. It turned out to be San Isodoro Labrador, patron Saint of farmers.  The church was modern and was being prepared, I thought, for a local festival.

Preparing for the Mass, Parish of Camponaraya, Leon.

Preparing for the Mass, Parish of Camponaraya, Leon.

A woman came up to me and asked, “Are you staying for the Mass?”.   When I heard it was not yet for another half hour I said, “No, I really have to get on my way.”  “Please stay if you can,” she said explaining that the Mass was being broadcast on Radio Maria.  She went off and spoke to the priest who approached me.  He, too, wanted me to stay.  In particular he wanted his parish which stands on the Camino de Santiago to have a pilgrim present for the Mass being broadcast throughout Spain.  So I stayed, was prayed for and I read a prayer praying for the parish intentions, and I met the parishioners.  One elderly lady, who had been married in the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostella touched me deeply. She was losing her sight and there is no medical solution.  She asked me to pray for her saying that miracles do happen.   I expect I agreed for she invited me to return to her house to eat with the family.

A poor photo, but the statue is Santiago, pilgrim which is taken out each year for the romeria.

A poor photo, but the statue is Santiago the pilgrim which is taken out each year for the romeria.

Padre Alberto is a dynamic priest, a real pastor, who also plays the guitar and writes his own hymns.  There is a link in the caption under the photo above to a video which gives a flavour of the parish on the day of the Romeria this year when the statue of Santiago is carried up the local hillside where a communal meal is celebrated together with traditional music.  The Amigos de Santiago and other pilgrims join with the parish in this celebration.

Although the rain clouds were gathering, I had rested.  More importantly, for the second time that morning I had found myself absorbed in community.  Maybe I had been missing this a lot.  I walk alone and had been going for six weeks.  When I once more set off on the Camino I knew I had received a great boost.  Again I was full of gratitude and wonder.  Seemingly out of nothing, I had walked into two very different places where I had been welcomed as I were a gift to their community when, for me, it was the other way round.  This, for me, is the stuff of miracles.

The road to Pereje

Villafranca de Bierzo

Villafranca de Bierzo

The rain held off and the sun came out as I reached Villafranca.  I had stayed there in 2010 but the hostel had been full and very cramped.  I did not fancy another night with noisy Italians so I decided to carry on to the next village even though my aches were returning to haunt my legs and shoulders.  I guessed that with a plentiful choice of albergues on this part of the camino there would be a bed left in Pereje.  It was only 5 km further on.

This 5 kms, in the end, demanded a great physical effort.  The miracles which had lifted my spirits and masked my fatigue could no longer disguise the reality that I was in poor shape. Moreover, I had listened out for the weather forecast against all my good intentions not to plan too much.  The following day would see me faced with the longest climb on the Camino Francés in Spain to O Cebreiro and the weather didn’t look promising.  I was apprehensive about how I would manage the ascent.  When I saw an advert in a bar in Villafranca for a physiotherapist en route the next day I headed for a cashpoint and withdrew enough to pay for some emergency treatment.  That, I hoped, would save me and loosen me up enough for the climb.

Puerta del Perdón, Villafranca

Puerta del Perdón, Villafranca

I mused about the firmly closed Church doors I had passed at the entry to Villafranca de Bierzo.  These had been locked tight on the night of December 31st 2010, at the end of the last Jacobean Year and will not now be opened until the next one in 2020.  I will be 71 then if I get that far.  This is the gate of Pardon. In the early days of the Camino pilgrims who were too unwell to continue could gain the complete indulgence (forgiveness of all their sins) by passing through this gate rather than having to last out to Santiago, sparing them the perils of passing over the mountains into Galicia.  Maybe in a past life I had used those gates. The idea of finishing just right then was attractive. My spirit was groaning as I dragged myself into Pereje.

Entrance into Pereje.

Entrance into Pereje.

I arrived at the albergue exhausted but in sunshine.  It seemed to me miraculous that I had managed at all to keep going and believe I might well have given up the pilgrimage had it not been for Irèné and the parish of Camponaraya.  When I entered the albergue I felt feverish and empty.  The hospitalero showed me to a dormitory in this exceptionally beautiful hostel.  The beds, which are not bunk beds, were nearly all taken.  All I needed to do was lie down.  The hospitalero was about to indicate one to me when he paused and then said, “I wonder if you would not prefer to sleep downstairs.  Gentlemen of your age often need to use the toilets at night and you would be closer to them in the basement.”  Yes, indeed, I said.  I nearly wept at the thoughtfulness which touched me deeply much more than having the conveniences convenient did.

The real miracle.

The skies clouded over and rain poured down as I sank down on the bed in my quiet dormitory, relieved to lie down.  It had taken me all my strength to thank my host for his kindness.  Three times that day I had felt taken care of as a child in need of protection.  I had needed some mothering and miraculously, I felt, it had been given to me.

As I write today when the Phillipines have been devastated by a storm and people have no water or food, thinking of the war in Syria violently destroying families and all of suffering humanity this tale of my “miracles” on that day makes no sense at all.  So I bundle it all together in a faith strengthened by small, seemingly very small and unimportant graces like I write of here.  I join my faith with the Faith of the suffering people in all parts of the world and know that I and they are one in a Body which knows suffering. We collaborate to meet each others needs. When I visited Irèné’s café, who was helping whom; or in my visit to the parish in Camponaraya, who was helping whom; or who of the pilgrim and the hospitalero; or the aid worker and the victims of the storm?

Maybe it just doesn’t matter, but what does matter is that we have been brought together and new connections of love are woven in the world through need and suffering.  That this can be so is the real miracle.

 

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Undoing Prejudice on the Camino (2)

Posted on November 13, 2013 by John

Pilgrims or Tourists?  Prejudice?

Not in the true Camino Spirit.

In Forums on the Camino there are plenty of comments about other “pilgrims” who are not walking the Camino in its true spirit.

There are some, I have heard, who take buses and taxis, especially if it is raining and claim beds before those who have walked all day.

In Burgos Cathedral this year, two Scandinavian girls were at Mass in front of me.  It was clearly their first ever Mass and had no idea what was going on.  When it was communion time they went up and received the host in their hand, giggled and didn’t know what to do with it.  The priest, rather perturbed, indicated that they should eat it.  They returned to their seats chattering and amused.

Burgos Cathedral

Burgos Cathedral

Hospitaleros can share, if you are prepared to listen, innumerable accounts of rudeness and ingratitude, lack of care of toilets and kitchens and disregard for other pilgrims.

Pilar, with whom I was walking the Camino del Norte from Ribadeo, picked up every piece of litter on the way one day.  She likes things tidy, but even for her, one day was enough.

On reading this, I expect that if you have walked the Camino you will remember how you felt about tourists and litter leavers and queue jumpers.

Pilar on a mission to collect litter. Camino del Norte.

Pilar on a mission to collect litter. Camino del Norte.

The real world

Hierarchies, like rudeness and litter belong to the everyday world we want to leave behind when we go on a Camino.

How often have you felt, or heard others say, what a pity it is that the experience of life on the Camino – the friendship, compassion and honesty you meet, the self-knowledge, self-reconciliation, peace, inner freedom and love which all grow along the Way – is so hard to continue in “real” life?  You maybe wish that the Camino was your real life.

A bridge.

There is, I think, a bridge between the two worlds and it is, of course, within each of us.

Remember your attitude to the tourists, the inconsiderate and the cyclists.  It is possible,  and in my own case it  is certain, that these reactions arise from prejudices.  Discerning prejudice is very difficult because it means recognising that our own viewpoint in everything cannot define anything, definitively.  We cannot cross the bridge till we recognise our prejudices.

Puente Quintos, Montemarta - Tabara, Camino Sanabres

Puente Quintos, Montemarta – Tabara, Camino Sanabres

Equality on the Camino

The Camino, for all that I have focussed here on the exceptions, is, overall, a great leveller: even the veterans can suffer a strained muscle.  Blisters can make tourists.  A great part of the spirit of the Camino is a spirit of equality.  But there is much more and much of this much more comes to us through the wonderful encounters we have with each other; such as the acts of kindness and generosity.

[ I met a young Scottish boy in O Pedrouso who had walked from Motherwell. He’d just left home and walked, finding himself on the Camino. He had managed by begging and sleeping rough. He told me that the day before he had asked an elderly couple in a cafe if they might buy him a hot drink.  They did and listened to his story. The elderly woman took his hand and said, “My dear, our son, too, left us, just as you have left your parents.  He, too, lived rough and walked and walked.  Then one day he came back grown up.  You remind me of him.”  Then she gave him 50 euros.  He told me it was the most money he had had all year, and now he had it for when he arrived in Santiago.]

Then there is the joy we have in new friends, in listening to and exchanging stories, in the Irish and in sharing tables, bedrooms and showers.  The spring from which all this flows is Love, love for each other and for the earth, humanity and all creation connected, illuminated and purring with energy like the Milky Way.  We are thrilled by the synchronicities, serendipities, “coincidences” and miracles which the Camino supplies in abundance, the connectedness which love creates and confirms.  The Camino is still basically Christian and for Christians, God is Love.  But for Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims, too, Love is central.  I don’t think we should at all shrink from recognising that the Camino through its tradition, its Faith-relationship, its symbolism, its challenge and difficulties, its capacity to purify, empty and cleanse and its community is all about Love.

Prejudice is inimical to love.

Undoing prejudice: crossing the bridge.

Crossing the bridge, Camino del Norte 120km to go.

Crossing the bridge, Camino del Norte 120km to go.

One of the finest gifts the Camino has given me is that it has alerted me to my prejudices.

I think I became aware of them when I questioned my reactions to tourists taking a bed when I had walked all day, or when someone shut a window pointedly after I had just opened it. Or when I asked myself why I disliked this guy who knew everything.  My gaze turned on myself rather than blaming the other for being just who he/she is.  I, too, am in the process of learning to be just who I am.  Who am I to expect others to be ahead of me on that journey? We begin to undo prejudice when we notice that we are seeing the speck in the other’s eye.

Faced with my prejudice, now admitted, I cross the bridge and befriend, hug, listen to, share with or simply offer a smile to this other who has gifted me an awareness of my prejudice.  Always my prejudice disolves, always.

This is real life: this is the spirit of the Camino.  I realise now how many hospitaleros, pilgrims, and local people in the pueblos have welcomed me when I was needy or smelly or too tired to talk: or, perhaps, big, Scottish, badly-dressed, fruit-eating, white, retired, limping, inattentive, insensitive or some of the things I’m ashamed to put in writing.

We might not be able to take the whole Camino experience into our daily “normal” lives, but we can cross this bridge anytime.  The yellow arrow points this Way.

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Silence. Before daybreak, After Dark and in the Afternoon.

Posted on November 12, 2013 by John

Silence.  Times when the heart listens.

Before Daybreak.

In 2010, a Jacobean Year, I happened to finish my Camino on October 12th, the Feast of the Virgin of the Pilar.  The Pilar is a pillar, a roman pillar on which the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to James the Apostle on his way to Santiago.  About wo millennia on from this legendary apparition, Gallicians in their thousands were descending on Santiago at the same times as myself.  My own pilgrimage coincided with a mass exodus from Vigo which filled all the available accommodation, and heavy rain storms which put me off sleeping outdoors.  The worst night of all was in Caldas del Reis where we all “slept” shoulder to shoulder on the floor with constant chattering all night, pleas for silence and shooshing every few minutes,  tobacco smoke emerging from the loos and a few lucky ones managing to snore.

Ancient Cruceiro, before dawn. Silence.

Ancient Cruceiro, before dawn. Silence.

I packed up and left about 4 am, stepping over bodies to find the exit and inhale deeply the smoke-free air of the night.  With a shudder of relief and a little apprehension I set off trying to make out the yellow arrows.  The camino entered into a forest and the little light there had been from the stars and a bit of moonlight was extinguished completely.  I used my walking pole to tell me where the side of the path was and moved each foot carefully feeling for solid ground.  The rain had left little streams running across the path which, from time to time soaked my sandals.  Whenever I stopped there was silence.  All my senses were alert and my body tense.  Then I relaxed, breathed in slowly and fully. Elation, a great elation, a lightness and a peace took over.  I wondered  how I could have lived so long without venturing alone in the dark into a forest.  Now I was present to myself and in the silence I could feel my blood pumping in my ears.

Another cruceiro, early morning, Cmino Portuguese.

Another cruceiro, early morning, Camino Portuguese.

There is a prayer of Theresa of Calcutta which  Pilar and I say each morning and on this early morning in the dark of the forest, alone, I broke the silence by saying it out loud, quietly,

“Today, let Peace reign over us.  Let me trust in God,  Let me trust that here, where I am, is exactly where I am meant to be…………”

Arriving in Santiago at dawn.

Arriving in Santiago at dawn.

Silence in the afternoon.

The Ruta de La Lana joins the Camino Francés in Burgos.  I enjoyed meeting up with other pilgrims and becoming part of the Camino community, after a month walking on my own.  I missed, though, the solitude, so I found that I could have both if I continued walking in the afternoon.  In May of this year (2013), the Camino Francés was busy so nearly all the pilgrims stopped around lunchtime since the albergues filled up quickly.  The Camino fell silent.

Afternoon on the Canal de Castilla

Afternoon on the Canal de Castilla

Solitude and silence can be torture if imposed.  When it is a choice it is a wardrobe, a home, a castle, a warm sleeping bag, a comfort which makes all comforts redundant.  In God’s presence, even when he feels absent, we have our home.  The Camino, even the busy Camino Francés, offers moments of silence.  The pilgrim has chosen to leave the noises of everyday life behind.  The simple business of walking 100, 200, 800 kms distances us from these noises.  If we can take that little bit of extra space, in a meadow, up a tree, in a church, or on a secluded stone in a copse, God speaks to us in silence.  The Camino Forums are witnesses to many stories of life-changing moments on the Camino.

These afternoons on the Camino Francés were the easiest walking I had this year.  The emptiness meant that the Camino had quite a different feel to it compared with the mornings.  The few pilgrims I met passed me by quickly, slowing down for a greeting, but moving on to their night’s destination.  Often they were people who had little time off work and wanted to walk a good distance each day.  Otherwise the way was deserted.

Another snail.

Another snail.

When the weather permitted I would lie down for a siesta on the side of the Camino watching the camino and seeing how close the birds would come.  I’d watch the wind in the grass and the reeds, the constantly re-forming cauliflower clouds and I would close my eyes, resting, doing nothing.  It is wonderful to do nothing.  If God has given me one great grace, this is it: to know that He wants me to do nothing, a lot.  He has, I believe, given everyone this grace but, like silence, this gift often lies in a drawer unopened.

The silence of the night.

Dusk and dawn are noisy times.  It is when many animals seek their food.  When I am sleeping out they root around, coming very close if I have left any food unwrapped.  In Spain, it is usually wild boar and deer;  in England it was foxes, deer and badgers.  Then in the middle of the night silence falls.  When walking during the day I am aware of the silence, but walking itself is noisy with the crushing of my sandals on the earth and the rustling of clothes.  At night I can be motionless, there is no traffic, there are no airplanes or flies.

One of my few night-time photos, England, near Macclesfield. I walked late into the night and triggered an arrhythmia.

One of my few night-time photos, England, near Macclesfield. I walked late into the night and triggered an arrhythmia.

I sleep well in the open air so I usually only snatch a moment of silence and a deep contented awe at my smallness under the heavens.  There is a point, about 4 or 5 am when the temperature drops suddenly and I wake up.  I know the animals will soon be nosing around so I snuggle up in a bundle in my sleeping bag smelling the grass as it gathers its dew.  The day is beginning and I reach in my memory for Mother Theresa’s prayer,

“Today, let Peace reign over us.  

Let me trust in God,  Let me trust that here, where I am, is exactly where I am meant to be.

Let me not forget the infinite number of possibilities which are born of Faith.

Let me use the gifts I have been given and share the love which has been given to me.

I am happy to know that I am a child of God,

and to let His presence fill me to the marrow of my bones and free my soul to sing, to dance, to rejoice and to love.”

 

 

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Being yourself. “The paths that lead to life”

Posted on November 11, 2013 by John

Being yourself.  “The paths that lead to life.”

Paths that lead to life. One million paces from Santiago.

Paths that lead to life. One million paces from Santiago.

A long Camino is over 1,000,000 steps.  

The first part of The Ruta de La Lana was marked, for me, by physical weariness and inner dullness.  This was so in spite of meeting some wonderful and inspiring people, especially the Friends of the Camino, the group of volunteers who do so much to make life safe and possible for everyone who walks the camino.  Each step I took in Alicante, Albacete and Cuenca remains fossilised in my memory. (My memory nowadays captures less and less. ) I felt no joy.

So I devised a prayer to repeat over and over again. “Lord, teach me how to give you glory and how to live in joy.”  The first part of this refrain reflected my puzzlement over the whole business of praising and giving glory.  I can’t imagine what this means.  The idea of heavenly hosts singing all the time doesn’t inspire me much except at Christmas and why God should want my praise I can’t imagine.  One of my own great battles is to detach myself from seeking praise and to know how to accept it healthily when it arrives.  Praise can be addictive, for me at least.

A Long Stretch on the Ruta de La Lana in Solitude.

Paracuellos to Fuentes.  40km

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Prayers of this sort are always answered.  It is just a matter of waiting.  This time I had an answer to the first part fairly soon.  I would have longer to wait for the joy.  The Ruta de La Lana has some long stretches without any services.  Two weeks into this Camino I had stayed in the Hermitage which is a kilometre off the Camino just outside of Paracuellos.  This is a Casa Rural which offers pilgrims a very good rate for the night and also has a restaurant/bar.  On leaving I asked for two bocadillos which turned out, each one, to be a feast, one with a ham omelette and the other with home-made chorizo.  I attribute the answer to my prayer partly to the chorizo.

There is only one village between Paracuellos and Fuentes, but this is an important one.  Monteagudo de Las Salinas is where the original Ruta de La Lana began.  It offers minimal services, but the only ones for 40 km.  When I arrived the village was empty.

A heartening plaque in Monteagudo de Salinas.

A heartening plaque in Monteagudo de Salinas.

With difficulty, I found the shop which looks just like all the other houses.  It is alongside the Camino, but I had wandered up into the deserted village,  missing it.  The shopkeeper explained that she has very few customers and, moreover, a van comes round the villages with fresh produce, so the survival of a small shop is unlikely.  On the other hand, her non-commercial services, as a social centre for the elderly population, a drop-off point for medical prescriptions and help in times of mini-emergencies were thriving.  She was happy, she said, in her shop but it was not economically viable.

Monteagudo de las Salinas

Monteagudo de las Salinas

Before entering Monteagudo I had enjoyed my chorizo sandwich.  So when I met this woman I was thrilled for she was confirming for me all that had happened as I ate my sandwich.  The Camino had passed through a long green plain, about 4 km long, bordered either side by low hills.  I had been saying my prayer about praise and joy when the plain itself distracted me.  I imagined it as a golf course and I soared off on a reverie planning all the holes on this course which would undoubtedly be one of the world’s most exclusive, hidden treasures.  So much for prayer, even repetitive prayer, let alone wordless contemplation!  When I became aware that I was dreaming and planning, I knew it was time to stop and investigate the sandwich.

The glory in being just who you are.

I sat down on a clump of grass beside my golf course and gave thanks for the sandwich and its home-made red sausages and salad.  I had stuck my walking pole in the sandy earth and began to absorb my surroundings.  I saw a little white flower which seemed to say, “Look at me.  I am beautiful”.  “You are,” I said. “you are just perfect in yourself.”  Then, it was as if someone nudged me to say, ” Just listen to what you are saying”.  At which point I understood something about giving glory to God.  It’s all about just being and being who I really am.

The golf course behind by pole, earthed in the sand.

The golf course behind by pole, earthed in the sand.

Uncovering the hidden treasure.

For the rest of this day the Camino passed through farm land with cattle and sheep.  The path was bordered by rosemary in flower, deer ran, dashing across the green pasture to the shelter of the woods. I remember long ago reading Heidegger who was suggesting that we live blindly in a world we construct from our falsehood, from cover-ups.  He explained that the Greek word for truth, Aletheia, means Un-covering.  Much of what I recalled of this great philosopher still excites me and my simple understanding that all I had to do to give glory to God is to be my real self, I had from heard Heidegger.  The task is not easy.  We have to strip off layers of self-deception, self-justification, fear of ourselves, our past and our guilt.  That this truthfulness, individually and collectively is the only path to life is common wisdom in all the major spiritual traditions.  “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life”, John14.6

Deer are very plentiful on the Ruta de La Lana.

Deer are very plentiful on the Ruta de La Lana.

Un-covering the truth of who we are is a life-time’s work, I expect; if not several life times. Christians, of course, believe that the work is completed for them by Christ which makes, to me perfectly good sense in the context of our oneness with and in God, in the Body of Christ.  But in the meantime, theology apart, I had a Camino of many millions of steps to walk.

The woman in the shop, however, confirmed for me one of the key corollaries of this awareness of giving glory, which is that being who we are also means being where we are, now.  This, thanks to many modern treatises on spirituality, is a secret in the public domain. (Rohr, Tolle)

This chorizo sandwich moment on a day in which I met only one other human being,  the woman in the shop, happened (by chance?…) on the day of the most wonderful solitude for me.  I was at no time alone surrounded by the vibrant truth of nature.  The panentheist in me wanted to sleep under the stars, ask questions of the hares and let the rosemary kiss me.  Nature uncovers the true self.

"If they build a golf-course here, will you eat it?"

“If they build a golf-course here, will you eat it?”

Praise in itself is neutral: it can both veil and reveal.  The praise which reveals is that which we want to offer to each other and to God.  We praise when we see the reality in another person, the truth, the beauty, the hurt, the confusion, and the light, whatever is there and offer it as understanding and reflection of the goodness we see.  We give glory when we stand unclothed, just as we are, before God and each other.

The Camino offers us many opportunities of divesting ourselves of our adornments, our disguises, our make-up.  We begin to know where our own beauty really is.  The Camino is a Way of compliments.  We begin to see the good in our fellow pilgrims through our own good will which thrives in this special, flowing community.  “Well done!”, “You are very kind!”, “I really enjoyed walking with you this morning”, “You look wonderful!”, “Gosh, how fantastic!  You’ve painted your toenails again. You are a wonder.”  It is a way of praise, even in the most elementary Way.  And in the highest way of all we know that giving glory to God is like being a little flower, or a shopkeeper who is: we praise him by being ourselves.

A ruin for the night after a day of solitude.

A ruin for the night after a day of solitude.

High on the plateau above Fuentes and Cuenca, itself, I lay down for the night on the grass and the stones, earthed, like my pole giving thanks to be, just be, “You have shown me the paths that lead to life.”

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Healing – using the simple Iona prayer for healing on the Camino.

Posted on November 8, 2013 by John

Healing, a simple prayer from The Iona Community.

The bay where St. Columba is said to have landed on Iona in 563 AD.

The bay where St. Columba is said to have landed on Iona in 563 AD.

The Camino is a place for healing.

Many of us carry pebbles, stones and rocks in our hearts as well as rucksacks our backs. Walking, day after day, welds together body, mind and spirit until we know that the three are one.  We carry within us things which harm us.  We may have a tumour, an addiction, a grief unmourned, infertility, abandonment, betrayal, a heart dysfunction, resentments, obsessions, fears, blindness, humiliations, insecurities…………  all these and many more.

The camino is an opportunity for many to talk, to share, to listen and to take part in the healing of ourselves and others.  “Healing” need not be a miraculous physical cure and many pilgrims know this when they experience the oneness of mind and spirit and body which the camino can offer.

The Bishop of the Walking Church. One in body, mind and spirit.

The Bishop of the Walking Church. One in body, mind and spirit.

The albergue in Gradignan, Bordeaux.

Ticks.

Le Chemin St. Jacques, by the costal route, passes through the flat forested south-West of France, reclaimed from the sea by Napoleon.  It is an easy walk and was my first close encounter with ticks.  There are times of the year when vigilance is recommended to spot these blood-suckers before they do damage.  This can happen if they stay too long on your body, usually you legs.  I always seemed to pick mine up in forests.  A chemist sold me a tick remover which was invaluable when I spotted one with its head buried in my flesh and its bottom sticking out inviting the tick remover to hook it out with a simple flick of the wrist.

A kind, but suspicious Hospitalera.

I arrived on the outskirts of Bordeaux, for I was travelling Le Chemin backwards, north to Tours, where there is a magnificant albergue for pilgrims.

Alberugue, Gardignan, S. Bordeaux.

Albergue, Gardignan, S. Bordeaux.

The hospitalera was very welcoming in this hostal which was spacious and even had a bike available.  I was the first to arrive and the hospitalera had adjusted to my going in the wrong direction, accepting that I was a genuine pilgrim.  Then she noticed two people stepping out of a taxi and heading towards the door, with their rucksacks.  I left her to it.  After much explaining, the couple were allowed to stay the night.  They were clearly in bad shape, both appearing very run down and the woman, about 15 years older than her young man, had difficulty walking.  She was talkative and the young man silent. When they went off to unpack and shower the hospitalera whispered to me that she didn’t think they were “genuine”, but that she felt sorry for them.  No sooner had she confided in me than a young girl turned up pushing a supermarket trolley overflowing with clothes, a guitar, plastic bags and a gigantic, bulging rucksack.  She had a huge smile and cheerfully introduced herself to us both.  “I’ve come from Holland.”  “With all that stuff?”, I asked with little self control.  “Yes”, she said, “I hope I’ll manage it all over the Pyrenees.”  The hospitalera looked at me as if to say, “Here’s another one.”

The guests.

The four of us turned out to be the only guests that night and I was silently amused by the thought that none of us were, apparently “regular” pilgrims,  although I had had that status conferred on me by the warden.  The girl with the supermarket trolley had packed up her job and headed for Santiago.  She seemed without a care in the world, strumming her guitar and explaining that Lidl was the best place to look for food in the bins at night.  She dined on smoked salmon and blue cheese which had just reached it sell-by date.  This girl did most of the talking.  She was the only one drinking alcohol.  But she was a very genuine pilgrim, having decided to simply place all her trust in God, pack up all her earthly goods and walk to Santiago.  She explained, in detail to me, all the best places to stay and landmarks on the Chemin going North.  She had certainly walked it – with her Carrefour trolley.  When she went off to bed, the woman began to tell me her story and spoke for the young man, too.

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The couple had met in rehab a year before.  She was an alcoholic and he, too, but with a drug problem as well: they had been “clean” for a year.  She had a serious skeletal illness which made walking difficult and, while they had set off from home in Grenoble, had only managed a week on Le Chemin before she was forced to admit that she couldn’t continue. However, they had made a promise to complete the pilgrimage if they stayed clean for a year and were determined to do so.  So that day they had taken the train to Bordeaux and tomorrow wanted to go on to Leon.  She believed they could make it from there to Santiago.  The boy began to speak, “Yes we can. We will. God is with us.”

 

A Healing Breakfast.

All four of us sat down to a breakfast of cheese and cold meats thanks to Lidl.  My own story, that I was on a pilgrimage of reconciliation to Iona, completed the picture of why we all happened to meet up in Bordeaux that night.  As those who walk the Camino know well it is possible for the constellations to align for a moment.  This was one of those moments and I felt emboldened to propose to my two fellow alcoholics that we might say the Iona prayer for healing.  When they showed willingness I explained that we should stand up, whereupon, the young girl said with spontaneity, “What about me. I need healing, too.”

I placed my hands on the young lad and invited his girl friend and the supermarket trolley girl to do the same.  They repeated after me the words of the Iona Community healing service,

“May the Spirit of the Living God, present with us now,

Enter you, in body, mind and spirit,

And heal you of all that harms you.

In Jesus name, Amen”

In silence, we all placed hands on the woman and repeated the prayer., then on the girl and then they did the same for me while I remained silent.

The big breakfast room filled with a luminous tension as we quietly let what had just happened to us sink in.  There was nothing to say for a while, then softly, “Thank you” and “Thank you” and “Thank you, God.”

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It’s normal to cry on the Camino. The gift of tears.

Posted on November 7, 2013 by John

It’s normal to cry on the Camino to Santiago.

The gift of tears.

I came across this in a Blog on the Camino to Santiago:

“Then a strange thing happened. I don’t know if it was the effect of the wine after 2 nights’ lack of sleep, or whether I was touched by the kindness of strangers, or whether I was charged by the many emotions I’d felt on this, my 1st day of pilgrimage. But tears welled up inside me and I wept like a child. Jean-Marc patted me on the arm reassuringly, a wise and benign expression on his face. “Don’t worry. It’s quite normal,” he said.”

Cows and elephants shed tears when a calf dies, according to many who work with them. This is denied by most scientists.

Cows and elephants shed tears when a calf dies, according to many who work with them. This is denied by most scientists.

On the Camino de Levante in Febraury 2011 I met a seasoned Dutch pilgrim.  I called him “the Bishop of the Walking Church,”  Bishop Joannes.  He had been walking Caminos for many years but with a good space between each because of his many commitments.  The Bishop was a man of great wisdom and, as with all such people, he was very open and enquiring.  We did not walk together because we shared the desire to walk alone but we met up from time to time over nearly 1000km.  One evening he said to me, “You know, John, I have this strange experience.  I went into a church and prayed.  Then suddenly I was filled with tears.  I was not sad but full of tears, sobbing.  What is this?”

Neither dark nor light, not quite sadness nor entirely joy, a mixture of all and deeply beautiful.

Neither dark nor light, not quite sadness nor entirely joy, a mixture of all and deeply beautiful.

Joannes was describing an experience I, too, have had from time to time.  It is also one which many pilgrims have described to me, having encountered it for the first time on the Camino.

What is the gift of tears?

The experience usually comes unexpectedly but often in a moment of silence when we are still.  A powerful emotion arises within us, often seemingly unconnected with any particular event or thought, but can be brought about by a sense of place, or wonder.  This wave of emotion seems to come from the very depth of our being.  It is neither pure sadness nor pure joy, but both.  We cry, sob, weep.  It can last for a minute, or five, or ten.  Afterwards we might feel like asking, “What was that?”  We can feel physically drained but buoyed up in spirit.

A girl is weeping at the foot of the Iron Cross.

A girl is weeping at the foot of the Iron Cross.

Clearly there are some special moments when we weep on the Camino, like at the Iron Cross.  The Camino exposes many of our vulnerabilities.  We are not hiding from ourselves or our hurts so much as we do in “normal” life where we fill the day with distractions such as work, television, internet and food.  The gift of tears, though, seems to come from a place even deeper than our inner wounds as if being open to ourselves allows us to go well beyond our own pains and joys to join with all the pain and joy of humanity.  It is an experience common in most religions and in Christianity it is often regarded as a manifestation of the Holy Spirit.

“We, too, can ask the Lord for the gift of tears,”  Pope Francis has said. “It is a beautiful grace … to weep praying for everything: for what is good, for our sins, for graces, for joy itself. … [It] prepares us to see Jesus.”

Sanctuary at Loyola concealing the house in which St. Ignatius was born and in which he experienced his conversion.

Sanctuary at Loyola concealing the house in which St. Ignatius was born and in which he experienced his conversion.

“I’m not religious, but I have had these tears.”

St Ignatius in his 3rd rule for the first week of his Spiritual Exercises sets the gift of tears clearly in a setting of prayer and service to God.  So what if you’re not religious and you have this experience?   My own view is that so many of us have distanced our lives from religion because it has served up so much nonsense, abuse and corruption, because it is boring and irrelevant to our lives and has not offered anything to connect with our lives: lives which can be quite peaceful and happy without a religius affiliation.  That’s sometimes how I feel about it.

What does happen though is that most of us have moments, maybe like the gift of tears, when we feel something much more profound going on within us.  Often beauty, natural beauty, animals, flowers, hill top views suddenly strike a harmonious note within us.  Our aesthetic and spiritual sensibilities are not far apart.  It may be that we are struck by the atmosphere of a building or the smile of an old person.  Almost anything might trigger this contact with a light deep within us which forms a wordless prayer which is humble and loving and flows out in tears.  “Prayer” may not be the word which we first use to describe it but we know it is not any common emotion.  It does not fade like pleasure or need renewing like triumph.  It leaves a mark, a promise of return.

“But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white–then melts for ever; ”  Burns, Tam O’Shanter

 

The distinguishing character of this moment is that, although the experience has passed, we know we have touched something lasting, even eternal.  A great concert may have stirred us, a sports event might have completely absorbed us and a victory been celebrated.  After these have finished we say, “When is the next one?”  With something like the gift of tears it is different.  There remains a connection, always, with what has happened in those minutes, a connection which goes way beyond the self, to something belonging to all,  maybe all that is, to being itself.  If you have had the experience ask yourself whether or not it has touched something lasting, a link with a greatness you have within you, a greatness way beyond yourself.

Vietnam child (Photo:Paul Milton)

Vietnam child (Photo:Paul Milton)  little Buddha.

For me, with all my rational doubts, this type of experience helps define “spirituality”.  I don’t begin with handed-down, well-worked theological and doctrinal models or concepts of “God” which constitute an official religion.  I have chosen to stick with Catholicism because I was born into it and find it full of riches and wisdom even though, as a divorcee in a new relationship I am not welcomed into full communion.  The Jesus story is very special. Others might well go from this experience to Buddhism or any other great faith system. We receive confirmation and validation from others who talk in a common language about such experiences and find a structure of story, wisdom and example to make sense of them.  At the heart of this grace of tears, however, there is some basic spiritual instinct which has been awakened.  Once awakened a thirst remains.  Evangelisation is not just about telling people things it is also about listening to those on the peripheries and recognising their thirst and the workings of the Spirit with them.

As a Christian, the gift of tears is a gift of the Holy Spirit.  For me, the Holy Spirit is the reality of God touching us (as in the gift of tears) and moving us to Love, to compassion, to service and to unity.

The Camino to Santiago is full of examples of love, compassion and service.  I think you have to be particularly distracted to miss them, even today with all the crowds and the tourists and cyclists.  If you have suddenly experienced tears of not joy, not sadness, but much more, shaking in your foundations, that is maybe a wake-up call,  just like puberty was for your sexuality. It is your invitation to explore this universe you are being called to engage in from the inside out: not from the outside in.  It’s not even hard work, all it takes is a “yes”.

 

 

 

 

 

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