I asked a few passersby if they wanted a guitar, and they declined -- probably finding this just a little too weird. I thought that perhaps the best option would be to donate the guitar to a local church. I went to tourist information and asked what churches there were in Ondarroa. Obviously, there were several Catholic ones, but I had the feeling that they wouldn't have as much use for a guitar. I asked if there were any Evangelical churches in Ondarroa, and got a somewhat blank stare. She looked in her files and said that there was a Jehovah's Witness temple, is that what I mean? Oh, and there's also a lot of African sailors, and they have some spiritual get-together of some sort every so often.
Africans, I thought, and I asked where I could find them. She pointed me to a call center nearby.
After getting lost in the narrow streets a few times, I found the call center. The place was packed with dozens of African men and women placing calls to their families back in Ghana or Senegal or wherever.
I sat down with one of the men and asked him if he wanted a guitar. He seemed half-interested and half-suspicious, and I broke the guitar out of its case and sang a Bob Marley song. People gathered around and sang along.
When I was finished, I held up the guitar and said, "See? She's still pretty good. It's just that she's too heavy for me to continue carrying on this pilgrimage. If anyone gives me ten Euros, you can have this guitar."
One man gave me twelve Euros for it, and I walked out of Ondarroa feeling ten pounds lighter.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
37: pilgrim or busker, that is the question
I sat down on a bench at the entrance to Ondarroa. I needed to think.
What sort of trip was I making? I'd been cursing the weight on my back since the second day of this walk. I hadn't really used the guitar at all. My knee and my back seemed to be sustaining injuries from the feel of it, and it was only the 6th day. The guitar bag was falling to bits.
It is interesting to see what sort of expectations we bring to something, even when we try not to bring any at all. I had vague images of trotting from one Spanish town to the next, spending summer evenings playing the guitar on their plazas and making a bit of extra money and maybe doing some of what people sometimes call "connecting with people through music".
This was looking less and less like the trip I was actually taking. To be a busker means to be under no time constraints, to be flexible enough to spend some more days in one town if the pickings are good.
Certainly one could make a pilgrimage that was also a busking trip, but it would have to be a different pilgrimage than what this one seemed to be. This pilgrimage had me spending more time on muddy mountain and forest trails than in any towns. It had me hoping to walk at least 20 Kilometers a day. But with the walks, the scrounging for food and the constant weariness, there was not much time for making music.
So what was it going to be? Was I going to spend a summer wandering around Spain in a vaguely westward direction, hopping from town to town and playing my guitar in public places? Or was I going to concentrate on walking the Camino de Santiago?
Being a guy who hates either/or scenarios, I had been reluctant to make a final decision on this. I was still sure that I could do 20 Kilometers in a day even with a guitar on my back. I still speculated that these initial difficulties would get easier, and that eventually I'd find a routine in which there would be plenty of spare time to make music. I even considered that the extra weight on my back might enhance the pilgrim experience by being a form of asceticism -- like the pilgrims that carry a cross on their back. The guitar certainly served as a good symbol for the weight of music in my life.
But now the strap on the guitar bag had snapped off. It was certainly something that could be repaired, but with every new thing that had to be done in order to keep both options open I was getting more motivated to make a decision one way or the other. It was becoming clear that 20 Kilometers of trail every day with a guitar on my back would get to be a miserable experience after a while. I could cut down the distance and keep the guitar, and plan in more time for the pilgrimage. This is what my "free spirit" self wanted to do.
Or I could get rid of the guitar and concentrate on walking. This seemed less romantic. But I had to admit that I wasn't as good at busking in practice as I was in theory. I'd had some great times making music on the streets in the past, but that was almost always with someone else. Being the lone guy with a guitar always made me feel self-conscious, like I was impinging on people, putting mediocre music into their lives that didn't really enhance their day, and in fact served as an annoyance. It was a louder but not much more dignified version of panhandling.
I decided to get rid of the guitar. I pulled it out and sang one last song, then headed into town to see what options I could find for losing it.
What sort of trip was I making? I'd been cursing the weight on my back since the second day of this walk. I hadn't really used the guitar at all. My knee and my back seemed to be sustaining injuries from the feel of it, and it was only the 6th day. The guitar bag was falling to bits.
It is interesting to see what sort of expectations we bring to something, even when we try not to bring any at all. I had vague images of trotting from one Spanish town to the next, spending summer evenings playing the guitar on their plazas and making a bit of extra money and maybe doing some of what people sometimes call "connecting with people through music".
This was looking less and less like the trip I was actually taking. To be a busker means to be under no time constraints, to be flexible enough to spend some more days in one town if the pickings are good.
Certainly one could make a pilgrimage that was also a busking trip, but it would have to be a different pilgrimage than what this one seemed to be. This pilgrimage had me spending more time on muddy mountain and forest trails than in any towns. It had me hoping to walk at least 20 Kilometers a day. But with the walks, the scrounging for food and the constant weariness, there was not much time for making music.
So what was it going to be? Was I going to spend a summer wandering around Spain in a vaguely westward direction, hopping from town to town and playing my guitar in public places? Or was I going to concentrate on walking the Camino de Santiago?
Being a guy who hates either/or scenarios, I had been reluctant to make a final decision on this. I was still sure that I could do 20 Kilometers in a day even with a guitar on my back. I still speculated that these initial difficulties would get easier, and that eventually I'd find a routine in which there would be plenty of spare time to make music. I even considered that the extra weight on my back might enhance the pilgrim experience by being a form of asceticism -- like the pilgrims that carry a cross on their back. The guitar certainly served as a good symbol for the weight of music in my life.
But now the strap on the guitar bag had snapped off. It was certainly something that could be repaired, but with every new thing that had to be done in order to keep both options open I was getting more motivated to make a decision one way or the other. It was becoming clear that 20 Kilometers of trail every day with a guitar on my back would get to be a miserable experience after a while. I could cut down the distance and keep the guitar, and plan in more time for the pilgrimage. This is what my "free spirit" self wanted to do.
Or I could get rid of the guitar and concentrate on walking. This seemed less romantic. But I had to admit that I wasn't as good at busking in practice as I was in theory. I'd had some great times making music on the streets in the past, but that was almost always with someone else. Being the lone guy with a guitar always made me feel self-conscious, like I was impinging on people, putting mediocre music into their lives that didn't really enhance their day, and in fact served as an annoyance. It was a louder but not much more dignified version of panhandling.
I decided to get rid of the guitar. I pulled it out and sang one last song, then headed into town to see what options I could find for losing it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
36: Pictures of Ondarroa
There's also a cool bridge in Ondarroa, but I didn't take a picture of it.
If you look closely, you can see some separatist Basque graffiti on the pier. You see a lot of that in this region of Spain.
There was a festival going on in town, and these huge puppets were dancing around in the streets.
Monday, August 20, 2007
35: the walk to Ondarroa
I did sleep better than I had since leaving Taize. This was hardly surprising, as it was the first night of the pilgrimage in which I didn't sleep either outdoors or in a cottage belonging to a sect that nurtures a habit of singing outside your window at 5 in the morning. One of the French pilgrims had already gone, and the other was packing up his things.
I took it easy, trying to get my clothes as dry as possible in the little centrifuge dryer. It was a tricky business, that dryer. Slight imbalances would cause it to jump around and hit walls and generally act like a merciless killing machine.
My guitar bag had a strap that kept coming loose, and I had had to mend it repeatedly over the last week. I tried to reinforce it with dental floss. I still mulled over the idea of getting rid of that guitar. It was proving to be a lot of unnecessary weight and hassle.
I ate the rest of last night's groceries for breakfast and eventually headed out. After yesterday's hike I felt that I needed a break from muddy mountain trails, and started walking along the carretera. I was going towards Ondarroa, which I had heard was a beautiful town but which wasn't on the regular pilgrim route.
The walk got annoying pretty soon, as I was on a twisted road that had no shoulder, where trucks would come barelling around corners and I, with my staff and my large pack, would feel like I was taking up too much space on the edge of the road. Maybe muddy mountain trails weren't such a bad idea after all.
Just as I was coming in to Ondarroa the guitar strap finally snapped off. Great, I thought. I was having enough trouble trying to carry the guitar in an ergonomic way even before this. This was something I would need to think through.
I took it easy, trying to get my clothes as dry as possible in the little centrifuge dryer. It was a tricky business, that dryer. Slight imbalances would cause it to jump around and hit walls and generally act like a merciless killing machine.
My guitar bag had a strap that kept coming loose, and I had had to mend it repeatedly over the last week. I tried to reinforce it with dental floss. I still mulled over the idea of getting rid of that guitar. It was proving to be a lot of unnecessary weight and hassle.
I ate the rest of last night's groceries for breakfast and eventually headed out. After yesterday's hike I felt that I needed a break from muddy mountain trails, and started walking along the carretera. I was going towards Ondarroa, which I had heard was a beautiful town but which wasn't on the regular pilgrim route.
The walk got annoying pretty soon, as I was on a twisted road that had no shoulder, where trucks would come barelling around corners and I, with my staff and my large pack, would feel like I was taking up too much space on the edge of the road. Maybe muddy mountain trails weren't such a bad idea after all.
Just as I was coming in to Ondarroa the guitar strap finally snapped off. Great, I thought. I was having enough trouble trying to carry the guitar in an ergonomic way even before this. This was something I would need to think through.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
34: shopping in Deba
I was starting to learn a few things about shopping while being a pilgrim in Spain. For one thing, the shops were all closed for several hours during the afternoon, so as not to disrupt the traditional siesta time. This meant that they were open later in the evening.
But there was another difficulty. As a pilgrim, I was traveling light. I had no cooking utensils, and I did not want to weigh down my backpack with food that would spoil or become an unnecessary burden. This meant that my eating options were limited. I realized, walking through the supermarket in Deba, just how creative and/or frugal I would have to be over the next month.
Yoghurt was only sold in four-packs, leaving me with the option of either overeating on yoghurt or carrying some of it in my backpack, where it made for a somewhat hazardous load. But I figured that buying it in the evening would be the best option, since I could finish two yoghurts tonight and two in the morning before heading out.
I also bought bread, and a tuna can, and a bar of chocolate. Fruit were to eventually become a problem. There were basically three categories: those that had to be washed (like apples), those that were a sticky mess (like oranges) and those that are sold before they are fully ripe (like bananas). Bananas were the most infuriating, since the other categories can be easily enjoyed wherever there's a water source around. But bananas are sold when they are still green, the idea being that you leave them in your fruit plate at home for a day or two before eating them. But of course if you don't have a fruit plate, you have to either eat them while they're green, or you lug them around in your backpack, which is another risky proposition for the rest of your backpack's contents.
The local library offered free internet access for a full hour, so I caught up on my eMailing and blogging. I spent some time looking for a shop where I could buy a hat, since I did not relish the idea of exposing my face to sunlight for the rest of this pilgrimage. I eventually found a Billabong hat that, for all its Australian outback look, also had that distinct floppy look of a traditional pilgrim's hat. The saleswoman seemed to be having trouble getting rid of these, because she let me have it for 12 Euros, even though the price tag said 18.
I returned to the shelter, tried to wash and dry some of my clothes, ate half of my food provisions, and tried to get back to sleep. I was still not happy about how the day had gone -- the very short night's sleep, the long walk through mud and rain and constant promises of rest "around the next corner", the mangling of my sleeping bag in a malfunctioning dryer, and being awakened from deep sleep by a pair of inconsiderate roommates -- but I was not really angry any more. I only hoped that tonight, for once, I'd be able to sleep well.
But there was another difficulty. As a pilgrim, I was traveling light. I had no cooking utensils, and I did not want to weigh down my backpack with food that would spoil or become an unnecessary burden. This meant that my eating options were limited. I realized, walking through the supermarket in Deba, just how creative and/or frugal I would have to be over the next month.
Yoghurt was only sold in four-packs, leaving me with the option of either overeating on yoghurt or carrying some of it in my backpack, where it made for a somewhat hazardous load. But I figured that buying it in the evening would be the best option, since I could finish two yoghurts tonight and two in the morning before heading out.
I also bought bread, and a tuna can, and a bar of chocolate. Fruit were to eventually become a problem. There were basically three categories: those that had to be washed (like apples), those that were a sticky mess (like oranges) and those that are sold before they are fully ripe (like bananas). Bananas were the most infuriating, since the other categories can be easily enjoyed wherever there's a water source around. But bananas are sold when they are still green, the idea being that you leave them in your fruit plate at home for a day or two before eating them. But of course if you don't have a fruit plate, you have to either eat them while they're green, or you lug them around in your backpack, which is another risky proposition for the rest of your backpack's contents.
The local library offered free internet access for a full hour, so I caught up on my eMailing and blogging. I spent some time looking for a shop where I could buy a hat, since I did not relish the idea of exposing my face to sunlight for the rest of this pilgrimage. I eventually found a Billabong hat that, for all its Australian outback look, also had that distinct floppy look of a traditional pilgrim's hat. The saleswoman seemed to be having trouble getting rid of these, because she let me have it for 12 Euros, even though the price tag said 18.
I returned to the shelter, tried to wash and dry some of my clothes, ate half of my food provisions, and tried to get back to sleep. I was still not happy about how the day had gone -- the very short night's sleep, the long walk through mud and rain and constant promises of rest "around the next corner", the mangling of my sleeping bag in a malfunctioning dryer, and being awakened from deep sleep by a pair of inconsiderate roommates -- but I was not really angry any more. I only hoped that tonight, for once, I'd be able to sleep well.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
33: the underachiever, part 2
Some people seem to be at a loss as to why such a high percentage of intelligent people end up working boring jobs and living mostly uneventful, anonymous lives. There are three theories I usually hear when this topic arises:
1. Intelligence comes in various types, and it may be that some of those who have an inordinate amount of one kind of intelligence can never fully put it to use because they lack another kind of intelligence.
2. Someone who is always told that he or she has great potential may start feeling a great degree of pressure, and may end up bottoming out and sabotaging the whole idea of achievement in order to be able to "breathe".
3. The joke is on everyone else. The real surprise is not that you have geniuses who work as bus drivers or school janitors, but that you also have perfectly intelligent people who opt for high-stress, high-responsibility careers and consider this more desireable.
Perhaps the primary thing that a pilgrimage does is to force you to face the questions you can keep brushing aside in everyday living, and the question of underachievement is one I've been brushing aside for years. I'm not a dramatic underachiever -- I'm certainly not a genius -- but there is no denying that I could be doing "better" than cleaning hotel rooms. But the fact is, I'm really not sure that I want to. I'm not convinced that doing something "better" would really be better. I hate having to explain it. And I hate thinking about it, because it gets me lost in the hopeless maze of trying to answer the question "so what do you really want from life, then?"
Nevertheless, this annoying question was on my list of questions to ponder while I walked.
1. Intelligence comes in various types, and it may be that some of those who have an inordinate amount of one kind of intelligence can never fully put it to use because they lack another kind of intelligence.
2. Someone who is always told that he or she has great potential may start feeling a great degree of pressure, and may end up bottoming out and sabotaging the whole idea of achievement in order to be able to "breathe".
3. The joke is on everyone else. The real surprise is not that you have geniuses who work as bus drivers or school janitors, but that you also have perfectly intelligent people who opt for high-stress, high-responsibility careers and consider this more desireable.
Perhaps the primary thing that a pilgrimage does is to force you to face the questions you can keep brushing aside in everyday living, and the question of underachievement is one I've been brushing aside for years. I'm not a dramatic underachiever -- I'm certainly not a genius -- but there is no denying that I could be doing "better" than cleaning hotel rooms. But the fact is, I'm really not sure that I want to. I'm not convinced that doing something "better" would really be better. I hate having to explain it. And I hate thinking about it, because it gets me lost in the hopeless maze of trying to answer the question "so what do you really want from life, then?"
Nevertheless, this annoying question was on my list of questions to ponder while I walked.
32: a rude awakening
I was in a deep, dark place.
Then there was a voice. Oh no, I thought. Shut up. It was distant and I was still very deep, but I knew what it was and what it would do.
It was a man's voice, speaking French. Relentlessly, as he spoke, my consciousness surfaced, in spite of all my attempts to keep it down.
It was too late. I was awake now. The two older Frenchmen were having an uninhibited conversation in spite of the fact that I was sleeping right there in the same room.
In my mind I was showering them with curses and insults, but I think my face and body only communicated a sort of aloof dignity as I climbed down from the bunk, got dressed, and walked out into the streets of Deba.
Then there was a voice. Oh no, I thought. Shut up. It was distant and I was still very deep, but I knew what it was and what it would do.
It was a man's voice, speaking French. Relentlessly, as he spoke, my consciousness surfaced, in spite of all my attempts to keep it down.
It was too late. I was awake now. The two older Frenchmen were having an uninhibited conversation in spite of the fact that I was sleeping right there in the same room.
In my mind I was showering them with curses and insults, but I think my face and body only communicated a sort of aloof dignity as I climbed down from the bunk, got dressed, and walked out into the streets of Deba.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
31: Making Deba
Not too long after walking on from the place where the shelter wasn't, I met a man coming up the trail with a yoke of oxen. They were beautiful animals with magnificent horns, and he was shouting and poking them with a stick. They were dragging a huge tractor tire. I assumed that he didn't have a vehicle big enough to transport something that large up to his farm, but I found out weeks later that he and his oxen were prize-winning competitors in such events.
We talked for a few minutes, and it was a strange meeting. He had a small but violent dog barking at me, and there was something anachronistic (again) about a man with a yoke of oxen talking to a pilgrim. But it was not just that; he seemed to be a sketchy character as well, so much so that I was on my guard and did not take such risks as taking a picture of him with his photogenic bovine friends. He asked me about the woman in my life, and I told her there was none, so he asked if I prefer men. This exact conversation takes place every so often, but it usually does not end well. I told him I do not prefer men, and apologized for not prefering men, and felt like I needed to say something more to assuage the confusion of a poor man who does not know what to do with a guy who has no woman in his life but doesn't like men either.
The rest of the walk to Deba was miserable. I trudged on in that "exhausted and dejected hiker" mode where you step into every puddle and mud-wallow in the trail, no longer making the slightest effort to keep yourself moderately dry and clean. It was raining again. My prayers were occasionally interrupted and gave way to cursing. On steep uphill slopes I didn't even say the full Jesus prayer any more, as I didn't have the breath for it. I just said, "Sweet Jesus, remember me..."
I stopped at one shop and bought a large bar of chocolate. I figured that I needed not only the energy, but also the endorphins.
I was in a somewhat trancelike state as I stumbled into Deba, but the surreal quality suddenly increased as the yellow trail markers pointed me right into an elevator door. I was on a height above the city, and there were elevators down into the town center.
I found the tourist information office, where I had been told that I could pick up the key to the local pilgrim shelter. The lady was very kind, and explained everything I needed to know. As she was talking, another pilgrim walked in. He, like the man I had met earlier on the trail, was an elderly Frenchman.
The pilgrim shelter looked a bit like you'd imagine a red cross shelter in a war zone to look like. There were steel bunks with green mattresses three beds high reaching towards the ceiling. There was a sink and a small centrifuge to dry your clothes in, and a bathroom and shower. The first French pilgrim I had met that day was already there.
Now I noticed how very wet and muddy I really was. I carefully took off my boots and socks, and I rummaged around in my backpack for some clothes that were moderately dry. The wet beach sand of Zarautz still clung to everything. I tried to wash the sand off of my sleeping bag, which I then put into the centrifuge for it to dry a bit. The centrifuge was an irresponsible affair, however, and a cracked part of the frame snagged on my sleeping bag, tearing a gash into it and flinging its white synthetic innards around the room. I immediately turned it off.
I took a shower and climbed to one of the top bunks with my mangled sleeping bag. I stuffed wax plugs into my ears, blindfolded myself with a shirt, and fell asleep.
We talked for a few minutes, and it was a strange meeting. He had a small but violent dog barking at me, and there was something anachronistic (again) about a man with a yoke of oxen talking to a pilgrim. But it was not just that; he seemed to be a sketchy character as well, so much so that I was on my guard and did not take such risks as taking a picture of him with his photogenic bovine friends. He asked me about the woman in my life, and I told her there was none, so he asked if I prefer men. This exact conversation takes place every so often, but it usually does not end well. I told him I do not prefer men, and apologized for not prefering men, and felt like I needed to say something more to assuage the confusion of a poor man who does not know what to do with a guy who has no woman in his life but doesn't like men either.
The rest of the walk to Deba was miserable. I trudged on in that "exhausted and dejected hiker" mode where you step into every puddle and mud-wallow in the trail, no longer making the slightest effort to keep yourself moderately dry and clean. It was raining again. My prayers were occasionally interrupted and gave way to cursing. On steep uphill slopes I didn't even say the full Jesus prayer any more, as I didn't have the breath for it. I just said, "Sweet Jesus, remember me..."
I stopped at one shop and bought a large bar of chocolate. I figured that I needed not only the energy, but also the endorphins.
I was in a somewhat trancelike state as I stumbled into Deba, but the surreal quality suddenly increased as the yellow trail markers pointed me right into an elevator door. I was on a height above the city, and there were elevators down into the town center.
I found the tourist information office, where I had been told that I could pick up the key to the local pilgrim shelter. The lady was very kind, and explained everything I needed to know. As she was talking, another pilgrim walked in. He, like the man I had met earlier on the trail, was an elderly Frenchman.
The pilgrim shelter looked a bit like you'd imagine a red cross shelter in a war zone to look like. There were steel bunks with green mattresses three beds high reaching towards the ceiling. There was a sink and a small centrifuge to dry your clothes in, and a bathroom and shower. The first French pilgrim I had met that day was already there.
Now I noticed how very wet and muddy I really was. I carefully took off my boots and socks, and I rummaged around in my backpack for some clothes that were moderately dry. The wet beach sand of Zarautz still clung to everything. I tried to wash the sand off of my sleeping bag, which I then put into the centrifuge for it to dry a bit. The centrifuge was an irresponsible affair, however, and a cracked part of the frame snagged on my sleeping bag, tearing a gash into it and flinging its white synthetic innards around the room. I immediately turned it off.
I took a shower and climbed to one of the top bunks with my mangled sleeping bag. I stuffed wax plugs into my ears, blindfolded myself with a shirt, and fell asleep.
Monday, August 13, 2007
30: where does a pilgrim shelter hide?
It was raining again, and I was walking on muddy roads between fields. Sometimes it hardly qualified as a road, it was just a stretch of swampy grass. At one point I noticed that someone was walking a ways behind me. He had a staff and a backpack, so I assumed he was another pilgrim.
He eventually caught up with me. He was an elderly Frenchman, and we soon saw that there would not be much communication between us, as we lacked a common language. He was walking faster than me, which was a little embarassing, considering that he was probably around 70.
The trail eventually led to a paved road. After a steep uphill climb, I saw a yellow "A" inside of a house symbol painted on the asphalt. This was the symbol for a pilgrim shelter, and I was excited. It had an arrow and the words "300 M" painted next to it.
About three hundred meters later, however, the road split. There was a building there which I assumed would have to be the shelter, but it was not marked in any way. I knocked. There was no answer. I put down my backpack and my guitar, and walked down one road for a bit to see if there was anything further down which could be a pilgrim shelter, but found nothing. I tried the other road. When a car finally came by, I stopped it and asked the people inside if there was a pilgrim shelter around here, and they said there wasn't.
I couldn't believe this. It was marked on the map I had received yesterday in Orio. It was marked by a yellow sign on the pavement. Where does a pilgrim shelter hide itself from a weary pilgrim? What is a weary pilgrim to do when the shelter has hidden itself?
For a while I stood in the rain and agonized. Then I decided I'd keep walking to Deba. I was already in a sufficiently bad mood, sufficiently exhausted and sleep deprived, sufficiently drenched by the rain, and sufficiently aching in my joints and muscles, that I felt a certain masochistic zeal to keep this going for a while yet. I also indulged in the pleasure of grumbling about it.
He eventually caught up with me. He was an elderly Frenchman, and we soon saw that there would not be much communication between us, as we lacked a common language. He was walking faster than me, which was a little embarassing, considering that he was probably around 70.
The trail eventually led to a paved road. After a steep uphill climb, I saw a yellow "A" inside of a house symbol painted on the asphalt. This was the symbol for a pilgrim shelter, and I was excited. It had an arrow and the words "300 M" painted next to it.
About three hundred meters later, however, the road split. There was a building there which I assumed would have to be the shelter, but it was not marked in any way. I knocked. There was no answer. I put down my backpack and my guitar, and walked down one road for a bit to see if there was anything further down which could be a pilgrim shelter, but found nothing. I tried the other road. When a car finally came by, I stopped it and asked the people inside if there was a pilgrim shelter around here, and they said there wasn't.
I couldn't believe this. It was marked on the map I had received yesterday in Orio. It was marked by a yellow sign on the pavement. Where does a pilgrim shelter hide itself from a weary pilgrim? What is a weary pilgrim to do when the shelter has hidden itself?
For a while I stood in the rain and agonized. Then I decided I'd keep walking to Deba. I was already in a sufficiently bad mood, sufficiently exhausted and sleep deprived, sufficiently drenched by the rain, and sufficiently aching in my joints and muscles, that I felt a certain masochistic zeal to keep this going for a while yet. I also indulged in the pleasure of grumbling about it.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
29: Continuing thoughts on sleep deprivation
I once heard that even insomniacs get as much sleep as they need, and that really all their problems are psychosomatic. I'm not sure I believe that, but even if it were true, a psychosomatic problem is not simply solved by repeating "I'm just imagining this" to yourself.
Watchman Nee said that he had a lot of trouble sleeping until he came to the realization that we are created to need sleep.
"Give us this day our daily sleep."
Of course that kind of a realization has to be an internalized -- one could say a spiritual -- experience, because the fact itself is one that we all recognize intellectually. But how often must I reflect on the fact that I am created to need sleep before I will fully free myself from the pressure of needing sleep?
The worst thing about the problems we obsess over is that they can often only be solved by no longer obsessing over them. But as long as they're not solved, we continue obsessing. Even if we know that that's the exact way to leave them unsolved. And then we obsess over our obsessions with our problems.
I just need enough sleep, one night at a time...
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Hasn't He been giving it to me? It hasn't been as much as I wanted, maybe not even as much as I needed to function at my highest potential, but certainly enough to survive? Why do I need to function at my highest potential anyway?
Ultimately it's the "daily" thing, isn't it? I'd like to rest. To rest. It is perhaps my greatest desire of all. It is probably the reason why I'm so depressed and even despairing in this life, and so ready to move on to the next one, and even having blasphemous wishes like a desire for a naturalistic universe in which death is simply oblivion rather than some Great Praise Band Gig In The Sky. I don't like praise bands. I just want to rest.
Sometimes I get to where I see all the joys and tragedies of life primarily as things that stand in the way between me and perfect rest. Sometimes I'd rather sleep away my remaining life than have even the most glorious adventures. But God obviously wants my life to be something other than rest; apparently rest is a means, not an end. He just gives me a daily share, and it seems so meager...
"Give us this day our daily bread"
My spiritual growth consists in large part of discovering in just how many areas I have not made my peace with God's methods.
Watchman Nee said that he had a lot of trouble sleeping until he came to the realization that we are created to need sleep.
"Give us this day our daily sleep."
Of course that kind of a realization has to be an internalized -- one could say a spiritual -- experience, because the fact itself is one that we all recognize intellectually. But how often must I reflect on the fact that I am created to need sleep before I will fully free myself from the pressure of needing sleep?
The worst thing about the problems we obsess over is that they can often only be solved by no longer obsessing over them. But as long as they're not solved, we continue obsessing. Even if we know that that's the exact way to leave them unsolved. And then we obsess over our obsessions with our problems.
I just need enough sleep, one night at a time...
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Hasn't He been giving it to me? It hasn't been as much as I wanted, maybe not even as much as I needed to function at my highest potential, but certainly enough to survive? Why do I need to function at my highest potential anyway?
Ultimately it's the "daily" thing, isn't it? I'd like to rest. To rest. It is perhaps my greatest desire of all. It is probably the reason why I'm so depressed and even despairing in this life, and so ready to move on to the next one, and even having blasphemous wishes like a desire for a naturalistic universe in which death is simply oblivion rather than some Great Praise Band Gig In The Sky. I don't like praise bands. I just want to rest.
Sometimes I get to where I see all the joys and tragedies of life primarily as things that stand in the way between me and perfect rest. Sometimes I'd rather sleep away my remaining life than have even the most glorious adventures. But God obviously wants my life to be something other than rest; apparently rest is a means, not an end. He just gives me a daily share, and it seems so meager...
"Give us this day our daily bread"
My spiritual growth consists in large part of discovering in just how many areas I have not made my peace with God's methods.
Friday, August 10, 2007
28: Accomodations near Zumaia... or not
Amidst prayers for daily bread and and thoughts of sleep deprivation I arrived in Zumaia. I asked around if there was something like a hostel there. They told me about hotels and pensions, but when I asked if there was something cheap as well, they told me that there was one hostel up on the mountain ridge. One man eventually pointed it out to me. Fortunately the Camino de Santiago went up to this ridge as well, so I wasn't making some unnecessarily difficult detour.
Along the way I asked one or two more people, and they confirmed that yes, that building up on the hill (or maybe not exactly that one, but one like it up in that area anyway) was indeed a hostel.
When I arrived, I found out that it was simply a farm.
"Isn't there also a hostel nearby?" I asked.
"Well, not really nearby", said the farmer. "Follow that tractor path and it will turn into a trail. About... maybe four or five more kilometers, and you'll be at the hostel."
"Really? Down in town they told me it was on this ridge here."
"Well, it isn't." He said with a sort of finality that indicated that he wanted me to shuffle on.
Well, that's that, I thought, and continued walking. My knees were not doing well, especially on the downhill stretches. I was becoming increasingly convinced that I was carrying too much weight. I had washed my clothes the day before, but it had been intermittently rainy, and so they had not had a chance to dry. I was feeling the extra weight of the wet laundry. But most of all I was just feeling the desire of finding a bed and falling asleep. I had not gotten a full night's sleep in over a week, and last night had been only about two hours of sleeping on a windy beach.
I continued my interrupted thoughts on the nature of sleep and depending on God for daily provisions.
Along the way I asked one or two more people, and they confirmed that yes, that building up on the hill (or maybe not exactly that one, but one like it up in that area anyway) was indeed a hostel.
When I arrived, I found out that it was simply a farm.
"Isn't there also a hostel nearby?" I asked.
"Well, not really nearby", said the farmer. "Follow that tractor path and it will turn into a trail. About... maybe four or five more kilometers, and you'll be at the hostel."
"Really? Down in town they told me it was on this ridge here."
"Well, it isn't." He said with a sort of finality that indicated that he wanted me to shuffle on.
Well, that's that, I thought, and continued walking. My knees were not doing well, especially on the downhill stretches. I was becoming increasingly convinced that I was carrying too much weight. I had washed my clothes the day before, but it had been intermittently rainy, and so they had not had a chance to dry. I was feeling the extra weight of the wet laundry. But most of all I was just feeling the desire of finding a bed and falling asleep. I had not gotten a full night's sleep in over a week, and last night had been only about two hours of sleeping on a windy beach.
I continued my interrupted thoughts on the nature of sleep and depending on God for daily provisions.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
27: Our daily sleep deprivation
"Give us this day our daily bread.
Give us this day our daily bread.
Give us this day our daily bread."
The thing with repeating a prayer is that your mind starts wandering after a while. But my mind wanders no matter what kind of prayers I offer, unless I stop praying after a minute or so.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But while your mind may wander, it keeps coming back to the prayer you're repeating. It's like you suddenly become conscious of yourself saying something again, and you listen, "what the heck was I saying? Oh yeah, that."
"Give us this day our daily bread."
I suddenly realized that I was talking about sleep.
I've been a sort of insomniac from birth. It comes and goes in no discernible pattern, but I spend more time trying to fall asleep than anyone I know. I am also more fragile, more offset by a sleepless night, than most people I know.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It seems I have a knot in my intestine, and if I sleep badly for two or three nights in a row, I get such a pain there that I sometimes can't walk straight. My digestion goes wonky. I start losing my ability to concentrate. I get headaches and I lose my voice. I get irritable and angry and depressed and unfair.
Most people have these or similar symptoms when deprived of sleep, but "deprived of sleep" can mean different things. I know people who can go three days straight without any sleep. I know people who can survive for months on end on four hours a night.
At least this is what they claim. I've done no rigorous research on these claims.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
The point is, I can't be guaranteed to get enough sleep to function well, and it ends up being a large and frustrating time-eater. And I pray about it -- it may be the single thing I have said the most prayers about. Usually around 3:30 in the morning, lying awake in bed and having surreal thought-dreams and saying, "God, what do you get out of this? How would it hurt you to just allow me to sleep?"
My mind comes up with uncomfortable answers. Either God is so set on having me to talk to Him that He will even settle for these sorts of accusations (and therefore provokes me to them), or He is somehow opposed to me sleeping.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Indeed, much Christian tradition talks about sleep as if it were a bad thing, or at best a necessary evil. "Watch and pray", wasn't it? Like sleep being the soldier's worst enemy, and we're all soldiers. Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins, and a slothful person is associated with one who sleeps. The Old Testament wisdom literature already talks as if we have to do things "right" in order to "deserve" a good night's sleep -- and even then we better not try to take it too far!
Today's performance-driven Christianity is of course fraught with the sort of sentiments that make you feel guilty if you want to sleep. But the traditional church isn't much help either, with its ascetic monks and Saints who rise at 3 AM for morning prayers and practically try to outdo each other in finding ways to deprive themselves of their biological needs.
"Give us this day our daily
[rest]
bread."
At the same time, rest is vital, one could almost say central, to the Christian faith. It's what Christ promises us if we come unto him; it's what we combine with repentance for our salvation, according to Isaiah; It is one of the great promises of the life to come, and our first prayer for departed souls (Requiem aeternam dona eis...); and it is one of the ways in which the Christian can, paradoxically, be most active and productive.
"Give us this day our daily sleep."
I was on the fifth day of my pilgrimage, and very sleep-deprived.
Give us this day our daily bread.
Give us this day our daily bread."
The thing with repeating a prayer is that your mind starts wandering after a while. But my mind wanders no matter what kind of prayers I offer, unless I stop praying after a minute or so.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But while your mind may wander, it keeps coming back to the prayer you're repeating. It's like you suddenly become conscious of yourself saying something again, and you listen, "what the heck was I saying? Oh yeah, that."
"Give us this day our daily bread."
I suddenly realized that I was talking about sleep.
I've been a sort of insomniac from birth. It comes and goes in no discernible pattern, but I spend more time trying to fall asleep than anyone I know. I am also more fragile, more offset by a sleepless night, than most people I know.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It seems I have a knot in my intestine, and if I sleep badly for two or three nights in a row, I get such a pain there that I sometimes can't walk straight. My digestion goes wonky. I start losing my ability to concentrate. I get headaches and I lose my voice. I get irritable and angry and depressed and unfair.
Most people have these or similar symptoms when deprived of sleep, but "deprived of sleep" can mean different things. I know people who can go three days straight without any sleep. I know people who can survive for months on end on four hours a night.
At least this is what they claim. I've done no rigorous research on these claims.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
The point is, I can't be guaranteed to get enough sleep to function well, and it ends up being a large and frustrating time-eater. And I pray about it -- it may be the single thing I have said the most prayers about. Usually around 3:30 in the morning, lying awake in bed and having surreal thought-dreams and saying, "God, what do you get out of this? How would it hurt you to just allow me to sleep?"
My mind comes up with uncomfortable answers. Either God is so set on having me to talk to Him that He will even settle for these sorts of accusations (and therefore provokes me to them), or He is somehow opposed to me sleeping.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Indeed, much Christian tradition talks about sleep as if it were a bad thing, or at best a necessary evil. "Watch and pray", wasn't it? Like sleep being the soldier's worst enemy, and we're all soldiers. Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins, and a slothful person is associated with one who sleeps. The Old Testament wisdom literature already talks as if we have to do things "right" in order to "deserve" a good night's sleep -- and even then we better not try to take it too far!
Today's performance-driven Christianity is of course fraught with the sort of sentiments that make you feel guilty if you want to sleep. But the traditional church isn't much help either, with its ascetic monks and Saints who rise at 3 AM for morning prayers and practically try to outdo each other in finding ways to deprive themselves of their biological needs.
"Give us this day our daily
[rest]
bread."
At the same time, rest is vital, one could almost say central, to the Christian faith. It's what Christ promises us if we come unto him; it's what we combine with repentance for our salvation, according to Isaiah; It is one of the great promises of the life to come, and our first prayer for departed souls (Requiem aeternam dona eis...); and it is one of the ways in which the Christian can, paradoxically, be most active and productive.
"Give us this day our daily sleep."
I was on the fifth day of my pilgrimage, and very sleep-deprived.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
26: Our Daily Bread
I had already gotten used to saying prayers to the rhythm of my walking and breathing. Most of the time I was saying the Jesus Prayer:
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
You may think that a pilgrimage is a good time to say long prayers, and to bring before God all those things and people and issues that you keep thinking you should spend more time praying for. I did do some of that, but surprisingly little. For the most part I would just repeat the short prayers and make them my meditation.
I had also been working through the Lord's Prayer, in bite-sized pieces. Today I was saying, "Give us this day our daily bread." Over and over. I was breathing to the rhythm of my walking and walking to the rhythm of my praying.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
"Give us this day our daily bread."
[inhale, left - right - left - exhale, right - left - right]
I'm a novice at these methods of meditating, so I won't talk about it very much. I can tell my own story, but there are plenty of experts who can tell you much more.
[inhale] "Give us this day" [left foot - right - left]
[exhale] "our daily bread" [right foot - left - right]
It was daybreak of day 5, and I was already feeling the beginnings of what a pilgrimage can do for the soul -- something similar to opening windows and letting fresh air in, and also something similar to defragmenting a computer drive.
[inhale] "Give us this day" [left foot - right - left]
[exhale] "our daily bread" [right foot - left - right]
I had never suffered hunger. My grandparents on both sides had been refugees, and they knew hunger. My mother tells me that by the time she was born things were looking much better for the Mennonite settlers in western Paraguay, but that many of her parents' generation had already died of malnutrition-related causes by then.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But to me personally the line about bread had never had that depth and urgency. I'd try to reflect on the millions of starving poor in the world, try to make myself feel more grateful and fortunate, but usually ended up feeling guilty instead.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
My father had known hunger, although he never told us so. What he did tell us was that when he was a child, living as a refugee with two brothers and a widowed mother in some post-WWII farming village in central Germany, they had once gotten a dead rabbit somehow. They had kept it in the space between the window panes until Christmas.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It was a sort of refrigerator. And back then they would do anything for a bit of pocket money. They gathered wool off barbed-wire fences and brought it to the factory for a bit of spare change.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Many parts of God's creation don't make much sense. Why are we so dependent on food? It's easy when you grow up like me, with never a hungry day in an entire lifetime. But such a large percentage of humans are not so fortunate. Meanwhile there are millions of people who throw away food regularly. I can never get used to that sight, and I can never help feeling offended by it. I think I once heard something like a sermon about how this part of the Lord's Prayer is meant to be a call to asceticism -- we ask for bread because that's all we need to live, and so the prayer should be accompanied by the throwing out of the non-essentials in our lives.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
When I worked with homeless people in Vancouver's red light district I wasn't even dealing with abject, Africa-style poverty, but I was still made aware of how limited these people were by their dependence on food. They had few options in life, because they had to be back in the soup kitchen by the next mealtime. They could not afford to miss the meals, because they were already on the brink of malnourishment and would be burning plenty of calories during their night on a park bench. They could not get very far in that time, because they had no money for transportation. Their job options were severely limited -- how impressive could their CV/resume be? Who would hire someone without a home address? Someone who shows up to the job interview wearing rags?
"Give us this day our daily bread."
These people were really dependent from day to day. There was nothing saved up for a rainy day somewhere, no possibility to have today's ration keep you going for a few extra days.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
There are some things that God does that I, frankly, have problems with. He creates us so fragile that we need to depend on Him every day. And it sounds so inspiring during our testimony times to talk about how God does provide for every day, but many who truly do depend on Him on a day to day basis still die of starvation. I guess God wants us to solve this problem ourselves, but He seems not to be above letting poor children in Africa suffer and die for their leaders' corruption and our Western World's incompetence at shipping our dinner leftovers across the ocean, so to speak, or coming up with a more viable solution.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It also sounds inspiring to talk about how God is on the side of the poor and the oppressed, and how He will eventually vindicate them. But even this does not necessarily make sense of the situation.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But my real issue in all this is not bread. This is all an extension of the general problem of suffering. I am not personally affected to any great degree -- except for a vague feeling that I should be doing more to be personally affected. But what I am personally affected by is another need we have that also has us in the vice grip of day-to-day dependence.
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
You may think that a pilgrimage is a good time to say long prayers, and to bring before God all those things and people and issues that you keep thinking you should spend more time praying for. I did do some of that, but surprisingly little. For the most part I would just repeat the short prayers and make them my meditation.
I had also been working through the Lord's Prayer, in bite-sized pieces. Today I was saying, "Give us this day our daily bread." Over and over. I was breathing to the rhythm of my walking and walking to the rhythm of my praying.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
"Give us this day our daily bread."
[inhale, left - right - left - exhale, right - left - right]
I'm a novice at these methods of meditating, so I won't talk about it very much. I can tell my own story, but there are plenty of experts who can tell you much more.
[inhale] "Give us this day" [left foot - right - left]
[exhale] "our daily bread" [right foot - left - right]
It was daybreak of day 5, and I was already feeling the beginnings of what a pilgrimage can do for the soul -- something similar to opening windows and letting fresh air in, and also something similar to defragmenting a computer drive.
[inhale] "Give us this day" [left foot - right - left]
[exhale] "our daily bread" [right foot - left - right]
I had never suffered hunger. My grandparents on both sides had been refugees, and they knew hunger. My mother tells me that by the time she was born things were looking much better for the Mennonite settlers in western Paraguay, but that many of her parents' generation had already died of malnutrition-related causes by then.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But to me personally the line about bread had never had that depth and urgency. I'd try to reflect on the millions of starving poor in the world, try to make myself feel more grateful and fortunate, but usually ended up feeling guilty instead.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
My father had known hunger, although he never told us so. What he did tell us was that when he was a child, living as a refugee with two brothers and a widowed mother in some post-WWII farming village in central Germany, they had once gotten a dead rabbit somehow. They had kept it in the space between the window panes until Christmas.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It was a sort of refrigerator. And back then they would do anything for a bit of pocket money. They gathered wool off barbed-wire fences and brought it to the factory for a bit of spare change.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
Many parts of God's creation don't make much sense. Why are we so dependent on food? It's easy when you grow up like me, with never a hungry day in an entire lifetime. But such a large percentage of humans are not so fortunate. Meanwhile there are millions of people who throw away food regularly. I can never get used to that sight, and I can never help feeling offended by it. I think I once heard something like a sermon about how this part of the Lord's Prayer is meant to be a call to asceticism -- we ask for bread because that's all we need to live, and so the prayer should be accompanied by the throwing out of the non-essentials in our lives.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
When I worked with homeless people in Vancouver's red light district I wasn't even dealing with abject, Africa-style poverty, but I was still made aware of how limited these people were by their dependence on food. They had few options in life, because they had to be back in the soup kitchen by the next mealtime. They could not afford to miss the meals, because they were already on the brink of malnourishment and would be burning plenty of calories during their night on a park bench. They could not get very far in that time, because they had no money for transportation. Their job options were severely limited -- how impressive could their CV/resume be? Who would hire someone without a home address? Someone who shows up to the job interview wearing rags?
"Give us this day our daily bread."
These people were really dependent from day to day. There was nothing saved up for a rainy day somewhere, no possibility to have today's ration keep you going for a few extra days.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
There are some things that God does that I, frankly, have problems with. He creates us so fragile that we need to depend on Him every day. And it sounds so inspiring during our testimony times to talk about how God does provide for every day, but many who truly do depend on Him on a day to day basis still die of starvation. I guess God wants us to solve this problem ourselves, but He seems not to be above letting poor children in Africa suffer and die for their leaders' corruption and our Western World's incompetence at shipping our dinner leftovers across the ocean, so to speak, or coming up with a more viable solution.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
It also sounds inspiring to talk about how God is on the side of the poor and the oppressed, and how He will eventually vindicate them. But even this does not necessarily make sense of the situation.
"Give us this day our daily bread."
But my real issue in all this is not bread. This is all an extension of the general problem of suffering. I am not personally affected to any great degree -- except for a vague feeling that I should be doing more to be personally affected. But what I am personally affected by is another need we have that also has us in the vice grip of day-to-day dependence.
Monday, August 6, 2007
25: walking on a rainy night
Shortly after the lights of Zarautz disappeared behind a bend, the streetlights stopped as well. It was a rainy night, and all was pitch black, apart from the faintest white ghosts of the breakers on the rocky coastline to my right below, and the faintest ghosts of white lines on the pavement. I myself was a faint white ghost as well, I reflected, being clad in a huge plastic covering. I was hoping I wouldn't scare anyone driving this stretch of road at this hour of the night.
One lane ended. I had hit a construction zone. There was a construction fence down the middle of the carretera, and the vague shapes of large machinery behind it. Great, I thought. It's pitch black, I look like the spook of a KKK member, and now I'm having to share one lane with two-way traffic.
But there was practically no traffic. I occasionally turned on my flashlight to see where the heck I was going. Eventually I reached Getaria. I took a breather in the shelter of a bus stop before beginning to walk out of town. I got myself lost on some roads that looked promising but came to dead ends.
They had told me that the next pilgrim shelter was near Azkizu, and getting there involved taking a side road from the main carretera along the coast. But after groaning and sweating my way uphill to this little village, I couldn't find anything resembling a pilgrim shelter.
I looked around for a while. I thought. The first light of dawn was beginning to show. Probably an ungodly hour to knock at a pilgrim shelter anyway, even though I'd been practically walking through the night.
But with the daylight increasing by the minute, I was able to find the trail markings, and decided to keep walking. The rain had stopped, or at least given way to a light drizzle.
One lane ended. I had hit a construction zone. There was a construction fence down the middle of the carretera, and the vague shapes of large machinery behind it. Great, I thought. It's pitch black, I look like the spook of a KKK member, and now I'm having to share one lane with two-way traffic.
But there was practically no traffic. I occasionally turned on my flashlight to see where the heck I was going. Eventually I reached Getaria. I took a breather in the shelter of a bus stop before beginning to walk out of town. I got myself lost on some roads that looked promising but came to dead ends.
They had told me that the next pilgrim shelter was near Azkizu, and getting there involved taking a side road from the main carretera along the coast. But after groaning and sweating my way uphill to this little village, I couldn't find anything resembling a pilgrim shelter.
I looked around for a while. I thought. The first light of dawn was beginning to show. Probably an ungodly hour to knock at a pilgrim shelter anyway, even though I'd been practically walking through the night.
But with the daylight increasing by the minute, I was able to find the trail markings, and decided to keep walking. The rain had stopped, or at least given way to a light drizzle.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
24: Symptoms, Causes, Treatments, Diagnoses. Or vice-versa
Sometimes things that look like opposites are really symptoms of the same thing. Look at eating disorders. You see that an anorexic is trying to starve herself. You find out that this is because she is obsessively trying to lose weight. You see an overeater stuffing herself. But if you were to conclude that she is obsessively trying to GAIN weight, you’d be wrong. In fact they are both obsessed with an ideal image of slender beauty, but their obsession takes opposite forms.
Sometimes things that look the same are opposites. Someone with high blood sugar shouldn’t eat sugar. This makes sense. It would also make sense to conclude that someone with low blood sugar SHOULD eat sugar. But that is not the case. Some of the symptoms of having too much sugar in your blood are very similar to some of the symptoms of not having enough sugar in your blood. The causes are opposite, but the effects are much the same.
Sometimes we think someone needs more of something when they actually need less, and vice versa.
It would make sense that if you overeat you need someone to tell you about the advantages of being slim. It would make sense that low blood sugar means you need to eat more sugar. But sometimes the things that make a lot of sense are simply false.
Keep this one in mind. It's not like I've hit some deep hidden truth here, but a whole lot of what I learned during my pilgrimage was how the causes, effects and remedies I've been seeing in my life made all the sense in the world, but were still mistaken. If nothing else, the pilgrimage showed me some more areas of my life in which I had been mistaking the poison for the cure, the illness for the therapy, and the cause for the effect.
I needed to reverse some of my thoughts, but since the problem was that the thoughts were already reversed, I guess you could say that I needed a process of "unreversal". I don't think that word normally exists, but I invite you to use it. It rolls satisfyingly off the tongue.
Sometimes things that look the same are opposites. Someone with high blood sugar shouldn’t eat sugar. This makes sense. It would also make sense to conclude that someone with low blood sugar SHOULD eat sugar. But that is not the case. Some of the symptoms of having too much sugar in your blood are very similar to some of the symptoms of not having enough sugar in your blood. The causes are opposite, but the effects are much the same.
Sometimes we think someone needs more of something when they actually need less, and vice versa.
It would make sense that if you overeat you need someone to tell you about the advantages of being slim. It would make sense that low blood sugar means you need to eat more sugar. But sometimes the things that make a lot of sense are simply false.
Keep this one in mind. It's not like I've hit some deep hidden truth here, but a whole lot of what I learned during my pilgrimage was how the causes, effects and remedies I've been seeing in my life made all the sense in the world, but were still mistaken. If nothing else, the pilgrimage showed me some more areas of my life in which I had been mistaking the poison for the cure, the illness for the therapy, and the cause for the effect.
I needed to reverse some of my thoughts, but since the problem was that the thoughts were already reversed, I guess you could say that I needed a process of "unreversal". I don't think that word normally exists, but I invite you to use it. It rolls satisfyingly off the tongue.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
23: Leaving Zarautz
Sure enough, it started raining after I had only slept for about an hour. I wrapped myself, my guitar and my backpack into the plastic coverings I had brought, and tried to get back to sleep. But after about another hour I realized that nothing would come of this. I was lying on the beach, in the rain, in a plastic bag, in the middle of the night.
I took my things from the beach to one of the buildings along the beach promenade. There was an overhanging roof, and a bench. The place was littered with broken glass and the smell of alcohol. I wasn't about to spend the rest of the night here, tired as I was.
A little ways away, someone was sleeping under a bridge. Maybe this was even another pilgrim.
Hmmm. Concrete floor.
I decided I'd just start walking again. It was 4 AM. I would not be able to keep on the trail on a rainy night like this, but I could walk along the carretera. The beach promenade seemed to continue for a while along the road out of town. It was well-lit and there was hardly any traffic.
I put on a raincoat, then the guitar and the backpack. I covered it all with the huge plastic covering that made me look like a spook, and set out walking on what I would remember as the most difficult day of the pilgrimage.
I took my things from the beach to one of the buildings along the beach promenade. There was an overhanging roof, and a bench. The place was littered with broken glass and the smell of alcohol. I wasn't about to spend the rest of the night here, tired as I was.
A little ways away, someone was sleeping under a bridge. Maybe this was even another pilgrim.
Hmmm. Concrete floor.
I decided I'd just start walking again. It was 4 AM. I would not be able to keep on the trail on a rainy night like this, but I could walk along the carretera. The beach promenade seemed to continue for a while along the road out of town. It was well-lit and there was hardly any traffic.
I put on a raincoat, then the guitar and the backpack. I covered it all with the huge plastic covering that made me look like a spook, and set out walking on what I would remember as the most difficult day of the pilgrimage.
22: Meditations on the Resurrection, Part 4: The Women at the tomb
The first real experience of the Resurrected Jesus (since the Roman guards didn't actually see him) was given to a few women who had been close to him and came to embalm his buried remains. It is the only resurrection account recorded in all four gospels. Like the other events which were important enough for all four evangelists to write about, the discrepancies are infuriating to someone who wants to make a clear and precise picture of the scene. Was there one angel or two? Was the angel or angels already there when the women came, or did they appear afterwards? Did Mary Magdalene stay behind, allowing Jesus to appear to her by the tomb but also to appear to "the women" as they were on their way to find the disciples? Or did she return to the tomb after that appearance? Couldn't the writers have put a little more effort into making sure the details harmonize?
That would of course be a different essay. The fact is that you can make the stories harmonize, which is what you'll probably do if you believe the story, or you can make them contradict each other, which is what you'll do if you don't believe it. In that way it's like any other event being described by several witnesses.
Many of us have heard it emphasized again and again that one of the strangest aspects of the Resurrection appearances was Jesus' choice of witnesses. Again, he does not seem too interested in creating a credible groundwork of convincing evidence for his resurrection. Instead, he first gives the message to women, in a time and culture in which a woman's testimony would not be considered valid in a court of law. Is there some purpose or design in this? Is he intentionally going for the least weight of evidence? It may well be. It would not be the first time that the Bible emphasizes the role of the weak and insignificant in bringing forth God's power.
But there seems to be a more pragmatic reason. Like the Roman guards, the women get to be witnesses of the resurrection simply because thery are there. Any of the disciples could have been the first to see amazing sights and hear incredible news that Easter morning if it had occurred to him to go to the tomb.
And what brought the women there? Hope of the restoration of God's kingdom? A strong faith in the words that Christ had spoken about his own resurrection?
Hardly.
It was something far less dramatic. It was the earthy, practical consideration of displaying a final act of decency to the body of the deceased. While the disciples were trying to pick up the pieces of their shattered dream, the women still had the presence of mind to perform a final -- and, as far as Messianic hopes go, somewhat useless -- act of service.
I can't count how many times I have seen this in ministry work. You see people who are "involved" in the great mover and shaker stuff, but meanwhile, somewhere in the periphery, those who are truly experiencing Grace are the ones who remain faithful in simple acts of service. I've seen the hard-bitten heathen being engaged in argument and discussion all the time, only to be won over by the Christian who shows him the common decency of listening to his views without feeling pressured to make a reply. I've seen the hopeless addict who spent years in and out of recovery centers and who, on the verge of suicide, gave life another chance after one of the soup-kitchen workers noticed that this homeless junkie had gone to the trouble of ironing his shirt. I've seen God surprise me with deep spiritual encounters when I wasn't expecting them or even looking for them at all. I've also seen myself drift furthest from God during the times when I was most involved in ministry and spiritual disciplines.
The momentuous spiritual events are often not witnessed by those who have the highest hopes or the greatest faith. Often the privilege goes to those who faithfully perform the commonest acts of service.
That would of course be a different essay. The fact is that you can make the stories harmonize, which is what you'll probably do if you believe the story, or you can make them contradict each other, which is what you'll do if you don't believe it. In that way it's like any other event being described by several witnesses.
Many of us have heard it emphasized again and again that one of the strangest aspects of the Resurrection appearances was Jesus' choice of witnesses. Again, he does not seem too interested in creating a credible groundwork of convincing evidence for his resurrection. Instead, he first gives the message to women, in a time and culture in which a woman's testimony would not be considered valid in a court of law. Is there some purpose or design in this? Is he intentionally going for the least weight of evidence? It may well be. It would not be the first time that the Bible emphasizes the role of the weak and insignificant in bringing forth God's power.
But there seems to be a more pragmatic reason. Like the Roman guards, the women get to be witnesses of the resurrection simply because thery are there. Any of the disciples could have been the first to see amazing sights and hear incredible news that Easter morning if it had occurred to him to go to the tomb.
And what brought the women there? Hope of the restoration of God's kingdom? A strong faith in the words that Christ had spoken about his own resurrection?
Hardly.
It was something far less dramatic. It was the earthy, practical consideration of displaying a final act of decency to the body of the deceased. While the disciples were trying to pick up the pieces of their shattered dream, the women still had the presence of mind to perform a final -- and, as far as Messianic hopes go, somewhat useless -- act of service.
I can't count how many times I have seen this in ministry work. You see people who are "involved" in the great mover and shaker stuff, but meanwhile, somewhere in the periphery, those who are truly experiencing Grace are the ones who remain faithful in simple acts of service. I've seen the hard-bitten heathen being engaged in argument and discussion all the time, only to be won over by the Christian who shows him the common decency of listening to his views without feeling pressured to make a reply. I've seen the hopeless addict who spent years in and out of recovery centers and who, on the verge of suicide, gave life another chance after one of the soup-kitchen workers noticed that this homeless junkie had gone to the trouble of ironing his shirt. I've seen God surprise me with deep spiritual encounters when I wasn't expecting them or even looking for them at all. I've also seen myself drift furthest from God during the times when I was most involved in ministry and spiritual disciplines.
The momentuous spiritual events are often not witnessed by those who have the highest hopes or the greatest faith. Often the privilege goes to those who faithfully perform the commonest acts of service.
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