There was another tourist/pilgrim waiting in front of tourist information. I talked to him for a moment and found that he was German. I'll call him Guido.
The office opened and we went inside to get our credential stamped and to find out how to get to the pilgrim shelter. While we were busy with this, the German couple I had met earlier walked in as well. They, too, wanted to get their credentials stamped, but they did not intend on spending the night. Guido told them what a beautiful place this would be to stay, but they said they are not on the road primarily for staying in beautiful places.
This was my introduction to Guido. It turned out that he was unemployed, but that he somehow still managed to spend most of his time vacationing in various places. He had done the Camino de Santiago several times, along several trails, but he seemed very relaxed about it all, taking the bus when he didn't feel like walking, or staying several days in one place if he liked it particularly. The Camino de Santiago is becoming clogged up with people like him.
The shelter here in Comillas did look a little more attractive than many of the previous ones. There were several rooms, and kitchen and laundry facilities, to some extent. The two French sisters were there again. I took a nap and when I woke up, Lone and Anabel and Matthieu had arrived as well. It seemed sort of funny the way we kept finding each other. Anabel and Lone told me they had had to stay at a sort of pension in Santillana del Mar, which ended up costing them significantly more than they had hoped to spend. I was glad to hear that, after having spent the night behind a gas station getting barked at by dogs and yelled at by neighbors and crawled on by slugs.
I went back into town to locate the library. It was right next to the tourist information bureau. There was a sort of patio there and some benches, and a lot of people sitting around and children playing. This was one of the things that surprised me about Spain: how much time people spent outdoors socializing.
In the library I needed to wait for some time before the computer was free. I found a book of Garcia Lorca's poetry which brought back memories of high school Spanish Literature class. I also found some works of St. John of the Cross. The depth of his work always overwhelms me. These intimate encounters with God seem to me so overpowering, so dangerous and frightening, and yet in these poems it is presented as something so sweet, so sought after. It seems bold and somewhat innocent and somewhat unnatural and yet so natural as well, to read his words...
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
97: Steps towards grace: it's not that bad, is it?
I'm not one of those Christians who frequently says "God spoke to me" or "God told me...". I can't distinguish God's voice from the other voices in my head, so I'm cautious about attributing any of them to God. But there are a handful of occurences in my life in which a thought entered my mind and filled me with such joyful tenderness that I am even more cautious about attributing it to anyone other than God.
It was 2000, and I'd had a very frustrating year and a half since finishing University. I had moved from Canada to Germany and from Germany to Ecuador, for the time being. My friend Bryan came to visit from Canada and we decided to take some time and travel through Patagonia.
I felt a little bit like I was doing something sinful. I expected that God would want me to do something useful, to get involved in missionary work or something like that. I felt like I couldn't even go and enjoy a trip like this without justifying it in some way, such as making a commitment that I would preach to people I met or something like that.
So I felt that I was going under God's radar, as it were. I felt a bit like Jonah running away from God.
How great was my surprise, then, that it was by taking a trip like this that I would have the deepest spiritual experience in my life up to that point.
It doesn't sound like much to describe it: I was sitting on the waterfront at Punta Arenas, looking out over the Strait of Magellan, when I felt as if God was saying, "come on now, Marco. It's not that bad, is it?"
Like I say, I'm cautious about attributing the thoughts I encounter to God. But something very strange happened: for the next few days and weeks I couldn't embrace the cynical, life-negating view I'd usually held up to that point. I was -- almost against my will, almost somewhat grudgingly, if that were possible -- glad to be alive. The whole trip had been a wonderful experience, and for the first time it didn't feel like something with which I tried to counterbalance the bad things in life. It felt like something simply good, simply to be enjoyed, simply to "taste and see that the Lord is good."
Of course, I managed to regain my Weltschmerz soon enough. A few months later I was working in a warehouse in England and hating my life just like in the good old days. But two things had been altered irreversibly in my grooves of thinking:
For one thing, I learned that I was capable of seeing life as something positive. This was sometimes comforting, but sometimes really alarming.
For another, I learned that I can go for decades as a Christian and still not know anything about the voice of God. I had always assumed that the voice of God was the voice that told me to be useful, to do things I don't like, to take on more responsibility and make more sacrifices and try harder. I had assumed that the part of me that wanted to escape, to travel and be a vagabond and an anonymous free spirit unconcerned with the usefulness of any of his actions, was the bad part -- the voice of temptation that I had to resist. But now I had to re-evaluate my life. The experience was too clear to have been an illusion. The result -- going from hating life to loving it -- far too positive to have come from an evil source. Maybe it had been the voice of God all along, calling me to Patagonia, calling me to be useless for once and to taste and see that the Lord is good. Maybe it was the other voice that was the false god, oppressing me with religiosity. Maybe I was finally understanding what grace means. I had been telling myself all my life that I had understood grace (Protestants can tend to flatter themselves with this compliment), while all the time I had been oppressed by the Protestant work ethic of "repayment by works". (We do not call it "Salvation by works" but it amounts to the same thing.)
This possibility grew slowly within me over the course of the next few years.
It was 2000, and I'd had a very frustrating year and a half since finishing University. I had moved from Canada to Germany and from Germany to Ecuador, for the time being. My friend Bryan came to visit from Canada and we decided to take some time and travel through Patagonia.
I felt a little bit like I was doing something sinful. I expected that God would want me to do something useful, to get involved in missionary work or something like that. I felt like I couldn't even go and enjoy a trip like this without justifying it in some way, such as making a commitment that I would preach to people I met or something like that.
So I felt that I was going under God's radar, as it were. I felt a bit like Jonah running away from God.
How great was my surprise, then, that it was by taking a trip like this that I would have the deepest spiritual experience in my life up to that point.
It doesn't sound like much to describe it: I was sitting on the waterfront at Punta Arenas, looking out over the Strait of Magellan, when I felt as if God was saying, "come on now, Marco. It's not that bad, is it?"
Like I say, I'm cautious about attributing the thoughts I encounter to God. But something very strange happened: for the next few days and weeks I couldn't embrace the cynical, life-negating view I'd usually held up to that point. I was -- almost against my will, almost somewhat grudgingly, if that were possible -- glad to be alive. The whole trip had been a wonderful experience, and for the first time it didn't feel like something with which I tried to counterbalance the bad things in life. It felt like something simply good, simply to be enjoyed, simply to "taste and see that the Lord is good."
Of course, I managed to regain my Weltschmerz soon enough. A few months later I was working in a warehouse in England and hating my life just like in the good old days. But two things had been altered irreversibly in my grooves of thinking:
For one thing, I learned that I was capable of seeing life as something positive. This was sometimes comforting, but sometimes really alarming.
For another, I learned that I can go for decades as a Christian and still not know anything about the voice of God. I had always assumed that the voice of God was the voice that told me to be useful, to do things I don't like, to take on more responsibility and make more sacrifices and try harder. I had assumed that the part of me that wanted to escape, to travel and be a vagabond and an anonymous free spirit unconcerned with the usefulness of any of his actions, was the bad part -- the voice of temptation that I had to resist. But now I had to re-evaluate my life. The experience was too clear to have been an illusion. The result -- going from hating life to loving it -- far too positive to have come from an evil source. Maybe it had been the voice of God all along, calling me to Patagonia, calling me to be useless for once and to taste and see that the Lord is good. Maybe it was the other voice that was the false god, oppressing me with religiosity. Maybe I was finally understanding what grace means. I had been telling myself all my life that I had understood grace (Protestants can tend to flatter themselves with this compliment), while all the time I had been oppressed by the Protestant work ethic of "repayment by works". (We do not call it "Salvation by works" but it amounts to the same thing.)
This possibility grew slowly within me over the course of the next few years.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
96: Cobreces and Comillas
The day was slowly breaking behind me. I eventually came on another gas station, and I went in for a wash. I was still walking on the carretera instead of the trail. The kilometer markers on the side of the road gave me the idea that I should count how many steps I take per kilometer. Then I could calculate how many steps I took during the entire pilgrimage. I thought it would be fun to be able to tell someone, "yeah, I took 1.2 million steps on that particular hike."
But I kept losing count. The 15 minutes that it took me to walk a kilometer were a hard length of time to focus on counting steps. Because a number like "seven-hundred-and-seventeen" is hard to say in the space of time that you take one step (especially if you have to say it with every step), I abbreviated -- just kept the "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, twenty... wait. Was I at twenty already, or is this thirty?"
I came to the top of a hill and found two other pilgrims, a man and a woman. When I spoke to them, I found out that they were German. I now found the trail, but because I was hungry I decided to continue along the carretera. I was now entering Cobreces, and had learned from past experience that the trail could go on for a long stretch before there would be any opportunity to buy food.
But it turned out that even walking through Cobreces didn't bring me past any food shops. So by the time I entered Comillas over an hour later, I was feeling a little faint.
There was a beautiful rocky beach with statues of boys posed to jump into the water. Then the road took a bend inland and I began to doubt that it would really lead me into downtown Comillas. I had thought the town would lie right on the beach.
But after a bit of a walk through wooded area I came into Comillas. I found the tourist information. They were closed, but a sign said they'd be open again in five minutes. I decided to take advantage of that time to shop for some food. There was a supermarket just across the street.
My body was crying out for some sustenance. As I stood in the checkout line, I had a brief moment in which I felt that I would faint. I was getting very annoyed with the people in the lineup in front of me. When I had finally made my purchase I immediately opened the carton of orange juice I had just bought and took a good draught. I needed some sugar in my bloodstream.
But I kept losing count. The 15 minutes that it took me to walk a kilometer were a hard length of time to focus on counting steps. Because a number like "seven-hundred-and-seventeen" is hard to say in the space of time that you take one step (especially if you have to say it with every step), I abbreviated -- just kept the "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, twenty... wait. Was I at twenty already, or is this thirty?"
I came to the top of a hill and found two other pilgrims, a man and a woman. When I spoke to them, I found out that they were German. I now found the trail, but because I was hungry I decided to continue along the carretera. I was now entering Cobreces, and had learned from past experience that the trail could go on for a long stretch before there would be any opportunity to buy food.
But it turned out that even walking through Cobreces didn't bring me past any food shops. So by the time I entered Comillas over an hour later, I was feeling a little faint.
There was a beautiful rocky beach with statues of boys posed to jump into the water. Then the road took a bend inland and I began to doubt that it would really lead me into downtown Comillas. I had thought the town would lie right on the beach.
But after a bit of a walk through wooded area I came into Comillas. I found the tourist information. They were closed, but a sign said they'd be open again in five minutes. I decided to take advantage of that time to shop for some food. There was a supermarket just across the street.
My body was crying out for some sustenance. As I stood in the checkout line, I had a brief moment in which I felt that I would faint. I was getting very annoyed with the people in the lineup in front of me. When I had finally made my purchase I immediately opened the carton of orange juice I had just bought and took a good draught. I needed some sugar in my bloodstream.
Friday, October 3, 2008
95: When things start seeming very petty
When I was 13 my older sister moved away from our home in Quito to go to a boarding school in Paraguay. From then on I only saw her when she came to visit every year from December to February (the Southern Hemisphere's summer).
I remember the last day of one of these visits, the day before she would return to Paraguay and I wouldn't see her for another nine months. I might have been fourteen or maybe fifteen. We had had a great couple of months together as a family. One of the things we had been doing was working on some songs. My brother and I had both taken up the guitar in the course of that year. My voice had changed and was suddenly an adequate singing voice, and together with my two more melodious siblings we had learned some trios together.
Now it was the night before her departure, and I wanted to sit down with a tape recorder and make a recording of our recently rehearsed trios. But my sister was busy packing, and the household was generally in a disarray, and I saw that we wouldn't be making any recordings, and she was flying away in the morning.
I remember sitting in the darkened living room fighting my tears that night. I was angry with myself for crying over such a small thing. So we didn't manage to put a song on tape. Was that a good reason to cry? It didn't occur to me at the time that maybe my emotional turmoil was not so much due to not recording a souvenir of our time together as due to, well, the departure of a sister.
But the pettiness of things got a hold on me. Everything that bothered me -- really bothered me to where I could throw a tantrum or shed tears -- seemed so very banal and insignificant. I felt ashamed that the stupid little details of life could get to me like that, and I did not want to acknowledge them enough to let them reduce me to tears.
I did not cry again until I was 28.
I remember the last day of one of these visits, the day before she would return to Paraguay and I wouldn't see her for another nine months. I might have been fourteen or maybe fifteen. We had had a great couple of months together as a family. One of the things we had been doing was working on some songs. My brother and I had both taken up the guitar in the course of that year. My voice had changed and was suddenly an adequate singing voice, and together with my two more melodious siblings we had learned some trios together.
Now it was the night before her departure, and I wanted to sit down with a tape recorder and make a recording of our recently rehearsed trios. But my sister was busy packing, and the household was generally in a disarray, and I saw that we wouldn't be making any recordings, and she was flying away in the morning.
I remember sitting in the darkened living room fighting my tears that night. I was angry with myself for crying over such a small thing. So we didn't manage to put a song on tape. Was that a good reason to cry? It didn't occur to me at the time that maybe my emotional turmoil was not so much due to not recording a souvenir of our time together as due to, well, the departure of a sister.
But the pettiness of things got a hold on me. Everything that bothered me -- really bothered me to where I could throw a tantrum or shed tears -- seemed so very banal and insignificant. I felt ashamed that the stupid little details of life could get to me like that, and I did not want to acknowledge them enough to let them reduce me to tears.
I did not cry again until I was 28.
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