The Good Rain

The walks I have taken in the last several days have been bathed in sunlight. Being it is mid-February in the Pacific Northwest, you might think that I have flown South (as I did last year at this time). The truth is, these walks have taken me along the shores of the Puget Sound and along the banks of a river in the Olympic rain forest. I'm not going to lie. I love this unexpected window of light and warmth in the midst of a typically cold and wet winter. And I'm not alone. The park near our home was filled with people on Sunday. Today, however, the rains have returned and the park is nearly empty. My choice to walk, in spite of the wet conditions, is one that I wouldn't have made a few years ago. But then I walked the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and all of that changed. When your vocation each day is simply to get up and walk until you reach your destination, you don't allow the weather to dictate your movements. You just pay attention and dress accordingly. I have to say that I found this to be very liberating. My previous pattern of venturing out only when the conditions seemed favorable kept me from experiencing a big part of the world around me. Yes, it's beautiful to see sun filtering through the trees in a rain forest. But it is a rain forest, and if you haven't had the experience of being enveloped in mist and drenched in showers as you followed a muddy trail beneath firs and cedars you haven't known the half of it. I'm in the process of learning to see my daily pilgrimage in this same way. There is a part of me that will always be a fair-weather pilgrim. I look for conditions that seem favorable and am happy when I can dwell there. But when I venture forth into the day without regard for this, and when I learn to discover the sacred in unexpected places, and even in harsh circumstances, I know I have moved several steps closer to my destination.

Tourist or Pilgrim?

As I step forward into a new week, I am recalling the contrast that some have made between tourists and pilgrims. Tourists, they say, are travelers who like to have a clear sense of what each day will bring. After reading the guidebooks and mapping out their itinerary, their peace of mind comes from the experience of having everything go as planned. Because of this, any deviation from the anticipated course of events makes them uneasy. Sometimes, it even makes them angry and aggressive. Tourists are also prone to despair when an experience they are having does not correspond with the perfect one they have imagined. Five days of pouring rain in Hawaii or even one of two nights in a hotel that does not resemble pictures they saw on the internet are huge disappointments. Pilgrims, on the other hand, are travelers who wait to see what the day will bring to them. They may have a destination in mind, but their sense of adventure and their openness to change cause them to react in very different ways when things don't go as planned. For them, when change occurs, the first question that often comes to mind is: "What new doors might this be opening for me?" The Pilgrim Credo, which begins with the acknowledgement that "I am not in control", is a gift that creates space in their lives for discovery and trust. Because of this, they are rarely disappointed. I have to admit that in my daily journey I am a one who waffles back and forth between the two. Some days, I am more tourist than pilgrim. On others, I am led deeper into the pilgrim way- and, in this new week, that is where I want to dwell, because that is where I find a much greater sense of peace and well-being.

Beside Still Waters

The path I walked today was gentle and kind. It followed the meandering route of the Deschutes River in Thurston County, and it presented no serious elevation changes or rough terrain. I should mention, too, that the weather was sunny and warm. In this week that is now coming to a close, I have walked with people whose life journey bears some resemblance to this. It's not that things are perfect for them. It's just that they are at a good place in their pilgrimage and the struggles they face seem small in comparison to others. If truth be told, I count myself among them. But I have also journeyed with people in this past week whose path is rocky and steep. In one case, it led to the operating room of a local hospital. In another, it led to a lonely curbside where a man got out of his car and sat down to weep. On that day, it was rainy and cold. A few of us who saw him stopped to sit on the curb with him and to offer companionship. It's what I will do again tomorrow when I gather with people at the graveside of a man brought down by cancer. His family has requested that I read Psalm 23. From what I understand, it is one that had given him great comfort and peace in the last days of his journey. So now I am thinking about the way in which a steep, rocky path can be joined with a gentle, kind one that leads beside still waters and restores the soul. Both are very real, but the mystery to consider is how the second one takes us on a journey within- to a place where we can say that our cup is running over, even when the outer terrain is rough and the circumstances are cold and harsh.

The Place We Call Home

The pilgrims I observed today have wings. Like the migratory salmon of the Pacific Northwest, they love their sanctuaries, but these airborne creatures never travel far from home. They are the resident birds of this region who are kindred spirits with every creature that could be described as "sedentary" rather than "nomadic". With neither the instinct nor the means to travel, they spend all their days in one small corner of the planet. I came across them in my afternoon walk, and they caught me daydreaming of an upcoming trek on the pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela. That's just who I am. My ancestors were Vikings, and I live for the experience of venturing off and coming home. But the cormorants and the gulls called be back to the moment, to the place, to the rocky shore where I stood. Like many people I know, their daily pilgrimage is not one of displacement. Rather,it is a journey of discovery that connects them more deeply to the environment that has nurtured them since birth. Historically, this form of inner pilgrimage has been misunderstood. In his book "The Place We Call Home", Murray Bodo tells of a small sixteenth century engraving from the title page of "Information for Pilgrims Unto the Holy Land". In it, he says, "a pilgrim strides forth confidently, leaving behind a walled city. Standing half-in and half-out of the gate, another figure watches the pilgrim. His right hand holds his heart, as if to protect and to hold in the desire to follow in the pilgrims footsteps. Then, as now, the pilgrim is the one who dares to set forth; the stay-at-home hesitates on the threshold of his or her safe, familiar world." Bodo goes on to challenge the notion that we have to favor one over the other. "Pilgrimages are not about one place being more sacred than another", he says. I find this to be wise counsel on my winter walk in the place where I live for more than 300 days a year. I can't shut out all thoughts of rioja and manchego after a day of trekking through medieval towns and glorious fields of poppies, but I can journey more deeply into this place that I call home, and I can do as the cormorants who live here all year round- I can spread my wings while standing in one place in order to soak up the precious rays of sun.