El Camino

For those of you who have not yet heard of the musician or the album, I would like to use today’s post to introduce you to Camino by Oliver Schroer, an album which I highly recommend. The cd comes out of a pilgrimage that Oliver, his wife, and some friends went on in 2004. As explained on his website, they walked 1000 km of an eleven hundred year old pilgrim trail through France and Spain known as the Camino de Santiago. During the walk, the music on this album–that primarily of Oliver playing his violin–was recorded. This is powerful music to be sure.

As I have confessed to a few friends, I have often fantasized of playing this album out into the neighbourhood one still summer or autumn night. (Recently, I thought New Year’s Eve would be another wonderful time to do this.) I have imagined the music arriving in the ears of backyard and balcony dwellers, in the kitchens and bedrooms and living rooms of people with their windows held ajar. I have imagined people might stop what they were doing then and just listen and that there would be something very special, very moving and touching for them in the experience (kind of like the man who played the penny whistle outside in my neighbourhood a month or so ago). I’ve also imagined doing this somehow when the power is out, because I find that power outages in the summer can be special times–it seems to draw people out of their rooms and walls and into the fresh air, into conversations over the soft glow of flickering candles and the hush and stillness that takes up space in the absence of the usual electrical whirring and hums. Of course, I realize that some people would likely not appreciate my gesture and it could significantly annoy some people. Consequently, I expect I would hold back. Still, I like to imagine the potential beauty of it, if for no other reason than it pleases me and is filled with magic and love.

The liner notes to the album are a wonderful read. I want to share with you a brief excerpt from the English version of the notes, which are also available on Oliver’s website. Peter Coffman, one of Oliver’s friends who went on the pilgrimage and who took several photographs along the way, wrote of El Camino the following:

El Camino. The Road. The Way. It is a metaphor for a spiritual voyage, an inward journey symbolized by an outward one.

But it is also a very real, very physical path. It is a muddy trail through a forest. It is a hot, dusty line slicing through a parched landscape. It is a country road hugging the edge of a river gorge. It is a cobblestone lane through a medieval village. It is the hard, concrete shoulder of a bleak highway. It is a row of stones crossing a stream. It is continuous, unbroken, yet changing in shape, colour, texture, mood. The one constant is the sound of footsteps — the heartbeat of the pilgrimage.

I love that description and the last two lines. Thank you Peter Coffman for writing that.

I think a lot about the journeys people take, make, and find themselves on and about the idea of journeys, individual and collective ones, the fullness of them, the twists and turns. I think about one’s inner life (and outer life), the ups and downs, the changing weather and landscapes, as well as about that idea of some constant or constants–some thing or things that are with us throughout, most surely our own breathing, one breath at a time, and our own feet stepping along whether literal or metaphorical. I think, among other things, of the moon as one of these constants for me, of the moon as one example. I have many images and memories of the moon’s presence as I have walked along.

I wonder tonight as I type alongside my cat and two flickering candles about what your journey might be like, what is happening right now, what has happened already, what hurts, what feels good, what is unfolding or yet to unfold. I reflect upon the journeys of people I know and people I don’t know. I feel quieted and moved and also a sense of connection. I tune in to the rhythm of my breath, and the image of the moon, and of the sound of footsteps walking. I wish to greet you today wherever you are and exactly where you are at in this moment. Namaste.

Today, on the second day of spring...

Today, on the second day of spring, I visited the tree from last week’s post and took a photograph. According to the forecast, the wind chill made it feel like about -7 degrees Celsius today. With my face in the wind, I’d say it felt colder. With my face out of the wind, the sun felt warm. I thought of the transformations happening and the transformations to come. I also met a lovely Newfoundlander dog named Parker.

Sun-filled, spring greetings to you.

On the Chalkboard March 17, 2008

While browsing the book of poetry, The Gift, the other evening, I came across the following:

I weave light into words so that
When your mind holds them

Your eyes will relinquish their sadness,
Turn bright, a little brighter, giving to us
The way a candles does
To the dark.

Hafiz, from the poem, I Rain

From A Severed Trunk

Today, I went for a walk at a nearby conservation area. I walked amid mid-March and mid-afternoon sun, tall trees, and atop a few feet of well packed and gently melting snow. For a little while, I sat on a bench overlooking a frozen but melting river. I observed a tall tree along the riverbank in front of me, how its trunk was severed after several years of growth, the top portion completely broken off, and how growing out from just below the broken place were two long arms, and growing out of those, straight up, were many new branches, like a bush of branches, one standing on top each of the arms. The bushes stretched with strength and innate interest toward the sky and bore hundreds of new leaf buds–indicators of the thousands of things happening inside, sight unseen to us, which will lead soon enough to an amazing burst of green. Maybe, seeing this then, if not before, we might smile, feel a little lightness, a little dance in our step, feel thanks swimming in our skin. The trunk was severed yet the leaves found a way to come.

Trying Something New

While lightly pondering what I might write about this week, more stories and reflections involving snow came to mind. Then I wondered, in the very short life of this blog, how many times exactly have I made references to snow? I don’t know the definitive count but it seems to me “a lot” would be an appropriate summary. Of course, there is good reason for this: snow has been front and center in the landscape this winter. As a dear friend pointed out to me this morning, “we’re practically buried in snow”. Yes.

In the last week, I’ve turned a year older from the perspective that I’ve had another birthday. In reality, over the past week I’ve turned a day older 7 times, a minute older 10 080 times. For my birthday, I decided to spend some time outside among trees and sun (and snow)–something I value and enjoy doing. I also decided to try something new, something I am essentially a beginner at–wanting to also recognize and honour the value in this, which I also value: that of taking (healthy) risks (when appropriate and ready) and stretching oneself a bit outside the bounds of one’s usual zone of comfort or day-to-day norms. It felt symbolically meaningful to me to do this on my birthday–a day marking my birth and emergence as Tracy into this world. So I decided to do something I haven’t done in many, many years. I decided to go cross-country skiing and had the good and gracious fortune to be accompanied by a patient friend who is more experienced on cross-country skis than myself.

There was a lot of slipping and sliding around on my part, some impressive wipe outs, many more near wipe outs, somewhat exhilarating moments, and fear, and a few particularly lovely moments when we stopped under a canopy of coniferous trees and listened to the quiet of the day at that particular moment in that particular spot.

I will share one particularly humorous (and terrifying and embarrassing) scene and one just plain warm and fuzzy one adapted from a letter I wrote after the experience and about the day.

Scene One.

Setting: a conservation area near Kingston that had groomed trails for skiing (though also some openly ploughed parts, that is, ploughed and without neat little tracks for your skis). The trails were generally slippery, particularly on the open, trackless parts.

The scene basically begins with me heading down a hilly section without my full awareness — or any awareness at all — that I had just started skiing downhill. An implication of this is that I had neither prepared myself psychologically or physically for what had just begun. I had not had the chance to even try to remember how to approach this decline and quickly picked up speed. I likely let out a kind of semi-scream–though this was more likely a fusion of something between a groan and a scream. I was doing my best to slow down or have some control over what was happening with limited success. I was sure this was going to end in a solo crash, which was bad enough. Then, though, I looked ahead and realized that there was a tall man standing aways in front of me on the other track and at the top of a bit of an incline. He was standing, stopped, and taking all of this in. I was headed straight for him and realized I may very well plough right into him. That’s when I called out, “I am so sorry. I do not know what I’m doing.”

Somehow I managed to stop not too far from him and without falling–a truly amazing feat given my previous falls and speed and total clumsiness on these long sliding wings. I was feeling a combination of things: embarrassment; a certain energy coursing through me, the kind the comes in these situations when you are feeling out of control, going way too fast, and anticipating a crash ahead; slightly giddy–the whole thing was also quite humorous. I had my friend behind me, observing from the top of the decline. She had seen it coming. I hadn’t. She said, she thought I did great. She also undoubtedly found the situation entertaining; at the same time her support of me remained fully in tact. I cannot say the same of the man.

It was evident that the man didn’t seem to think it was particularly funny or even slightly amusing. Understandable, really. I got myself back on my side of the tracks and proceeded to begin making my way up the hill toward where he was standing. He proceeded to glide down the hill toward me. On the way past, he said to me, “Bend your knees.” He said this in such a tone as to imply: “if you just bend your knees, all your problems will be solved. It will be completely smooth sailing, no sweat.” To give myself credit here, I believe there was at least some bend in my knees, but I did make it a goal to bend my knees more. Anyway, he sailed passed me, knees nicely bent to prove, or proving, his point.

Then, though, there was a woman standing behind him, also waiting, also observing. She was completely stone-faced and seemed to refuse to make eye contact with me–though I also had to hike my way past her. She gave off the very clear look and vibe of: “I am not amused.” I tried to make contact, offered a smile, but her stern expression and lack of eye contact with me remained. She stayed right where she was, staring straight ahead as I shuffled my way up this little incline past her. However wrong I might be, I felt like she was trying to put me in my place–no beginners, near wipe outs, apologies, cheers, or laughter allowed. To be fair, and as the friend who was with me pointed out, it would be unfair of me to assume the woman was giving that expression because she was annoyed with me. There could have been other things going on.

I had to don courage and dignity and a sense of humour, I suppose. Then, off I was like Bambi to the next near wipe out or slip; or brief, sweet, tiny moment where I actually seemed to glide; or anxiety-provoking hill.

Scene Two.

Setting: another slippery hill. Action: another very near wipe-out on the way down.

This time, though, while I was getting myself untangled and trying to figure out how I was possibly going to get myself going again and get to the bottom of the hill okay, a two-person line up collected behind me–people waiting to proceed down the hill. I politey said to the first person in line that I would move out of the way. He had been observing my best attempts at getting myself organized to go down the hill again (read: he had observed me keeping myself upright and gripping the bank with struggle and substantial effort as if my life depended on it). I was untangling and organizing myself in tiny increments of movement and adjustment. Unlike in Scene One, he kindly, gently, and politely responded, “No, that’s okay. Just keep on doing what you’re doing.” So I did and, eventually, when I got to the bottom–miraculously still standing–and the coast was clear, he easily and comfortably glided down and past. He was pleasant toward another passer-by and seemed to be quite relaxed about it all and in a good mood. He gave off the vibe of warmth, compassion, and patience. I offer him my thanks for that.

End of scene two.

In briefest closing: yes, I was sore after that outing and yes, I was glad I went. I would, however, like to learn how to manage going down hills, and how, in general, to ski with more mastery of skill and with grace. Perhaps then, one day, while making my way downhill, I might instead call out with calm, “I am soaring like a seagull, ordinary and beautiful. I will not wipe out. I will simply land.”

What are five new things you might like to try? Make a list.

On the Chalkboard March 1, 2008

I love the fact that when Clint directs a movie, he never says “Action.” He says calmly, quietly, “When you’re ready.”

–David Gilmour, The Film Club, p. 103, (c) 2007