you and me together will be, forever you'll see...

The month of June will always be a special time for me to remember and ponder my pilgrimage journey across northern Spain with my dear friend Pat on the Camino de Santiago.

It’s hard to believe, but this summer marks 17 years since we walked the Camino.

For weeks that felt like years, Pat and I walked the 1,000-year-old path… stepping beyond the blisters, the pain, the exhaustion, the heat, the blisters, the swollen knees, and did I mention blisters?—and we did it together.

I don’t want to take away from the many friends – and even my husband – who have walked part or all of the Camino by themselves. But I believe that, just as it is true in life, there’s a level of surrender to the Camino that can only be experienced when you commit yourself to walking it with another person. 

Perhaps that's why Jesus sent out his disciples two by two.

When you are walking with someone day in and day out for weeks, it doesn’t matter how close you are or how much you like each other. Sharing the Camino with another is inevitably both, a beautiful encounter, and a downright grueling challenge!

Pat and I were no exception.

When she hurt, I hurt. When she needed a break, I took a break. When I felt discouraged and pissy, she stood by me discouraged and pissy. When walking with blisters made me cry, she cried with me. When the heat overwhelmed her, we both stopped walking.

Looking back at that month of June and what we accomplished together, it was no coincidence that Pat and I would arrive in Santiago and kneel at the altar together on the beautiful feast of Corpus Christi.

Like the oneness we experienced as we held up and encouraged each other day by day, every time Pat and I received the Eucharist together —something we were blessed to do almost every day of our Camino pilgrimage — we also became one in and with Him who was, is, and always will be our strength and our Lord.

In a very real way, the Eucharist was our food for the journey—and what held us together.  

Like the Camino itself, the Sunday that Pat and I walked into the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral together was one of the most Eucharistic experiences of my life, one that has become even more significant now that Pat completed her earthly pilgrimage and is waiting for me at the Heavenly Banquet.

Pat's tombstone, with the final Camino shell pointing down

my strength in all my crosses

“My HEART is ready, O God; 

I will sing, sing your praise.”

~psalm 108

May the eyes of our HEARTS be enlightened, that we may know what is the hope that belongs to God’s call, what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones.”

~Ephesians 1:18

“How long must I bear grief in my soul,

this sorrow in my HEART day and night?…

As for me, I trust in your merciful love.

Let my HEART rejoice in your saving help;

Let me sing to the Lord for his goodness to me…”

~psalm 13

“I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel,

who even at night directs my HEART…

And so my HEART rejoices, my soul is glad;

even my body shall rest in safety.”

psalm 16

“May the peace of God which surpasses all understanding guard our HEARTS in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

~Philippians 4:7

“You, then, shall be my strength, O my God! You shall be my guide, my director, my counselor, my patience, my knowledge, my peace, my justice, and my prudence. i will have recourse to you in my temptations, in my dryness, in my repugnances, in my weariness, in my fears; or rather I will no longer fear either the illusions or the tricks of the demon, nor my own weakness, my indiscretions, nor even my mistrust of myself. For you must be my strength in all my crosses.”

~Saint Claude de la Colombière

+     +     +

For the past several months — or rather, more than likely since my first angioplasty this past year, I have felt understandably off-balance. Even as my body recovered and got used to the new meds, my emotions have been all over the planet — and my spirit has felt, for lack of a better word, unsettled. 

Like a walk through dense, deep fog, everything has been just a little out of focus. And the peace that I have been yearning for has felt just out of reach. 

Fearful. Anxious. Unsure of myself. And on top of it all, a thick dose of guilt about everything I have been feeling. How am I not overwhelmed with gratefulness? Why am I not jumping to the sky with joy? I did not have a heart attack. we caught things before “the widowmaker” stopped my heart, before anything irreversible happened. 

In other words, why am I not, well, completely overwhelmed by courage, hope, thanksgiving, and life?

The root of the word COURAGE is COR, the Latin word for HEART. So, in the word’s earliest form, the word COURAGE literally meant, “to speak one’s mind by telling all that is in one’s HEART.”

If I am to tell all of what’s in my HEART, I must begin by acknowledging that learning this past year that I have a heart condition, makes me feel vulnerable, and often, extremely fragile. 

Yet any doubts that I have and that I acknowledge about myself, my ability to handle things, or more importantly, about my faith, does not make me unworthy, unfaithful, or lacking. 

It makes me open and real and seeking. And that is where God is. I am not alone.

That is my COR, my heart, the source of my COURAGE.

how do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

As I write this, my daughter, my youngest child, is in the next room dancing with her newborn baby, swinging rhythmically side to side to the tunes on her iPhone—and whispering into her baby girl’s ear,

“When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
'Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are

And when you smile
The whole world stops and stares for a while
'Cause girl, you're amazing
Just the way you are”

Sometimes life feels like holding a moonbeam in your hand.

Just the other day, it was me who was swaying side to side, dancing to Bette Midler’s “Beaches” soundtrack on our stereo, and whispering to my youngest child, my daughter,

“Baby mine, don't you cry.
Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart,
Never to part, baby of mine.

Little one, when you play,
Pay no heed what they say.
Let your eyes sparkle and shine,
Never a tear, baby of mine.” 

this is a new country, what shall we name it?

I am traveling this week--visiting family in Charlottesville, Virginia. 

But I don't want to leave you empty handed until next week, so... I hope you enjoy this edited version of a previous blog post on one of my favorite subjects: dreams!

Via Dolorosa, Jerusalem, 2012

I have had some crazy, vivid dreams lately. 

More often than not I will only remember one image, one person, or one event in the dream, but I’ve been trying to write down whatever I do remember, especially any strong emotions I remember feeling. 

The other day I woke up with only one line: 

“This is a new country, what shall we name it?”

It made me laugh out loud.

It reminds me of something I wrote a few years ago, as I tried to sort out how I felt about my physical condition and its limitations:

I feel a layer of anger swimming right below the surface of my awareness, like a layer of fat that needs to be discarded from a great soup. I feel betrayed by my body, and I am angry about it, and angry with me. It’s a crazy circle, and I know that it’s not productive, let alone healthy.

When I shared these ponderings with my spiritual director Joanne, a wise and beautiful woman, she just smiled at me and said: 

“Maria, you are learning to take care of yourself, and you’re taking it to other areas of your life! What I hear is calmness, trusting, a certainty that allows you to name the anger. Things are okay. I am so proud of you, your faithfulness to do the healing work. God will show you what’s next.” 

The healing work that I am committed to do involves all of me—my physical being, yes, but also my emotional, mental, and spiritual being. 

I may not, but God sees how good it already is.

It frequently does feel like traveling in a new and undiscovered country, a place where I’ve never been, and where I don't recognize the language. 

But this is a journey of a lifetime and not one that I have to conquer right now. The real challenge is whether I will be true to the journey, and faithful to the work it brings to me today.

[edited version of this post was first published under "the healing journey" on October 11,2012]

the healing journey

I have had some crazy, vivid dreams lately. Sometimes I will only remember one image, one person, or one event in the dream, but I’ve been trying to write down words in my journal of whatever I do remember. The other day I woke up with only one line, “This is a new country, what shall we name it?”

It made me laugh out loud.

It reminds me of what I wrote some time ago about my physical condition and its limitations:

I feel a layer of anger swimming right below the surface of my awareness, like a layer of fat that needs to be discarded from a great soup. I feel betrayed by my body, and I am angry about it and angry with me. It’s a crazy circle, and I know that it’s not productive, let alone healthy.

When I shared these ponderings with my spiritual director Joanne, a wise and beautiful woman, she just smiled at me and said, “Maria, you are learning to take care of yourself, and you’re taking it to other areas of your life! What I hear is calmness, trusting, a certainty that allows you to name the anger. Things are okay. I am so proud of you, your faithfulness to do the healing work. God will show you what’s next.” 

The healing work that I am committed to do involves all of me—my physical being, yes, but also my emotional and spiritual being. I may not, but God sees how good it already is.

It frequently does feel like traveling in a new and undiscovered country, a place where I’ve never been, where I don’t know anyone, and where I don’t recognize the language. But this is a journey of a lifetime and not one that I have to conquer right now. The real challenge is whether I will be true to the journey, and faithful to the work it brings to me today.

Via Dolorosa, Jerusalem, 2012