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- Los Arcos to Logroño
- Logroño to Nájera
- Nájera to Santo Domingo de la Calzada
- Santo Domingo de la Calzada to Belorado
- Belorado to San Juan de Ortega
- San Juan de Ortega to Burgos
- Burgos to Castrojeriz
- Castrojeriz to Frómista
- Frómista to Carrion de los Condes
- Carrión de los Condes to Sahagún
- Sahagún to El Burgo Ranero
- El Burgo Ranero to León
- León to Hospital de Orbigo (walker's route)
- León to Hospital de Orbigo (road route)
- Hospital de Orbigo to Astorga
- Astorga to Rabanal del Camino
- Rabanal del Camino to Ponferrada
- Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo
- O Cebreiro to Triacastela
- Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro
- Triacastela to Sarria (via Samos)
- Triacastela to Sarria (via Calvor)
- Triacastela to Sarria (via Samos & Calvor)
- Sarria to Portomarín
- Portomarín to Palas de Rei
- Palas de Rei to Arzúa
- Arzúa to Santiago de Compostela
- Vía de la Plata
- Sevilla to Guillena
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- Castilblanco de los Arroyos to Almadén de la Plata
- Almadén de la Plata to Monesterio
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- Fuente de Cantos to Zafra
- Zafra to Almendralejo
- Almendralejo to Mérida
- Mérida to Alcuéscar
- Alcuéscar to Valdesalor
- Valdesalor to Casar De Cáceres
- Casar De Cáceres to Cañaveral
- Cañaveral to Galisteo
- Galisteo to Cáparra to Hostal Asturias
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- Baños de Montemayor to Fuenterroble de Salvatierra
- Fuenterroble de Salvatierra to San Pedro de Rozados
- San Pedro de Rozados to Salamanca
- Salamanca to El cubo de la tierra del vino
- El cubo de la tierra del vino to Zamora
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- Montamarta to Granja de Moreruela
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Albergue Parroquial Hospital de Órbigomuy bueno ¡¡¡
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Albergue O Miradoralbergue destestable... inseguro e...
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Albergue El Jardín del Caminonot nice, not space for pilgrims, only...
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Albergue PortoSantiagoAlbergue PortoSantiago, Portomarín (...
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Farmacia Fernandez De Vega S.c.Great pharmacy pretty close to the...
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Albergue ''San Luis de Francia''Thanks for the tip. Post as many as...
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Albergue ''San Luis de Francia''hi! they are open fron april to october...
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Albergue Acuario de Santiago de Compostela¡No lo recomiendo! Hay pulgas y vaya...
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Have not written in the while. My countdown clock today showed me that I have 20 days left until my trip.
Two things suddenly come to mind. SO MUCH LEFT TO DO, SO LITTLE TIME. Luckily, my exam has been pushed back to September 3rd (Thanks, doc!:) . My knee is still killing me, it’s overwhelming. I have a million different people giving me contradicting advice, and my stomach cannot handle the prescribed Vultaren anymore. Yes; ice, elevate, repeat. I do all those things. I stretch with the foam roller, I don’t do impact exercises…
My trainer asked me about my level of stress because during one of our sessions, my muscles started to spasm during stretching. It was also excruciating. She told me to go home, and I did. Then I spent most of the remainder of the week resting. Sleeping so much like I have had insomnia for a decade. My body NEEDED that rest and I can categorically say that today (Sunday) I feel much better. I spent this rainy afternoon organising and transcribing notes for my exam at the kitchen table head to head with my lil bro with matching Toshiba laptops. (I had originally walked to Starbucks as it has been my place of homework the last week and I developed a huge crush on Americano’s – but soon realised as I got there that I had forgotten the laptop at home.. but brought the cord???) MAN is it ever long to do, those notes. (The unit I am currently working on is about the ups and downs of weight management and I’m NEVER getting liposuction and I have mixed feelings about gastric bypass surgery, but that’s just me).
I met up with my cousin from the UK a few times while he was here and it was nice. Although I forgot to ask him alot of the questions I had – even though I had written them down!! I think I am stressing out for nothing.
In our many recent conversations (mostly me venting my worries and pains) my new-found buddy from the pilgrim’s association (AC) has told me that “pilgrims” tend to over train pre-departure and even all the training in the world cannot prepare you for the mental, emotional, loneliness, comeradery, and physical strenuousness that will come. Hmm, after much thought, I can definitely agree with that. Please note, this guy knows what he is talking about as he has walked the Camino I don’t even know how many times but definitely more than twice. I don’t think anyone can fully prepare for ANYTHING 100%, whether it’s a trip, relationship, parenthood, moving out, etc.
I need to keep with the mentality of not sweating the small stuff for now. Not stress about money, not stress about my knee(s), just not stress. Rest, focus, etc. As a certain lovely someone tells me all the time; to see the silver lining in things.
On that note, I am having a physio appointment tomorrow. I realise that it’s a bit late in the game as my departure date is so soon but at the same time I think of it positively because I might get key info on exercises I can do to minimize the pain, etc. I’m kind of desperate with THAT because even if I WASN’T doing the Camino, it is impeding on my life. Luckily, I have been blessed with an awesome trainer that is coming with me to that appointment, and it’s walking distance from my place, bonus!
Ok folks,
Namaste.
So is it a chick flick? I suppose if you look at Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir-turned-movie from Hollywood's perspective, the answer is yes. The movie version combines gorgeous scenery with a happy ending: divorced woman finds great food in Italy, a soul in India, and love in Bali.
But from a pilgrim's angle of vision, there's a broader message: receiving the hard grace of surrender. A self-acknowledged control freak, Liz easily lets her guard down around food. She even teaches her girth-conscious Swedish friend Sofie to delight in the fabled Italian cooking.
Liz is less able to surrender to prayer, and she struggles with the Geet, the hours- long prayer that ends the night and begins the day in her Indian ashram. Yet, as she gives up control over her schedule, her sleep, and her thoughts, she finds that she can live inside that prayer -- and it's a surprisingly crowded place.
Liz is least able to surrender to love. Yet, eventually she untethers her heart to fall in love with Felipe in Bali.
While its plot moves the movie into the genre of romantic comedy, or "rom-com," the
lesson is one we can all take to heart, at every age and any gender. The journey from control to surrender is itself a pilgrimage, one from isolation into greater community.
I've been musing on the connections between pilgrimage and surrender for some time. In part, I was prompted by Lisa's observation last September somewhere in mid-Camino: "Pilgrims are really pretty useless, aren't we...." She was right: we weren't producing anything, and we were receiving a lot. For two highly productive people, that was a real switch.
And in part, I'm spinning out work on a chapter Sonny Manuel and I wrote for Tom Plante's book "Contemplative Practices in Action" (Greenwood, 2010). We highlighted dimensions of suffering: denial, isolation, and the need for control; we probed remedial practices: lamentation, intercession, and pilgrimage, respectively. As we worked, we discovered that each of these practices not only solaces the one suffering, it invariably creates solidarity with others. For example, pilgrimage addresses the need for control by placing people on a journey where they move forward only by surrendering everything they do not need. Pilgrims depend on the kindness of strangers and the camaraderie of their fellow travelers. As they move forward, reaching the destination recedes behind the joy of being with one's fellow-travelers. Each of these practices reaches out: they have an outer impulse.
It's an important parallel to the movie: eating, praying, loving all have an outer impulse. They are highly social activities, in themselves and especially as they are depicted in the movie.
And to reach out, one has to let go -- or surrender. What gets left behind? Excess baggaage, spiritual and physical; possessions that have begun to possess us; scripts that we labored over -- and expected to live out.
Joy is the grace of surrender, giving us a script beyond our wildest imaginings.
And joy is the pleasure of communion: it's always social. What's finally significant about the movie is that each of Eating, praying, loving: all of these are finally about joy.
It´s a bittersweet fiesta this year in Moratinos. We celebrated a new Santiago in our church, but the camino brought us brokenness, too.
Fiesta weekend in Moratinos is an anniversary to us. It was at the fiesta of 2006 we first saw the neglected farmhouse that became The Peaceable. Two years later, we opened up our house on fiesta weekend to welcome all the neighbors in to see what we´d done to the place. Last year, Moratinos fiesta was the debut performance of what´s become Camino Guitars, a concert series that´s going on now in three locations on the Camino Frances.
This year´s fiesta Mass was extra happy, because our little Santiago statue took his place up front at the Iglesia de Sto. Tomas. Throughout the week I biked back and forth between the church and Segundino´s carpentry shop, choosing the wood and drawing pictures and demonstrating just where on the church wall we might put the little shelf with the saint on it. Segundino delivered, above and beyond what I could have expected -- a triple-arched pear-wood perch that´s securely bolted onto the wall, with Santi himself safely bolted down, too. Milagros brought in two little vases with carnations, to stand on either side. I put a beeswax candle, (sent from California by Kathy) by his elbow, and he was good to (never) go. Don Gaspar duly sprinkled him during the big Mass. Santi himself looks a little embarrassed at all the fuss.
Milagros says this is the first new saint installed in a good thirty years. He makes her happy, she said, because a new saint means Moratinos is going to survive. You just don´t see new saints in dying towns.
But while the procession and prayers and music were going on, something else happened nearby.
Out on the N120 two-lane, a French couple from Lyon were zipping down the highway. Inside the backpacks in the trunk were two fresh Compostela certificates, dated Thursday. They´d finished their long pilgrimage, a trip they´d done over several years, one two-week chunk at a time. At dawn they´d held hands in a little church in Finisterre and sang a hymn. They got into their rental car and headed east toward France and home.
Hours later, along the Meseta road between San Nicolas del Real Camino and Moratinos, their car veered off the road and rolled over. The woman died. The man was not hurt.
Fred (aka Federico the Mad Guitarrero), stayed with the man from the moment he came upon the accident scene -- it was Fred who brought the couples´ belongings here, and drove the man along behind the ambulance to the hospital. Fred made sure the man was checked-over by a doctor. Then they went to the Tanatorio, the mortuary, and got Antoine started on the mountain of paperwork and decision-making that awaits him. Then Fred brought him back to Moratinos.
The man, Antoine, is here with us now. He is numb, red-eyed, eating everything we put in front of him. He´s keeping busy, clearing out his backpack and his wife´s, wondering what to do with her shoes, her walking stick, the things she packed herself this morning, but will never touch again. He´s washed the dinner dishes, taken the pills the doctor gave him, scrubbed the black stains off his shirt and shorts. He´s made the telephone calls. He told his five-year-old granddaughter what happened, but she doesn´t understand, he said.
His son will come tomorrow from France.
The neighbors were upset that we didn´t tell them sooner what was going on -- but we didn´t know, not til much later, after the accident when Fred brought Antoine here. Nothing much can be done on the weekend. There was nowhere else for the man to go, at least nowhere a compassionate person would leave him. It´s good he´s been on the Camino, and still has his full pilgrim flexibility. None of us speaks French. He has little English. His Spanish is about as good as ours, so we struggle along. We try to engage him when he´s open to that. But we know he´s got to be left alone, too.
The neighbors, once they knew, were eager to lend a hand.
Oliva and Justi gave us the church keys so Antoine could go there and pray.
Milagros and José came over to offer whatever help the man might need. Later on, Esteban showed up too. He offered to drive Antoine to Palencia in the morning. Esteban knows his way around that city, and it´s an offer Antoine may have to accept -- he´s got to be at the Tanatorio at 11:30, and we don´t know which of the several funeral places to go to.
Antoine couldn´t decide yet.
I took Esteban to the gate. "I can´t imagine," he said. "To suffer such a loss, in a land that´s not your country. In another language. The poor man."
Over at the plaza the Mobile Disco tells us "Tonight´s gonna be a good night."
This year we won´t dance. We don´t want to leave Antoine alone.
He´s asleep now. I think he will be alright.
Tomorrow is on its way.
Rapid transitions in my life have kept me from this blog--indeed, away from very much of what could be called contemplation at all. Blogging, at least on a blog like this, involves small snapshots of contemplation.
In the hectic meantime, among my other endeavors was that I became again, for a time, a tourist. I wandered various towns in Italy, marveling again at how isolated tourists are, while pilgrims form connections based in common need. Tourists eschew need for a more powerful stance of unneedful freedom. Of course it is an illusion, one based on the tourist's emphasis of difference rather than commonality in the endeavor. Tourists don't go to new places to see what we've always seen, but rather to see what's new--we lead with our differences. Pilgrims lead with, or, if the pilgrimage attains its end, come to appreciate, commonality instead. Commonalty is a step away from community, but commonality can make the pilgrim a better member of his or her community upon return. Pilgrims return different, but more deeply cognizant of the mutual need that is the basis of true community. Tourism is toxic if that sense of difference and unneedful freedom take root deeply. At its extreme lies elitism and entitlement. The opposite vice is parochialism and a different elitism.
I found this lion somewhere in Rome, and was struck by its insouciance. The sculptor caught something of feline poise--cats relax better than anybody, and I'm convinced it's because they also are good at total coiled-spring muscular concentration and its release in the attack.
Pilgrims, perhaps, become good at being on the road--which should make us better at staying put. The skills of pilgrimage we've talked about here are also valuable askeses for life generally. Carry what sets you free. Know that your companions are essential, not accidental. Find grace in tiredness as well as in the strength you develop, since, as the Franciscans say, all is gift. Cherish small things like a good sandwich or cool water. Pilgrimage is, ultimately, about being able to rest well as much as it is about being able to be free on the road.
There's a catch. Pilgrims--at least this pilgrim--can never be completely content staying put. Nor completely content on the road all the time. Like the lion good at relaxing because good at hunting, a pilgrim is a creature who might knows that freedom is practiced both on the road and in the staying put, each feeds the other, and each is a necessity for freedom that's not merely the illusory unneedfulness of the tourist.
Back to Granada to wait for a big fat cheque to arrive :)
I've only just discovered I've had plenty of cash available since January. I am a bit useless at this sort of stuff. All those nights spent camping out and clocking up debt in cheapo pensions. Idiot!
Never mind. It means start of next project can happen very soon.
Granada. Then Sevilla, then a brief visit to Santiago, then.......
The World is my oyster. A huge adventure :)
New laptop. New digicam. New clothes.
If I return to Spain to settle, it will be in Leon. This city is always incredibly friendly and exceptionally good to me. Cold winters, but beautiful summers.
Tamara de Campos, one of many places visited last week
Not much posting to be done today. I´m afraid I´m fried.
The past week was a lot of fun, with Miguel Angel around in addition to the usual round of neighbors, pilgrims, and other summer adventures. Kim left us a few days ago, and is off to the east to live her soulful camino. We met Federico and the guitarristas and some Americans for a feast of roast suckling lamb in Villacazar de Sirga. Miguel´s sweetheart Nathalie came on Saturday, and we all went off for a day in the Cantabrian mountains, scoping-out yet another spectacular old pilgrim path -- this one called the Ruta Vadinsiense. Massive mountains, switchback narrow roads, a very near miss on one bend...
Our pilgrims included a Brazilian fashion model, and the return of Frederic, the angelic Popeye lookalike. He is now hard at work over at the Italian albergue, having joined the pack of strong men from Brescia who are bashing up the ground and installing a septic system. Una spends hours there, bullying the men and keeping the worksite free of field mice and stray sandwiches.
One of these days we´ll have an albergue in Moratinos, but it´s a slow business.
Around us the fields are checklists of straw-bales, or great mourning congregations of drying, blackened sunflowers. It´s the in-between time now, after the harvest, before the plowing and seeding, time for welding and repairing the machinery that bought the farmers these quiet days.
Today is extraordinarily quiet, if not silent. No one but us is here at The Peaceable. Miguel and Nathalie left yesterday, and Frederic went this morning to join the Bruno Crew. Not even Kim is about.
It´s been about five months since Patrick and I were alone in our house. It is delicious, I gotta say.
We went to Sahagun this morning. I got a haircut, Paddy bought some more brushes and paints. The Kangoo got a much-needed oil change, and new brake-shoes.(we drove over that mountain and back with very bad brakes, I am told. I think brakes are a good idea.) They washed the car, too. I didn´t recognize it at first, until I saw the dog-nose smears on the inside of the window glass.
We sat at a terrace table outside Cafe La Rueda and drank Tonicas. The Plaza Mayor is heaving these days, full of leaping children, staggering pilgrims, fashionable folk from Burgos and Madrid and Bilbao come back in their summer frocks to visit the abuelos on the family farm. All the little pueblos are in full fiesta-mode, including ours: this weekend it is. We have a guitarist coming to play the Mass on Saturday... more company in the house. We´ll roast a leg of lamb and dance the neighbors ´round the plaza, under the leafy trees we trimmed together back in March.
Til then we are keeping to ourselves. I am sleeping deep sleeps. Paddy is out in the patio under the flyscreen, listening to radio broadcasts from the York horseracing meeting in England, playing great big Tchaikovsky on the stereo so we won´t hear anyone at the door.
Which is closed, for now.
We are tired right down to our bones.
Next camino starts up there someplace!
The old town of Santiago is busy. Very busy. There is a lot going on. There is programme of organ recitals for the whole week and the street entertainment is amongst the best I have ever seen. The other evening outside of the massive Church of San Martin a family set up shop. Electric piano, drums, double bass, guitar and the mum on the violin completed a very special jazz quintet. The place rocked. It is hard to keep up with the variety of sounds and sights. One moment a group of singing nuns marched in line under my office window heading for the Cathedral. The next moment the skirl of the pipes squeezed out all other sounds as a multiple processions of Gallegos in national dress met in the great Cathedral square.
The queues for the Holy Door and the Cathedral have been unrelenting. People start to line up early in the morning and they are still doing that well into the evening. The Pilrgims´ Office has been frenetic at times. Last weekend was a local bank holiday weekend. It also combined with the major liturgical feast of the Assumption. Two great reasons for the City to celebrate. As if scenting a party pilgrims made their way in huge numbers to the City. On Saturday last we issued over 2,300 Compostelas. The staff got their heads down and almost everyone was happy when they doors closed at 9pm. All I could hear was the occasional “Siguente” or “Next ” as the ever patient pilgrims filed forward. Singing would break out in the queue from time to time to break the monotony of waiting for so long. Some very sweet scenes punctuated the day. “Next” went up the cry and a couple stepped forward. “Only one at a time please” my colleague said. “But we are finishing our honeymoon by getting our Compostelas”, they pleaded. Of course they were seen together with congratulations from everyone.
In they trailed. Pilgrims old and pilgrims young. “Am I the oldest today? ” Enquired Raul who at 82 had walked from Pamplona in 30 days. Assured that he certainly was he went off bearing his certificate with pride. Then there was young Gabriela who at 8 had walked step by step with her mum and dad from Oviedo. Sometimes there is disappointment. A young couple approached my desk and handed over three credenciales. I duly stamped the first two and wrote their compostelas and asked where their friend was holding up the third credencial which was full of sellos. That belongs to Petra they said looking down. I looked over and resting on the ground was a boxer dog. I explained that the Compostela is only issued to humans as a symbol of the spiritual journey. They weren´t convinced and went off really quite unhappy.
Those who have reached Santiago know the office well. It has a broad stone staircase which opens onto a dilapidated office. This is church property after all! The floor is old and is disintegrating. The legs of our chairs catch in the holes. When the place is full of pilgrims it can be bedlam.
This year sees the fruition of a project to extend the Pilgrims´Office. The intention was to create a better environment which would be more pleasant for every one. A new entrance/exit has been created one door down and pilgrims walk into a pleasant patio with a pergola before entering or leaving by a new staircase which leads to a broad stone corridor with vaulted ceilings where the new office has been formed. 10 or 12 staff can work here. The IT has been installed. It is cool and pleasant. This week we have been using it as overflow from the main office and I think it has made a huge difference. The plan is only to use this new place in winter when there are few pilgrims and to use it as overflow in the busy season. Opinions about the new office are mixed among my colleagues. We´ll see what the pilgrims think. All they want is not to wait too long for their compostela. So, I better stop writing this right now. “Next, please”.
I've decided what it will be. But, it won't happen until January. No real idea what I'm going to do in the meantime other than survive! Carry on as I am I guess. Picking up occassional commissions and selling sketches on the street whilst trying to raise money for charity (that isn't going to well ATM).
For a year from January I will be travelling all over Europe and Africa :) Making art, film, photography and exhibiting. Paintings, sketches, photographs and more will be offered for sale via an all new website and auctioned on ebay. All profit to go to charity. A bit of a working holiday. I'll be paying for it myself - ultimately, it's all about an adventure for me and self-promotion. I will also be looking for donations to charity and I have an offer to help fund costs of community projects.
Yeah - I know, I've changed my mind plenty of times before, but this one is workable. No flying. All land and water. Walking, buses, car, motorbike, ferry. As much walking as possible. Walking is expensive mind.
In the meantime, it's business as usual. I haven't been to Segovia yet. I met a couple from Segovia here in Leon. They bought sketches. One sketch may well pay for a bus to Segovia. There is actually a pilgrimage route I could walk from there. One last time to Santiago de Compostela???
Anyone who has been following my blog will probably know what I'm on about.
I have a bag full of letters. I can't get rid of them! I don't want to get rid of them, but I feel I have to. Very occassionally you meet someone who has a very profound effect on your life. Damn them :D
I'm going to take a short break. Visit an island off the coast of Galicia for a couple of days. I'm going to have a letter burning ceremony. Possibly. Or, I'm going to drink a bottle of wine. Wash and dry the bottle of wine. Fill it with letters and a couple of photographs and throw it as far as I can into the Atlantic. Knowing my luck it will wash up on the beach of new boyfriends home town where his dog will find it and deliver it to him. I will then be accused of devising some elaborate plan to interfere.
Now I've planted that little seed in my mind I'm going to have to burn them. Nah, keep them. Burn them. Keep them? Burn? Bin?
Damn you!
I was in Los Angeles this week, in between conferences. The Lutheran teaching theologians had just gathered up in Thousand Oaks, a place first noticed by airline pilots heading into the Los Angeles airports as a valley with no smog. That's distinctive in the LA area.
The pilots moved in on orchards and chicken coops to build retirement homes and McMansions. My tribe met at California Lutheran University, the new game in a town dedicated to golf, assisted living, and the few remaining chickens.
At the end of the week, I'd be part of a panel at the American Psychological Association (APA) in San Diego presenting a chapter I co-authored with colleague Sonny Manuel in a book on contemplative practices.
In between conferences, though, I had a "dead day" in Los Angeles, literally, "The City of Angels." For convenience, I was ensconced in one of the many hotels ringing the international airport there, LAX: Airport Siberia. What to do?
I thought of museums, and The City of Angels has an impressive collection, from the Getty to LACMA, the wonderful Los Angeles County Museum. But public transportation is not great and the exhibits didn't compel.
Sleep recommended itself, and I remembered that only two months before I'd been in Paris at the end of another pilgrimage, this time the ancient route from Toulouse into Santiago de Compostela, which we followed to Pamplona. Then only a month ago, I'd been about to embark on the Great Road Trip that took me to Minnesota. The trip had been luminous and long, clearly a pilgrimage that would lead to a new city, a new job, and another chapter in calling.
As I considered these precedents, I realized I wasn't simply looking for something to do, but weighing how to mark this time. How could I take account of the journeys that had brought me here? What would be fitting?
Framing the question in terms of pilgrimage, it didn't take long to come up with an answer: I'd figure out how to get to the ocean. I need an ocean of reference anyway, and a month in land-locked Minnesota -- even though the terrain was once the bottom of a great inland sea -- left me starved for salt air. The runways at LAX head due west, and planes take off out over the ocean, using the prevailing westerlies for lift.
Finding the Pacific shouldn't be hard: just follow the runways.
And so I did, walking down long, unbroken, tree-lined boulevards. As I walked, I watched the planes land, pulling up slightly and precisely just as their rear wheels touch the ground. They landed on the ground just like great birds on a branch, making the transition from air-borne to earth-bound seamless. Watching I gave thanks for the transitions I'd made over the last two months, if not seamless, at least smooth. As I played back all that had happened, I crested a hill -- and the blue Pacific spread out at my feet.
I could taste the salt, watch the surf, and get my feet wet. That's what I needed: the line of a vast horizon, invariant behind the waves' crashing. In times of transition, you need a few things that don't change.
I took a mental snapshot -- and headed home.
The planning of this pilgrimage is turning out to be the busy part - I look forward to when all I have to do is walk everyday. Language, history, culture, and logistics are all competing for the little available time remaining.
Honestly, though,whether I had 10 days or 10 months, I'd fill it completely with reading and planning, so it makes little difference in the end... 8 more weeks is a good amount of time; still, if the temperature dropped enough tomorrow, I'd leave at dawn. (It won't drop enough until October, though, so the departure date is set at October 10th.)
Becoming conversant in Latin American Spanish isn't particularly daunting, but it takes a little time... two or three times a week, I get myself to a happy hour or cocktail party where everyone speaks only in Spanish. I've found meetup.com a fantastic resource for locating such places around town. Every day, I create an opportunity to speak out loud, even if only to the cats. Spanish fits much easier in my mouth than Russian or Ukrainian - I have to force myself to remove the 'vee' sound from the alphabet, but I'm not crying out to buy a vowel like in those eastern dialects.
The Pilgrim-in-Training is walking so much around town that she's already walked the equivalent distance of 90% of the way to Chimayo. The training is paying off - in four months her pace has increased from a scant 2 miles per hour on relatively flat paved surfaces with a rest required hourly to more than 2.75 miles per hour, sustainable with only short shade rests for 12 miles with a 15-pound backpack. She's lost more than 20 pounds in the process and has noticeably more energy. Which is all great, because there's no good way to Chimayo without crossing a few very big mountains.
The route planning is not at all straight forward... there's a multitude of permutations and no direct path. Under such conditions, there's no way to get lost. We'll head south along the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies, crossing them in the first week and then the Wet Mountains and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in quick succession into the expansive San Luis Valley not far from the headwaters of the Rio Grande River, which continues all the way down to Mexico. The 'mile-high' city from which we start will mark the lowest altitude of the route to Chimayo. We'll have to weave our way between many 14ers - mountains exceeding 14,000 feet (4,300 meters) - to get into the San Luis Valley.
One week after leaving Denver, we'll encounter an interesting but subtle demarcation. The Arkansas River between the Front Range and the Wet Mountains was formerly the extent of New Spain and a long-standing border between Mexico and the US. In an interesting geographic and linguistic relic, once we cross the river [at Cañon City], the predominant language will be Spanish. I'll have plenty of miles to transition from English through Spanglish into full-fledged Spanish.
Although the distance between Denver and Chimayo - 331 miles, it seems - is perhaps only 10% of the distance to Mexico City, it's an important milestone. This is a bit further than the distance between Burgos and Santiago de Compostela in Spain along the Camino Frances whence tens of thousands of pilgrims pass every year. It's a very do-able distance to trek in about three weeks. Of course in Spain there is an abundance of pilgrim houses to stay in and a well-worn broad path marked with big yellow arrows to walk along with no fear of straying from the destination, and an absence of mountain lions, bears, rattlesnakes, and other creatures of the day and night looking for a meal... Otherwise, there's beautiful landscape with wilderness challenges that can be an interesting alternative to the Camino right here in America.
Chimayo may be one of the most-visited and long-standing pilgrimage destinations in the US, but it lacks the inveterate tradition of foot treks originating from places further afield than Santa Fe or Taos, New Mexico as compared to Santiago de Compostela. There are a lot of foot pilgrims to Chimayo, but mostly limited to Holy Week for specific traditional celebrations. I think originating in Denver will be spectacular with regard to culture and nature and landscape, and in October when the golden leaves of the aspen trees will be quaking in sweeps within spruce and pine groves below the snow-capped 14ers during harvest time in the broad Rio Grande Valley, passing through various mining districts and ghost towns of the Old West... this will be something I'm sure a lot of people will enjoy. Giant yellow arrows and pilgrim houses aren't requirements for a pilgrimage.
I can't really explain it in terms of why I like the city as a city. It just seems to sort of balance very happily. Old and new. Tradition and convenience. Beautiful buildings for a small city, and the most elegant cathedral I've ever come across. Also the best stained glass windows I've ever come across.
Most of all; good things always seem to happen in Leon (when it doesn't rain). I always get good work, or make enough cash selling on the streets. Today, a young lad asked his uncle to buy a sketch as a birthday gift. I am absolutley chuffed with that. More than any prestigious client name. More than my very own themed hotel in Granada. More than the very nice display I was shown today in the Cathedral restaurant/bar here in Leon (that looks cool as, but...). I was wasting pocket money on Athena shit at that age. My favourite customer to date, and he got my best Leon sketch to date. Five people tried to buy it.
I feel finally retsored from the nightmare of Santiago and Granada. It wasn't all bad - lots of very good also, but only now do I feel like I'm the relaxed, easy going artist I almost lost! I know who I am again. I know where I'm going again. I'm going to take a short break somewhere. Someone told me about a peaceful, beautiful island. Perhaps next week for a couple of days, or so. I need to let go of a dream???
Someone gave me a book. There was a quote quoted. Can't remember who, or verbatim, but something like "It is always easier to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams". Works for me. Not sure if it's good, bad, meaningful, or totally irrelevant. Perhaps it's just a bit of esoteric poetry, or summat???
I do like this city. Hoping I will find enough work to stay here until the start of my next project. Trying to find a man to talk about designing a psychedelic, multimedia, mobile stage for classical guitar performances!!!
I have a kitchen. I can cook my own food. I have a washing machine. I can wash my own clothes.
Leon is positively thriving. It's a fresh, fun little city with fantastic bars, affordable accommodation, plenty of art, nice parks and plazas, a river and a nice relaxed vibe - no Policia Local ripping up sketches.
Policia Local in Granada are fucking the place up as far as I can see. They started using 'black leather glove' psychology to scare people. They only seem to pick on those who appear to be the most vulnerable also. I may return later in the year if I have to.
Plan now is to clear a bit of debt and find enough work to see me through until December when funds become available for my next project. Small exhibition in Barcelona next week may, or may not provide cash also. It's a bit of an experiment really.
Next project? It is either going to happen in Africa, Eastern Europe, or London. Yet to decide.
Me and my friend Miguel Angel went this weekend to Salamanca, I city I love and he had never seen. I love showing people I like around cities I love. The new person sees things I overlook. They marvel the same way I did not so long ago, at the food and buildings and sunlight and people. They just generally remind me of how cool it is to have places so marvellous in such easy reach.
Salamanca was its usual beautiful self. We hiked around the city´s Siamese-twin cathedrals: a smaller, medieval cathedral built in the 1100´s stands right up against what was supposed to be its replacement: a towering limestone Gothic pile from the glory days of the 1500´s. It took forever to finish the new place, and people just didn´t have the heart to tear down the old one, so they just knocked out some of the walls in between and kept them both. The "new" one is still used for worship. Both are popular for "showcase weddings" on weekends, and we witnessed at least five nuptials going on while we nosed around at the thousand-year-old murals and tombs of knights and abbesses. (One of the wedding couples chose a priest rather fond of the old fire-and-brimstone. His high-decibel exhortations followed us down the medieval cloister-walk and into chapels where Comunards boiled up revolutions, centuries of university students defended their doctoral theses, (Salamanca is home to the second-oldest university in the world!), and Mass is still said a few times each year in the ancient and outlawed Mozarabic Rite.
The place is a huge museum of bygone glories. It is beautiful and full of people, but they weren´t there to worship God. They, like us, were tourists, having a look at the wonders wrought by mankind during the spectacular years of Spain´s greatest power. And there´s nothing wrong with that. (Just don´t go there if you want to meditate or pray. People who attempt such anachronistic behavior will be photographed without mercy by the tourist throng.)
We left the city at mid-morning and headed north to Zamora, a sort of miniature Salamanca on the Duero River. We didn´t go to see the town (even though it´s another big favorite of mine), but to visit San Pedro de la Nave, a "pre-Romanesque" church 10 km. out among the sagebrush badlands west of town.
The building is made of all kinds of rocks and stones stacked together into a small church of simple elegance. Windows are tiny slits. Outside, the stone walls are carved with dozens of crosses -- the graffitti of illiterate monastic vandals, probably carved there long before anyone thought to build a church or start teaching classes down in Salamanca. Decorations are simple stone carvings of grapes and wheels and faces. This church was built by Visigoths, a tribe of early Christians who took over Spain after the Romans pooped-out, and took up where the Romans left off when it came to winemaking and grape-growing. The grapes worked their way into the sculptors´ repertoire -- bunches of grapes, leaves and vines are standbys of Visigothic church art. Spain was full of vineyards until the Moors invaded and overran most of the peninsula -- and the Arabs don´t drink alcohol. The vineyards vanished... almost. And so did grapevine carvings.
San Pedro de la Nave was built in the 7th century. It´s stood for 1,300 years. It, too, is a tourist attraction, but no one but hard-core architecture nerds like us makes the trip. The people of tiny El Campillo, still use the place for their parish worship. It gives me the wim-wams, being in a place so old.
But something older still stands in an empty lot adjacent to the church. A skinny tree trunk, four-stories tall, is erected there. All the branches are stripped off but a few at the very top. And up there among the bare limbs hangs a dummy, a crude human figure. I thought I recognized what it was, from some long-ago sociology class. I asked Javi, the young man who showed us the church.
"That? Oh, that´s a custom of the pueblos around here. On May 1 there´s a fiesta, and we burn down the old tree. We set up a new one, put a new dummy in it, leave it up there til the next May." He was very matter-of-fact about it. He didn´t offer any further enlightenment.
Unless I am mistaken, the people of rural Zamora are celebrating a primitive holdover of a pre-historic "burning man" ritual, just as the crops are taking hold out in the fields each spring. It dates back to tree-worshiping Celts and Druids, who sacrificed actual people to ensure fertility in their crops and barns and homes. When that proved messy or wasteful or distasteful, substitution was made.
It´s not hard to see how early Christians made the jump from sacrifices in the trees to a man nailed to a cross. More substitution. But to see the old, old San Pedro church there, alongside a ritual that reaches even more deep into the past... well. It took my breath away. So much history, ritual, culture, symbolism, and artwork, hundreds and hundreds of years´ worth, in one day´s drive.
Back into the car. We headed out on the two-lanes through Zamora, then Valladolid, then Palencia province, through dusty backwaters, past ruined castles and adobe ghost towns. We stopped in a place called Castroverde de los Campos, and had two rounds of small beer. Miguel Angel picked up the tab: three Euros. Miguel Angel lives in Paris, where he´s used to paying three times that price for the same stuff. He thought there was a mistake. Then he thought he´d died and gone to heaven.
So here I am, so heavenly minded I am no earthly good... Excitement round here is provided yet again by Murphy Cat, who ate some rat poison, fought for his life overnight, and is now clawing his way slowly back from the brink. We also are undergoing repeat visits from Jackie, an enormous Leonnese Mastiff dog who lives at the pilgrim hostel in Terradillos and walks with the pilgs to Moratinos... and then hangs out here for hours before his people come to collect him. We call him Hoss. He´s a whole lotta dawg.
And if I may once more venture into church territory, I hope all you readers who donated to the Peaceable in the past few months will look at the picture here. The little image is made of pear-wood. It´s Santiago Peregrino, carved about a century ago by a Compostela pilgrim from southern France or northern Spain. It´s primitive, but I love it. We bought it from an Irish antiques dealer a month ago, to install in the parish church of Moratinos. Our church stands dead on the Camino de Santiago and hosts pilgrims every day, but has no Santiago figure in its collection! Your donations, combined with a few other donativos, helped to bring this little man to our church. Hopefully we´ll have him safely installed in time for the Moratinos fiesta in a couple of weeks.
Thank you, generous readers.
The way I use the term “headbanger” is peculiarly Scottish. Sure, a Google definition will bring up a reference to Heavy Metal which I suspect is not on the Periodic Table. However when people from Glasgow call someone a headbanger they could easily mean that they are seriously intellectually challenged. Equally it could simply mean they are totally crazy. It can be used as a term of endearment or of scorn. This week I met a few headbangers.
I´d come to Santiago with a number of resolutions. I wanted to work in the Pilgrims´Office dispensing wit and compostelas in equal measure. I wanted to have lengthy late afternoon lunches with friends after work. I wanted to write entertaining blogs. I promised the Friday Night Boys that I would blog regularly and keep them posted. On the flight to Santiago I wondered if I could become the Alistair Cook of Santiago. I planned to sit quietly of an evening with a chilled glass of Alboriño fueling the creative process. Hugging the Saint, visiting friends, writing two important personal letters and going to see Joaquin at the organ in the Cathedral were all on the list.
8 days later. Nada.
When I arrived last Monday there was a wave of heat blowing through the airport. This was not the 40 degree plus of Sevilla in August. This was the 30 degree plus of Galicia. But in Sevilla they have air conditioning. Here in Santiago they have queues. Queues for everything. Queues for the Holy Door, queues for the cathedral, queues in supermarkets and the king of queues at the Pilgrims´Office. Today the sun is beating down on a queue that is taking 2 hours to snake to the front door downstairs.When I arrived this morning just before 9am I spoke to the two boys at the head of the queue, Pedro and Nacho. “We arrived at around 6 am,” they said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I stared at the queue. It filed around the corner up the street and round the corner into the next street. When I got upstairs to the office I asked if they had seen the queue. “Tell us” Eva said and when I did she blessed herself. “Headbangers” all, I thought fondly. Me included. Why else would we stand and wait for a stamp and a certificate which to many is just a piece of paper?
The answer is of course that it marks the end of a significant journey. A personal pilgrimage which has taken time and effort. Long distance pilgrims can be very sniffy about people who “only” walk the last 100 kms. The insulting term “tourigrinos” is often on their lips. I´ve thought it myself as I´ve trudged for weeks only to meet fresh faced Spaniards with day packs marching sprightly out of Sarria which stands at the beginning of the last 100 kms. But they are pilgrims nonetheless and I recognise that there is something about this pilgrimage to Santiago which lies deep in the soul and culture of Spain.
Dealing with the unremitting flow of pilgrims is demanding. Collectively we write 200 compostelas an hour. Personally I spend around 3 minutes on average with each pilgrim. Only time for a brief word of welcome, a cursory inspection of the Pilgrim Passport, the stamps and then their name applied in Latin on the Compostela. Pilgrims have questions. Where can I sleep? When are the Masses? How do I get information about the route to Finisterre? Where can I charge my battery? It is absorbing and has taken over the lives of the staff and volunteers. I can see it happening. It is exhausting. There are no long lunches, only a shower and a sleep. As I drift off their faces often appear:
The wee woman of 72 who walked on her own from her home in Switzerland. She simply sighed as the final stamp went on her credencial. Ramon from Madrid who had walked for 5 days from Sarria. He cried when I gave him his Compostela. “I never knew it would be like this” he said. The tall, proud Spanish chap who appeared with a crowd at the head of the queue. “Is this a group?” I asked the usual question. “No,” he said with his chest swelling, “this is my family, 26 of us from all over Spain, we have come together to walk to Compostela.” So they trouped in mingling with Scouts and nuns, the young and the older, those who had walked from afar and those who had clearly walked far enough.
Last week a young German lad appeared at my desk. He asked in clear English,"excuse me, I read in a book that there is a stone where pilgrims insert their fingers before banging their heads on a statue. Where is it please?" I explained that the sculpture of the Tree of Jesse stands at the door of the Cathedral. It has the imprint of millions of pilgrim fingers over the Centuries but alas, for the moment, it is sealed off for restoration. However there is an exhibition and for a moment´s respite the other day I made my way up to the Plaza Cervantes where the Caixanova Bank has opened an exhibition and conference centre. The ground floor is taken up with a stunning photographic illustration of the Portico de la Gloria. The huge photographs were taken from eye level and also from the perspective of the pilgrim passing through this magnificent doorway. This is the work of Master Mateo depicting the glory of heaven for the medieval pilgrim. This is what they had walked to. This is why they had walked. This where all their journeys would end. It is now as it was then. The commentary explains that it is said that the statue of Master Mateo is the image behind the Portico. This is where visitors bang their heads three times following the tradition of mothers from Compostela who brought their children to ask the Master to give them some wisdom.
For the throngs in the streets and the staff in offices it is hot. Pilgrims bathe their feet in the fountains and most of the people in the various queues are good natured. Not so at the Pilgrims´Office yesterday when another record was sadly broken. A group were keeping places for each other in the queue as some went off for coffee or to use the toilet. On their return they went back to join their friends. It was hot and sticky. People had been waiting a long time. A couple behind the group got angrier and angrier at what they saw as queue jumping. Words were exchanged. A push became a shove. One pilgrim bashed the other on the head with his stick. An ambulance was required and the police were called. For a moment I thought I was back in Glasgow. There has never been such an incident in living memory and the staff of the office is determined that this will not become a modern tradition.
As if to counter the ugliness of the incident yesterday today brought the arrival of Amado, Redemptorist priest, Professor of Theology, athlete, peace protester and former political prisoner. The pilgrims who he had met on his Camino and those around him in the queue knew nothing about him except he was the priest who had walked barefoot from St Jean de Pied Port in France. I knew he was to arrive today and as the morning wore on I wondered if I should go and find him in the queue and bring him forward as I knew he wanted to participate in the Mass at 12 o´clock. I decided not to do that. He was a pilgrim like all others. Although he is leaving tomorrow there are two other Masses in the day. However Amado, barefoot and long back in the queue mentioned to his companions that he was worried about not getting to the Mass. Word was sent forward in the queue, pilgrims whispering to pilgrims. The huge crowd parted and a way was made for the barefoot priest who was cheered along the line and up the long staircase into the Pilgrims Office.
Amado would definitely be called a Headbanger in Glasgow but it would be with huge affection. As we left the Office I found it difficult to get him along the road as people stopped and asked for his photograph or wanted to pose with him. Pilgrims he had met on the Camino hugged him fondly. He proudly displayed his feet. “No blisters” he beamed. We all applauded. Pilgrims it seems like their priests simple and spiritual.
There´s a message there for heabangers everywhere.
Granada. Love it - hate it. When I'm getting commissions it's very good. Selling on the streets is difficult at the best of times. I had decided to stay. Now I'm desperate to escape again.
Thursday evening Policia Local confiscated my sketch. Filled in some paperwork. Fuck knows if a fine will materialise.
Last night 3 of them just walked up to my sketch and ripped it up :( No warning. No asking questions. Before I had a chance to protest it was ripped into pieces.
I give up with Granada for the time being at least. I don't enjoy being made to feel like a criminal when I'm simply sketching and trying to raise money for charities. Other cities in Spain are far more artist friendly. Not sure where to head yet. I know where I don't want to go. I'll probably end up in Leon for a while. I like it there
Ever since a French pilgrim walked from Bordeaux to Jerusalem and back in 333AD, ordinary people with an extraordinary wanderlust have trekked long distances to sacred places. The Anonymous Bordeaux Pilgrim http://www.scribd.com/doc/26855737/The-Anonymous-Pilgrim-of-Bordeaux-333-a-d
My good friend "Little John" is one of those extraordinary pilgrims who is planning on walking from Santiago to
...are going excruciatingly slowly.
We made the decision to skip ahead to Leon because we were ailing and wouldn´t have been able to finish on time. Unfortunately, by doing so we ensured that we´d finish extremely early. We were banking on the fact that we could fly stand-by to go home earlier than our scheduled flights (Aug. 7th), but unfortunately all flights are completely booked. So, we are stuck.
We spent a week in London, which was great in a lot of ways. It was a vacation, we got to see lots of cool things and go places that would ordinarily have required a transatlantic instead of a transmediterranean flight, but it meant we were spending way more money than we had originally intended to. We had to book a flight back to Spain and then we decided to take some day trips to some of my favorite small towns (that I had visited just 5 weeks prior). Then, amid the endless string of days of travelling and living out of suitcases and hotels we lost track of time and magically it was Friday, our last day in Madrid, almost time to head back home to sleep in our own bed, to be with our families and animals and belong to our own culture where we know the unspoken rules and have minimal awkward interractions. Except, as you can probably read at the top of this blog entry... it´s still Thursday. Tomorrow I will not wake up and head to the airport, get my passport stamped and head back to the familiar. It´s like Groundhog Day, and we have seen and done all there is to do in Spain. At this point we are so Spained out that our (non-confirmed) trip to Costa Rica nest summer is looking better and better just because it´s not Europe.
Sorry to be writing on such a down mood. I´m ready to go home, rest for a couple of days and then head back to work. This limbo nonsense is just really grating on my patience.
Since I got to Minneapolis almost a month ago, I have spent hours walking the city, trying to figure out how the city "works." Nothing more, nothing less.
I know a few neighborhoods -- Longfellow, Cedar-Riverside, Milltown, Northeast -- and know there are many, many more. I find a pool and learn the best times to swim and the quickest routes to get there and back, factoring in traffic and time of day. I discover where to shop, bank, dry-clean, and get coffee. I memorize the grid of "avenues" running north-south and "streets" running east-west -- at least mostly.
What has puzzled me, though, is Uptown, Midtown, and Downtown, because Uptown doesn't seem "up" at all, but "down," specifically, south of the downtown area. I was stumped.
Then, a conversation with DeAne Lagerquist, Americanist and lover of the Twin Cities, made everything clear: "It's all about the River," she said matter-of-factly. "Everything is oriented around the River."
The River -- the great Mississippi, which bends through the Twin Cities on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Suddenly everything falls into place.
The Twin Cities developed along the River, and Minneapolis was the mill town, with the mill races and wheels. Pillsbury and Gold Medal lined the River; their signs are still here, though the granaries have long been converted to museums and lofts. Downtown was the area around the River; Midtown, a bit further afield; and Uptown, an ex-urbia, far enough away to be residential, but still close enough in to get to work.
With the River to orient me, everything suddenly made sense. It really is all about the River.
So I begin paying attention to the River: the Great Blue Heron that fishes its shallows, the loon's cry in earliest morning, the locks and how they work, the short blast of a horn that signals it's safe for boats to motor out again, where the river has structure and shoals, and the fish that hide there.
Attending to the River, I notice other things. It captures light in the evenings, lighting up the city long after the sun has set. Power lines arc along its banks, and their towers are not horizontal, but curved. This seemed to me an odd design until I realized the curves allow ice and snow to slide off, where horizontal structures would eventually only break under the weight. The arches of these powerlines are painted whiter than the vertical columns that support them. Against a gunmetal blue sky, they are luminous, like giant seabirds winging their way to the Pacific.
Attending to the River, I'm settling in. I could dwell here.
Dwelling demands a different kind of attention than pilgrimage. Pilgrimage is about destination. Even though the way becomes as compelling as the arrival, pilgrimage requires a kind of focus. I wanted to get to our destination each day; I wanted to reach the top of that hill before stopping. I wanted to log at least two hours of walking before we found a cafe con leche.
Dwelling demands I take a broader view, a more unfocused kind of focus. I pay attention, but I try to take it all in -- even what I'm not expecting to see or hear, smell or taste. Now that I've found my bearings -- or my bearing, the River --I scan broadly, taking in as many things as I can in a glance.
It's like looking for dolphins. I love to watch for them when I'm back in Delaware. There, it's all about -- the grey Atlantic. Occasionally, a fin breaks the surface, and all I know is that the next sighting will be anywhere but where I saw the first.
I learn to look with a broad view, taking in as much surface water as possible, waiting for the next epiphany. Good practice for dwelling in a place.
I'm surprised at what I'm seeing. Mary Oliver was right:
"Everything in the world
comes.
At least, closer.
And, cordially."
("Where Does the Temple Begin? Where Does It End?")
One morning when we set out walking with Billy and Christine, Cullen began the day as we always did, with "our" pilgrim prayer. Billy told us he learned that prayer as a child, so it really isn't a pilgrim prayer per se, but it is the prayer we started each day of our pilgrimage. It is the "Anima Christi". Here it is with a bit of variation:
Soul of Christ, sanctify me
Body of Christ, save me
Blood of Christ, inebriate me
Water from the side of Christ, wash me
Passion of Christ, strengthen me
Passion of Christ, comfort me
O my Jesus, Within thy wounds hide me
From the evil malignant one defend me
At the hour of death call me
And grant that I join your angels and saints
and proclaim your glory.
Now and Forever. Amen.













