WordSisters

Tag: wordsisters

  • Pilgrimage

    According to Wikipedia, a pilgrimage is a journey, often into an unknown or foreign place, where a person goes in search of new or expanded meaning about their self, others, nature, or a higher good, through the experience. It can lead to a personal transformation, after which the pilgrim returns to their daily life.

    The Camino Frances is a 490-mile pilgrimage route from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela. This Camino route is walked by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims every year. The Camino starts in France and on the way to Santiago crosses several regions in Northern Spain. For a prepared and experienced hiker, this route takes about 30 days start to finish. I estimate that it will take Jody and me 42 days to complete.

    Initially, I was concerned that since both of my knees have been replaced, I might not be able to complete the journey. I shushed the concern by buying and reading Camino Easy: A Guide to the Camino de Santiago for Mature Walkers and Walk In A Relaxed Manner: Life Lessons From The Camino.

    I reintroduced myself to the Hennepin County Library system, filled my bag with Camino de Santiago books and a DVD, “The Way.” If you recall, Martin Sheen plays a father headed overseas to recover the body of his estranged son who died while traveling the “El camion de Santiago,” and decides to take the pilgrimage himself.

    On Facebook, I joined Camino de Santiago All Routes and Camigas a Buddy System for Women on the Camino. Through numerous posts per day, I follow others as they hike. I’ve learned how to take care of blisters and whether I should pack a poncho or rain jacket.

    Most people hike 15 miles a day and many carry their pack. I’ve decided that we will hike between 10-13 miles a day, take rest days, and send our packs ahead.

    I continue to emphasize to Jody (even though she doesn’t ask) that we are going to take our time walking. Our focus will be on enjoying the trek, the outdoors, and the people we meet.

    I can barely stop myself from packing my suitcase.

    The only problem is we aren’t leaving until September 2024, and we will need our bags before then.

    Researching our pilgrimage down to the miles walked per day, daily lodging, and rest days is my joy. I’m lost for hours in the planning. It’s like going on the trip twice.

    Crystel is a sophomore at the University of Manoa for the 2022-2023 school year. Our Maui trip in December 2022 to visit is planned, confirmed, and booked. A binder is compiled with information: airline tickets, car rental, lodging, snorkeling, cliff jumping, surf lessons, Cat Sanctuary, Glass Blowing, ATV touring, Whale Watching, Hang Gliding, and of course a Luau.

    Not all our trips go as planned. COVID cancelled our three-week trip to Japan and Crystel’s Spanish Immersion Guatemalan Homestay trip. This summer flooding cancelled our trip to Yellowstone. Cancelled trips are shelved but not tossed into the ‘never will happen’ basket.

    Two weeks ago Crystel expressed interest in reviving the trip to Guatemala for Spanish learning. She asked me to join her.

    Immediately, I started researching Spanish Schools and family homestays. I see possibilities. I could learn Spanish and converse with other pilgrims on the Camino. Jody and Juan could meet up with us towards the end of our month-long stay. Most importantly, I could spend 4 weeks with my daughter.

    Now, that would be some pilgrimage.

    I hope all goes as planned. For the month of July, 2023, I’ve booked a homestay and language school for us in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. I can barely stop myself from packing!

  • Dismantling the Bench

    Nestled under the pine tree was a rustic heavy duty five foot wooden bench. A sitting spot for kids waiting their turn on the diving board. For over ten years the bench fought against the elements. Snow, ice, hail, and summer sun grayed and pitted the wood. Year after year, the bench a fixture, just was. Cumbersome, awkward, and weighty, a few simple pieces of wood. A forgotten backdrop of many photos.

    Engraved on the back of the bench in large letters was, In memory of George and Mary K Smith. When I became the recipient of this bench the letters were in front. I promptly turned the bench slats around. I didn’t need a constant visual reminder of my parents though I was pleased that I was the beneficiary of the bench instead of my siblings. I felt like I had pulled something over on someone. The fact was, no one wanted the bench or had a place for it. Heavy as it was.

    Recently, our backyard was being landscaped. Pines removed. I yanked at the bench to drag it from its place. The bench complained and its right leg crumpled. Other joints also appeared ready to give way.

    Would I miss the bench?

    I tugged and jerked the bench to the side of the garage. Returned to retrieve its leg.

    After a couple of weeks, I called the neighbor to see if he would use his chain saw to take apart the bench. That seemed to be the quickest and easiest way to discard it.

    Wood shavings and a small pile of wood were in a corner of my driveway when I came home from work. I couldn’t believe that such a burden was reduced to so little.

    Little by little, week by week, I fed the pieces into our waste container. I was careful not to overload the bin and have the waste be rejected. Now it is gone.

    What I didn’t know was at this same time, our homestead was being sold. When I learned of this, I felt a punch in my chest. It’s finally done, I thought. It really happened. Our homestead is no more. Like the wooden bench the farm is gone.

    I had no financial stake in the homestead. Only emotional. What I miss is in my heart already. Aunt Kate, the pond, a sledding hill, the smell of popcorn, ice cream bars in the freezer. Those memories I can always draw on.

    If it was Aunt Kate’s name on the bench, I’m not sure I could have ever let it go.

  • My Personal Abortion Story

    It’s personal. How could it not be? It’s my body. I was 14 years old. In 1973, abortion had recently become legal in Minnesota. I didn’t know that. What I knew is that the doctor had just told me that I was pregnant and asked if it was one of my brothers.

    I didn’t question why he asked me if it was one of my brothers. That would come years later when I made an appointment to request a copy of my doctor visits and health history. Then, I was on a search to claim myself. Bear witness to that teen girl who had raised herself up on the exam table and screamed, “No!” My abrupt movement viciously scrunched the white parchment paper underneath me. I was overcome with fear. What must have I looked like to him?

    I saw a similar expression on his face when I asked for my medical records. Fear. I wasn’t there to hurt him. What I really wanted to know is why he asked me if the pregnancy was one of my brothers.

    “I ask everyone that,” he said. I knew that not to be true. By then I was able to trust my senses.

    The truth of my pregnancy is that it likely was one of my brothers, but it could have been someone else. I didn’t know.

    That mid-summer morning when I was 14, the doctor quickly left the room and called my mother who was at home. She had dropped me off for the doctor visit, saying, “Call me when you’re done.” I was complaining of stomach pain.

    Waiting for her to arrive at the doctor’s, I leaned against the sunny part of the brick building. My stomach didn’t hurt anymore. I couldn’t feel anything. I was in freeze mode. I thought about my options. How I could run away, leave town, walk the opposite way from home. Take the side roads and make my way out. I’d still be pregnant. I nodded at my mother when she pulled up.

    “I wish it was an appendicitis,” she said on our way home. She never asked me about the pregnancy.

    My father was summoned to their bedroom. Phone calls were made. Then I was beckoned. “You’re going to have an abortion,” my mother said. All I felt was relief. She was going to take care of this problem.

    Before my mother died, she told me that she wished she wouldn’t have had that abortion. I didn’t correct her by saying that I had the abortion, not her. She was dying. I’m guessing the Catholic priest didn’t give her absolution, which caused her regret. She said the abortion took her a year to get over.

    I have no regrets. Not an iota of sense that I murdered someone. That I am a killer. That I’m going to hell. If any of that was true, I would know it. I spent 30 years in therapy getting to know myself. I’d know.

    When I feel sadness, it’s not because I had an abortion. It’s sadness for the child, teen and adult who was left to navigate her past, present and future.