The Leap of Faith

Posted in Aspirations, Inspiration, Love, Magick, Motivation by

Today’s assignment via the Daily Post is to write about a big risk that you’d like to take and haven’t gotten around to yet. After a little reflection, I’ve realized that my life is a study in opposites. I have no problems taking huge steps that leave others quaking in their boots, but the small steps sometimes hold me up for years. So I’m going to talk about a plan that I have, to do the coolest thing ever. I don’t know when I’ll do it, but it won’t be too long from now. And it will be glorious.

When I was growing up, my mother refused to use curse words of any rank. No shits, damns, or hells crossed her lips. She wanted to teach me to be a lady. My father, on the other hand, cursed like a sailor. Guess which one I emulated most? Anyway, when Daddy would piss her off, instead of saying something crass like “screw you,” she’d tell him, “Why don’t you go take a long jump off a short pier?” I always loved that saying. The visual still makes me giggle. But this has nothing at all to do with my post. It’s just a funny story.

I’ve always loved stories. I eat them up. I started reading at 4, and never looked back. I won the summer reading contest at my local library for years in a row, rolling through books that were way above my age level. By the time I hit puberty, I’d long since read every book in the young adult section of the library, and had moved on to the least racy of the adult section. Every now and then I managed to sneak something slightly naughty (say, with kissing) past my ever-watchful mother, but not often.

St. George

The statue from my childhood was a bit nicer than this, and the spear went straight into the dragon’s mouth.

It’s hard to pinpoint where my love of things medieval started. In fact, I don’t know if I ever actually tried to suss it out before this very moment, as I write this. My father had an alabaster statue of St. George killing the dragon. The spear would slide in and out of gallant Sir George’s hand, and I loved to play with it when I was very small, giving the dragon what-for from other angles that George couldn’t reach. Swordplay always interested me, too, as my all time favorite movie as a kid was Return of the Jedi (I wore out so many VHS tapes). As a story-eater, fantasy books ruled my world from the beginning, too. I specifically remember reading the books of The Chronicles of Prydain, then getting so terribly depressed at the end of the series that Mum, flustered, suggested I read them all over again from the beginning. After that, many of my favorite books took place in medieval-themed settings, even if the stories happened on other imaginary worlds.

How could you see this cover and not HAVE to read this immediately?

How could you see this cover and not HAVE to read this immediately?

Then at some point in my childhood, I happened across a book that changed my life. I didn’t know it at the time, obviously, but its subject was to become an obsession of mine. It will be my leap. My leap of faith.

The book is called The Ramsay Scallop, and it’s a fictional account of two young pilgrims’ journey to Santiago de Compostela to take the sins of their entire small town to be forgiven. The story follows the travelers along their path, documenting with considerable accuracy the things they would have seen and experienced on their trip. As a kid, I was excited to be taking this journey with them, and also intrigued by the idea of carrying the burden and responsibility of other people’s sins with you to be deposited elsewhere. I wanted to be that selfless.

Fast forward about 10 years. As a junior in college, I had long since forgotten the title of the book I read as a kid, but not the message. All of my studies revolved around religion in art and architecture, and I focused heavily on the ways medieval people reached out to the divine. I remembered that there was a pilgrimage route to a place in Spain, and that the road was arduous. I love labyrinths, and by this time had learned that in this tumultuous time in Europe’s history, when travel often spelled out death, or at least no return, the devout could stay closer to home and walk labyrinths as a representation of taking the road to pilgrimage sites of greater importance. For the Christian pilgrim, all paths symbolized the road to Jerusalem, and all shows of devotion carried a chance at salvation. Some paths showed greater devotion, though, and for many it stood to reason that you had to put your money where your mouth was, to take the leap, move beyond the labyrinth, and follow The Way. Of course, there were also those who took the road as penance for severe crimes (like Henry II’s pilgrimage to Canterbury in penance for Thomas a Beckett’s murder), and some not of their own free will, but as ascribed punishment in lieu of execution. I’m missing lots of important points in trying to sum this up neatly in a paragraph or two, so please academics, forgive this shoddy explanation.

ramsayscallop

At the time, I was taking a course on medieval Spain, and decided to study up on Santiago de Compostela. What I found renewed my passion. I read stuffy old books, some fun new books, and even dredged up a copy of The Ramsay Scallop to run through again. I started planning my pilgrimage. I would travel the Camino Frances, the most popular of the 28 routes to Santiago de Compostela, starting in France, leading pilgrims over the Pyrenees and into Spain. It would take about six weeks of walking through all kinds of weather, over a sometimes arduous terrain, but it would offer the ultimate reward. Freedom.

Obviously I’m still planning. To take the pilgrim’s road to Santiago de Compostela is my greatest wish. The only thing I REALLY want to do. It’s hard to explain exactly why. It’s easier to explain why I shouldn’t. After all, I’m not Catholic. I’m not even Christian. I’m a single woman, who would be travelling on my own. I can’t even speak another language. In other words, I’m going to be walking 750 kilometers on my own, in a foreign land, with nowhere to turn if I get in trouble. If I explained it that way to my parents, they’d fear for my life, and possibly my sanity.

But my heart cries out to go. What will I find? Wide open spaces? Plenty of blisters? A beautiful landscape? Sore shoulders? Enduring friendships? God? Myself? I want it all. I want to suffer. I want to be good to others, to feel the Earth beneath my feet, to eat sparingly and think endlessly. Like those long-ago pilgrims, I’m prepared to die on the Camino. I know that sounds foreign and possibly terrible to you reading this, but it’s a good thing. A beautiful thing. I don’t want this life to be over, but if it does end, I want to be wearing a clam shell.

St. James the Pilgrim by Juan de Juanes. Notice the clam shell. The body of St. James is supposedly in Santiago de Compostela, and pilgrims along the Camino traditionally have worn a clam shell.

St. James the Pilgrim by Juan de Juanes. Notice the clam shell. The body of St. James is supposedly in Santiago de Compostela, and pilgrims along the Camino traditionally have worn a clam shell (or a shell-shaped patch or medallion).

And the reality is that it’s quite safe. People along the route respect pilgrims, and the route I’ve chosen is actually heavily travelled. The odds that I’ll be all alone for the entire time are pretty slim, especially if I go in the high season. There’s more chance of me not getting a bed in the albergue than there is of me getting attacked. Worst case scenario, I’ll end up not meeting anyone to speak to, and spend the entire trip exploring my own thoughts and trying not to break an ankle on the trail. More probable scenario, I’ll lose 15 pounds, meet some awesome travel companions from other countries, get to see a bunch of beautiful countryside and similarly beautiful small holy sites, and end up having some great spiritual moments that make me feel at one with the Universe. What’s not to love?

In Italy last summer, by a series of coincidences I happened to meet a woman who changed my life. I don’t believe in her version of the Holy Spirit, but I do believe in magick, and energy, and love. She was glowing with it. She was overflowing with it, and she was beautiful. We spent about 45 minutes talking on the bus ride from Assisi to Perugia, and I believed then and now that we were meant to meet. We still exchange emails every few weeks, and I love her like a favorite aunt. She quoted a poem to me on our bus ride that it seems to me she must have learned just because she was going to meet me one day. It makes my heart sing.

To the Pilgrim

Go
from the day of your birth
you have been on the journey.

Go
an encounter awaits you.
with whom?
perhaps with your own self.

Go
your steps will be your words
the journey your song
your fatigue your prayer
and your silence will at last speak,

Go
with the others
but out of yourself
you that think yourself surrounded by unfriendliness
will find joy.

Go
although your spirit may not know where
your feet will carry your heart.

Go
another is coming to meet you,
and is searching for you
so that you can find Him in the sanctuary
at the end of the pilgrimage,
in the sanctuary deep inside your heart.
“He Is Your Peace, He Is Your Peace” carried by a South African Pilgrim and presented at Refugio Gaucelmo.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Papa & Popcorn

Posted in Writing by

For this week’s challenge, I chose a paragraph from my most popular blog post by far, a silly instructional about how to pop microwave popcorn on the stove. (Don’t look at me – I’m as mystified by that as you.)

Original:

Unfortunately, soon after buying the microwave, we discovered that though it’s technically big enough to pop a bag of popcorn, as the microwave tray spins, the popcorn bag moves slightly. This causes the bag to get stuck against the wall of the microwave, stay in one place, and either burn the popcorn or just pop about half of the bag. Both of these outcomes make me very angry, but if I had to choose, I’d say that a half-popped bag of popcorn ticks me off more. The Man still insists on buying microwave popcorn and attempting to pop it, but I tend to leave the room when he does for fear of my head actually exploding if I have to hear him explain one more time that I’m just imagining that the bag is half-full. This as the tell-tale errant kernels clang to the bottom of his popcorn bowl…argh.

Severely Edited:

After buying the microwave, we discovered that it is too small to pop corn. The tray spins, but the popcorn bag does not, either burning or only half-popping the corn. Both of these outcomes disappoint, but the former is more frustrating. Still, The Man insists on making microwave popcorn, saying that I’m imagining the popping problem. His inaccuracy is betrayed by the tell-tale clang of kernels in his bowl.

Edit #2

We bought a small microwave, later finding that it either burns or only half-pops popcorn. Both outcomes disappoint, but the former is worse. Still, The Man insists on making microwave popcorn, saying I’ve imagined the problem. The un-popped kernels prove his error.

Procrastination, Be Gone!

Posted in Life, Motivation, Work by

Today’s Daily Post prompt is to craft a missive to a personality trait that you dislike, telling it to basically shape up or ship out. In the interest of being true to this goal, this post will be short(ish).

Dear Procrastination,

I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you chose to come for a short stay with me. It’s truly been lovely having you around. We’ve had some wonderful times together during your visit. Just in the last 24 hours alone, we watched three Redbox films back to back, played game after game of Wordy on the cell phone in a sad attempt to beat the previous high score, and even jointly decided it really made so much more sense to get two more hours of sleep rather than waste it on the treadmill. I feel like I’ve known you all my life – you’re my soulmate, and I can’t imagine how I’d ever avoid doing all of the things I need to do if it were not for your beloved presence.

But Procrastination, lately I’ve been feeling some strain in our relationship. You’ve caused me some headaches, and weight gain, and worst of all, an ever-present stress that permeates every facet of my day-to-day existence. I would love nothing more than to keep avoiding the tasks that stretch out before me, replacing those boring secretarial duties with more exciting endeavors like scrubbing the bathtub tiles or organizing my sock drawer. However, that just is not to be. I must get back to checking off my to-do list and making up for the time we’ve lost together.

Procrastination, I will love you forever. You’ve been an important part of my life, and I think that there’s still room for you. Maybe we can go on vacation together in a year or two, and lie around the beach drinking Mai Tais and avoiding tasks that involve too much brain power. We’ll have the best time ever, you and I. But for now, you must go and stay with someone else – just until I get my life back in order.

auf Wiedersehen, dear friend.

Your devoted servant,

Anna

The Perfect Rainy Afternoon

Posted in Life, Love by

Today at the Daily Post, they’ve asked us to describe our perfect, rainy afternoon. This is the true story (with a few tiny embellishments) of a favorite rainy day from my childhood. 

It was mid-summer, when the expanse of warm days behind you seems almost as endless and uncountable as that which lays before. I was lost in the goodness of it all – my skin was that perfect toasty brown that all wild children turn after spending entire weeks out-of-doors, catching interesting bugs and making rainbows with a carefully-positioned garden hose.

I had spent the morning doing much of the usual – looking for toads, pretending I was brave enough to climb trees, eating the little purple flowers that grew along side of the house, and talking with my cat, Amos. As the afternoon rolled in, so did the storm clouds. There were just a few at first, showing up just as Mama (later to become “Mum”) called me in for a sloppy peanut butter & jelly sandwich and a glass of overly-chocolate milk, just the way I liked it. Mama was excited, because she’d checked out an old favorite movie from the library, and told me that if I was good, we might watch it in the afternoon.

By the time lunch was over, the sky had turned a violent shade of purple. The house wasn’t air conditioned, and it was hot and still inside. One window in the living room was open just a crack, and a firm, cool breeze pushed its way in, offering us a chance at hope. Mama made a game out of it, and together we raced to open all of the doors and windows. She had me help slide screens in to keep the mosquitoes from coming inside while still allowing in that sweet, cool storm air. We giggled as we tried to capture nature.

I remember that it smelled like heaven – a mix of fresh grass, rich soil, and just a hint of the sea from miles away. As I stood beside Mama, diligently pushing curtains out of the way, her signature scent of Ivory soap, sunblock, and sweat washed over me, and I realized for the first time that she was alive, with a capital “A.” I was stunned, and stood dumbly for a second as I fumbled with this heavy thought. Raindrops started to splatter down outside.

“Oh no! The laundry!” Mama exclaimed, sprinting past me and up the stairs to the second story. She came back down with a laundry basket perched against each hip, and ran past me, crying, “Hurry, baby duck! Before it rains!”

Slowly, still mulling over my new concept, I followed her out into the front yard. The clothes lines were on the other side of the lawn, and Mama was catching the jeans and towels as they flapped in the wind like mediocre pennants. As I stared across the yard at my living mother, I noticed that our yard had changed. In the dark, weird storm light, the grass was a violent shade of yellow green. It was the most exciting color I had ever seen, and for years after that day, I tried to combine Crayola shades to recreate it, without much luck.

I didn’t make it across the yard to help Mama. I stood ankle deep in the electric green grass, letting the dirt squish in between my toes, feeling the first decent drops of rain kiss my sweaty skin. I watched the woman who had given birth to me as she yanked clothes off of the line, clothespins snapping in half and flying every which-a-way as she tried to salvage her morning’s work. I marveled at the purple sky, the way the breeze felt both cold and hot, the different sized drops of rain, my angry Amos cat getting comfortable in her little cubbyhole on the porch. I committed the afternoon to memory, and haven’t seen another so perfect (yet).

Later that day, Mama kept her promise, and we watched that movie she was so excited about. It was Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho.” It was also perfect, and probably the reason it feels like sacrilege to have a rainy afternoon without watching a horror flick…or calling my Mum.

Changing My Life: #1

Posted in Life by

I’m always in a state of flux. Who isn’t, though, really? I can’t imagine living a life that I wasn’t constantly trying to improve upon. My ideal self is a strong, noble, thoughtful adventurer who has potent dreams, invents whole new universes, and constantly strives to make the world better for those around her. Call me crazy, but I don’t think that it’s necessarily impossible to become that ideal woman.

So since there are always a million and one things going on in this head, and since many of them are silly time wasters, I’m going to start taking notes here in a little series about changing my life. Some thoughts are going to be shallow, and some will be much more important. This series is a place to keep all of the layers that I want to tack on to make myself my perfect onion. Or egg cake. Or croissant. You know, the perfect thing with lots of delicious layers :-)

First thought - I don’t like having a lot of jobs. I feel like my brain is slowly being ripped apart with those little cocktail forks that they keep out on frou frou buffet tables. It’s unpleasant. It makes me unpleasant. I feel like I’m malfunctioning, like my motherboard might be melting. It makes me inefficient and recalcitrant, to boot. I don’t mind having a handful of clients, under one umbrella, but the multiple umbrellas and 18 hour work days is not working. My new goal is to be employed by one company, to work 40 to 50 hours a week on average, and to have a little more peace of mind.

Second thought - I need more money. Today I went to the movies, and also splurged on a midday pancake breakfast at this diner that makes humongous pancakes. Total bill for my outing was $20, and now I’m officially broke for the foreseeable future. I’m so very tired of all of my money going to pay for student loan debt, credit card debt, and taxes. True, I should have thought of that before going to college (conveniently also the home of the CC debt), but I didn’t. Sue me. Now my only road to maybe getting to see a double feature one day is to make more than $35k a year. So that needs to happen, and asap.

Third thought - I want to make enough money at my day job that instead of working on the weekends, I can start devoting my time to serving a charity. I want to give back to the world, but am already giving away half of my marketing work for free. Pro bono, to people who need help but can’t afford it. So I guess that’s charity work…hmm. But whatever – it’s not worthy charity work. I want to be helping people get access to clean water, or housing, or food, or after-school art classes. Free marketing because you’re too cheap to pay me and think that my time isn’t worth as much as yours is not the same thing at all.

Fourth thought - I hate this couch. I want a new one. And I want to find an empty lot with friendly neighbors who will let me set this one on fire and dance around it. I would gladly rent a UHaul just to get to take this thing outside of city limits where they’ll look the other way if you want to build a bonfire.

Fifth thought - I also highly dislike my current neighborhood. There was a murder about seven blocks away two days ago, along the route I usually run in the evenings. One more running path off of my list gives me nowhere to run except the gym, now. Living here is just wearing me out, in more ways than one.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Curves

Posted in Food, Photography, Travel by

Spaghetti and Clams from Trattoria ai Frati

 

One of the most sumptuous and satisfying meals of my life – housemade spaghetti with clams, my own bottle of house white, crusty Italian bread, and off to the side, the remainder of a fresh octopus salad. I took this photo last June as I sat along one of the lagoons in Murano, enjoying the sound of the rain and the supreme indulgence of every single, sexy bite.

It’s meals like this that mean I will always be a woman with curves. As long as I get to keep exploring the world for new deliciousness, I’m OK with that.

Photography Friday! Week 8 – Madame Tussaud’s NYC

Posted in Photography, Travel by

It’s hard to believe that just two weeks ago, I was in New York, getting ready to do some serious sight-seeing. One of the places The Man and I visited while I was in town was Madame Tussaud’s, the NYC location of the world-famous wax museum headquartered in London. It was so much cheesy fun!

Ru Paul

425216_10151564435649086_1233329740_n

983921_10151564437694086_387844389_n

969367_10151564441369086_1337113247_n

946512_10151564441874086_1269776597_n

296163_10151564443904086_388095746_n

970618_10151564469369086_1313963711_n

960064_10151564479824086_679532866_n

418977_10151564481054086_99146161_n

379711_10151564488774086_445233165_n
Though I haven’t posted any of the sillier photos here, we also had a great time posing with the “stars.” You can still get a good impression of how lifelike some of the wax figures were, hopefully. Tickets to get in are a little pricy, but you get in free with the New York Pass, which I definitely recommend picking up if you’re planning a vacation to NYC anytime soon. This is also one of those attractions that stays open late, and we were there around 9:30 or 10 in the evening, so there weren’t too many people around – good to keep in mind if you’re trying to plan as much stuff into each day, like I was!