End

The Baixar Cross

This is the absolute end of the Camino de Santiago

               The granite posts are route markers and they are lifelines along the entire way.

It's easy these days to allow my brain to select memories of some of the best days of my adult life.  We still remain limited in our choices of new experiences, and "Covid-19 Days"still tend to run on into each other with  few highlights.  So, it seems rather natural for a glance backwards, ruminating  and relishing memories of a delicious past. In Pre-Covid days, I may have simply hurried on my way to newer memories, gathering mental images that time did not allow for expansion.  As I start another day I am feeling the need to take advantage of, instead of damning too much, free time. So I sat myself down with the hope of recapturing some of those backward glances and savoring them for all their worth. After all, isn't that what life is made up of, memories. 

Along the northeast coast of Spain, in the province known as A Coruna, lie two towns considered as  the last of the possible stops  for pilgrims along the way of the Camino de Santiago, Muxia (moo SHEE ah) and Finisterre (AKA Fisterre).  If it was the film "The Way", that first captured your interest in the Camino, you may remember having seen Martin Sheen completing his journey at Finisterre, often referred to as "the End of the World".  It was here that the bereaved father cast the ashes of his son into the majestic sea.

I love every memory of our days on the Camino, doubting that anything else in my life to come could hold a candle to that experience. Our journey, in celebration of my seventieth birthday, was completed in five days of perfect weather, during the last week of April, 2018.  We officially ended our Camino in the city of Santiago de Compostella, feeling exhilarated and happy after long days of hiking the ancient route. We had arrived at our destination and all the "ifs" were past-tense.  We spent the next three days leisurely strolling, no deadlines or destinations. Our Camino passports were full, no more need to get them stamped.  We passed muster at the Pilgrim Office and received our Compostellas, certifying that we had, indeed completed the required 100 kilometers.  Santiago days were for relaxation and celebration, eating tapas and taking it easy after five days of walk, eat, sleep, repeat. So, no, we did not feel guilty when we boarded a luxury bus  two days later and settled into our  comfortable seats for an all-day excursion to the Finisterre.  The sky was blue, the air was perfect and the views were extreme.  Along the way, we saw pilgrims still on their journey. While most end their Way in Santiago, there are a number who chose to stay on foot and travel on to the very, very end. An hour and a half bus ride would have netted out to several more walking days. Had this been a celebration of an earlier birthday, we might have considered this option.

The coastal route was spectacular.  Living near the sea, I still never tire of seascapes.  As our bus twisted and turned through tiny towns that dot the coastline, we were able to sit back and just enjoy. A few short stops at some very scenic locales and then on to Muxia for lunch.  Of course, octopus was part of that meal as it was most of our meals in Galicia. We luxuriated at a seaside cafe and followed it up with a walk through the town, I accompanied by three other American women.  Joe ventured out on his own.  Having been together every moment for the previous two weeks, the time away felt odd, especially when the bus was about to depart and he was nowhere in sight.  Thank God for small favors....a red backpack was spotted by one of our companions and soon we were on our way again.  

The final stop on our bus route was the breathtaking Finisterre. As the bus wound up the hill, the rest of the world slowly slipped away and the beauty of the most Northern tip of Spain was revealed.  The Baixir Cross greets pilgrims who next seek the final marker of the Camino. Beyond that, waves crash against huge rock formations that lead gracefully out to the sea.  The entire point is an observation area, the boundless beauty marked by relentless sprays of ocean against nature. Symphonic. Shade of blue and green, mixed with silvery white show up with each crash, non-stop. Gorgeous. Majestic. Only words. One would have to be there to fully grasp this, this overwhelming feeling and stunning appreciation of Man meeting Sea and, in the end, Sea the greater force. A perfect way to end our Way, or any way, for that matter.

After all is said and done, the Camino de Santiago is a perfect metaphor, one that is completed at the 

End of the World.

Memorial

Eight years ago, last week, my beautiful mother gave up her guard, changing forever the way I personally approached the start of what millions of others in this country refer to as the "Independence Day" holiday.

The months and weeks before her death were sad and trying for us but she faced them with dignity and bravery that set a mark.  An extraordinary woman, a unique mother, and one of the smartest people I have ever known.  If I had half of her intelligence I would be very pleased.

My mom would have been 94 now. My father, still alive, is 98 and has dementia. Most of their generation of relatives are either deceased or very old.  I have no family historians, nobody to whom I can turn for answers so I have gaps in my knowledge and very little information about my family's past, other than the stories that were told over and over during my own childhood.  I have puzzle pieces that oftentimes just don't fit together. I have a maze through which I cannot come and feel left out when my friends recount stories of their parent's heritage. I think my mother's favorite color was blue. I know she loved the water, everything related to the seashore. I know how she and my father met. Her eyes were soft blue. She struggled with her weight all her life and had problems accepting her image. My father was the first and only man she ever dated. They meet in high school. Courtship, engagement, the War, the wedding. I have the photos and tiny bits of stories of young love and devotion. Never once was "sacrifice" mentioned. The word "regret" also never appeared. I am left wondering. It was none of my business. Secrets were part of the success of their marriage.

Wisdom beyond the stratosphere. World-class speller and mathematician. She knew diddly-squat about history, American or World.  She wasn't allowed to learn the language of her parents and knew little about their lives before their immigration. They made it to America from a life of poverty and they were not turning back; they instead, moved proudly forward and it was through their actions that my mother learned the customs and culture of her ancestors in their homeland. She was an Italian Woman. We never missed a family vacation but we never ventured across the ocean as a family. She had a work ethic and, from the time I was two years old, she held a full-time job.                                                                                           

 Being home all day with children was not fulfilling and I wonder now, had she been like all the
"other moms", how my life might have turned out. I try very hard to wipe away thoughts of having been deprived as a young child, of a full-time mom, and to realize that she sacrificed a field of flowers for a mountain peak of great memories. My childhood experiences and memories included some very special moments of quality time. It took me years to appreciate that and now, I accept it as a gift that only she could have imparted. How very fortunate my brother and I were.

It's true that oftentimes we only realize what we have, after we lose it.  It's also a sad realization that we miss opportunities in our lives to speak our hearts with those closest to us.  I wish my children could embrace that knowledge. Alas, they probably won't. They are humans too. They are busy and productive, the generation that rides on the tails of generations before, the culmination of all that their grandparents dreamed possible, genetically capable of doing great things, just as we were before them. After all, is it not the greatest wish of a parent, to see their own children enjoying the fruits of their own years of labor in the garden of life? I wish I had taken the time to discuss life, to find out more about the lives that shaped mine, to know more about my mother than what I saw. To know more than what I perceived.

We can't go back and re-live our lives.  How very trite that sounds. Mine has been, and forever will be, missing a part, an integral piece of who I am.  Trite. True. 

 

False Gods Before You

All will be well, all will be well, all will be well. I've been given that mantra by a friend who finds it useful.  It's not new to me.  I've tried it, and a thousand other mental exercises, but none really do the trick, none bring relief or any resolution to my increasing fear of doom and my giving up of the guard. I don't buy it. I don't really believe that all, or anything for that matter, will be well.

At first, I welcomed the changes that the arrival of a global pandemic brought. After all, we thought it was going to be a short shot, that in a few weeks, Covid will have come and gone and we would have been well over it and all of its consequences by early Spring.  I distinctly recall our nation's "leader" giving his opinion and he stated that "by Easter" this "thing" would be gone.  He was surrounded by people who, we assumed were giving him scientific advice on an hourly basis.  He had resources, brilliant and trusted resources. He had an assigned place on the leadership team of the world's most influential country. And, he blew it.  He blew it so badly that instead of taking pride in my American residency, I hang my head in shame and shake my head in disbelief and wonder each and every day about how this person has not been taken out of the White House and into a mental health facility for treatment.  But, that's his problem.  Mine, the result of his lack of leadership, his racist, sexist, immoral and downright ignorant missives during a time when he should have been upright, honest, empathetic and moral, isn't going away. I don't play golf, I can't escape to a bunker, I can't ignore what is around me. I can't lie and tell people that I am not an American.  I don't believe in mantras. I don't believe in America and I would be happy to take the advice of those people who are still foolish enough to enjoy the leadership of a madman and yell to people like myself...."America! Love it or leave it!".  I don't love it and I can't even leave it now.  He's spun a new web around us. We're on a list. A short and embarrassing assortment of countries who, God knows how long,will not be allowed to enter Europe or even Canada.  

This man, this insane person in the White House, this Trump, has totally taken us down with him. This evil monster who duped people into thinking that he had a plan to "make America great again", has done what so many (thank you God), others had predicted he would.  He's made America the laughing stock of the entire world. No, America is not great. America is weak and Americans have suffered more than their share during the Pandemic and will continue to suffer from the effects of a virus that won't quit and  a weak and ignorant president who has destroyed more lives than any pathogen could possibly have.

So, go Mr President, go play golf, go shoot off your large and un-attractive mouth. Go about your business of looking at yourself in your mirror of deception and go about your business of insulting people of intelligence and belittling people who are smart enough to know how smart you are not.  Go ahead and destroy any glimmer of hope that we may have while you continue to hope for re-election instead of humbling yourself and getting the job of uniting your country.  Go ahead and alienate world leaders, call them names, deny your involvement in their evil deeds.  Go ahead and think you're God.  I have news for you.  You're not.  But, I will give you credit for something.  THE God did speak about you. In fact, you are a fairly popular guy.  If you don't believe me, look it up. I've provided you with a list of references. the Bible, by the way, is not simply a prop for a photo-op, a bad photo at that.

 Or just google false gods.

• Leviticus
• Numbers
• Judges
• 1 Samuel
• 1 Kings
• 2 Kings
• 1 Chronicles
• 2 Chronicles
• Isaiah
• Jeremiah
• Hosea
• Zephaniah
• Acts
• Romans

What is Missed

There are hundreds of words that could describe the feelings and reactions that humans are sharing since the arrival of Covid-19.  The media runneth over. Our conversations with friends and family members allow us to wash and wear our emotions and over and over as we sort out how we are "doing".  We're all just trying to keep our heads above water, really, as slowly we drown.  We come up for air just long enough to realize that the surface we desperately seek is far from the relief that we had wished it would be.  I can clearly recall the words of friends as this all started....."hopefully, this will all be over by the Summer.....if it's not.....??????" The Summer is officially here now.  There's no turning back to make it different. The drum has rolled and we're dancing to a new beat.

 We  await a current set of statistics, those that will reflect the outcome of relaxation, either by defiance or government decree, of the "rules" that have successfully contained the Virus, flattened the so-called curve.  I suspect that we are in for some surprises.  And, I am in the group that believes that we are still in for the long run. I hope I am dead-wrong. 

I take a self-inventory every so often, assessing the impact of all of this on my life. In those hundreds of possible words, only one rises to the top, one makes it through the pounding surf of emotional waves. Spontaneity. That's what I am missing. That's what we all are missing and have been since late March of this year. The simple acts that used to be woven so gently into daily life, making them virtually un-noticed.  Going out for a morning coffee with a few good friends for a chin-wag, stopping by to visit a shop owner, collecting ingredients for a special meal. Doing art together. Browsing in a thrift shop. Hugging, kissing, shaking the hand of a new friend. Using hand sanitizer wipes on the handle of a shopping cart just out of habit, not necessity. Acting on impulse.Selecting dates and making travel plans, casting fate to the wind.  The bliss of anticipation, counting days until departure, packing slowly and dreaming of being transplanted to happy places. Getting a haircut. Buying an ice cream. Sitting on a beach at sunset, grasping onto the last of daylight and feeling sad that a day has ended. Not looking forward to a day's end, to the catapulting of life into a brighter future.

  

Tending

Sitting out here on my patio, it's now just past seven in the morning. Just starting to warm up a bit. Mornings have been cold, afternoons have a chill and I still wear fuzzy booties to bed. I use two blankets.

I come out onto my patio each morning to enjoy the first rays of sunshine and inspect my garden.  Mostly pots on the patio. The raised bed is outside the fence.  Adjacent to it is my little St. Francis garden.

Nothing seems to be growing.  It's as if the plants are holding back. I don't know what more to do.  I've given them the advantage of good soil from the nursery, proper organic fertilizers, and water.  I totally give up on trying to grow herbs.  It is like some sort of reverse sorcery. I never have luck.  I can't produce enough for a garnish, never mind a Medieval sort of compound for skin rash. But the failure to launch the rest of my plants, that baffles and annoys me.  Maybe my impatience is weighing in.  I have to keep reminding myself that it is only June and that we have a short growing season here. Don't ask me how the local produce that makes the farm stands and little markets so inviting, has managed to bloom and burst into the gorgeous array of salad ingredients that find their way into our weekly "Salad Club" bags. 

Maybe by August, I will produce my own salad.  Isn't that what the world around me is suggesting?  Be patient.  Be diligent. Continue to water. Move pots around so that they all get an extra few moments in the sun. Don't over-fertilize. Use only natural, organic, boosters. Fend off slugs and little creatures that gnaw away at blossoms and stems. Resist the temptation to pluck zucchini flowers, for the result will be less zucchini. Wait it out. Be a good and patient farmer. If August does not bring results, move on. Learn from the mistakes. Start again next Spring or maybe, just maybe, gardening is not my thing. Some things are just left for God to tend.

Before the Masks

I'm sitting here staring at a brand new sewing machine.  It's all set up and ready to go, a constant reminder to me that I should be making face masks.  It's a sweet machine and was reasonably-priced and easy to order on-line, just like so many of the new arrivals in our house lately.  I have yet to sew one face mask, although I have tried several times.  I'm late in the game so there are hundreds of different YouTube videos that offer instructions and it's not only time-consuming plowing through them but also, very confusing. Which one is the most comfortable, the easiest, the quickest, the most durable. I don't know how to chose. I am thinking it must be easier to simply go back to Amazon and order a box of paper masks, the ones used by health professionals, those that were virtually impossible to obtain just a few short weeks ago. I could cross my fingers and hope that from date of order to date of arrival might be before the end of the Pandemic.  Those purchased face masks will be good enough, chic enough, and enough for the job for which they were intended. I bet that very soon, everyone will finally give up on the face-mask-fashion-show and when we're shopping in the supermarket, we'll find boxes of paper masks in the diaper aisle, a staple on everyone's list. Toilet paper, face masks. Don't get caught short!

This Pandemic life is filled with so many lessons. As we cut through the layers and become accustomed to living with the fear of human contact of any kind, we also cut through layers of our own personalities.  For some of us, that in itself will be a positive by-product, something good rising out of the ashes of this unspeakable horror.  For others, it will cause greater problems.  Long into the future, we will see the evidence of shattered lives, failed marriages, undiagnosed illnesses, and countless other results that will shape the rest of our lives.  I do believe we will survive this and that we will carry forth our new ways, tempering everything with which we come into contact. But for now, we're still just trying to get through each day, week and month, akin to those layers that make up the face masks. And it still does feel quite surreal.

At home, it seems that we're constantly fixing or improving something.  How did we not notice that so many things needed our attention?  How did I survive without a Swiffer? Slowly, we're replacing things like the old sewing machine, the oven thermometer, the nozzle on the garden hose.  We're waiting for the arrival of a sound bar for our T.V., our son telling us that we must have it to improve the quality of the presentations of the Metropolitan Opera that we can pick and choose from at any given time, right in our own den.  I guess that the sound wasn't "good enough" before the Pandemic. Like the spray on the hose. Like the oven. Like the old sewing machine.

 Like our lives before. Like the lives before the masks.

Dress Rehearsal

During one of the Quarantine Weeks, I joined a group of writers online for an afternoon workshop. With a handful of others, I was asked to describe the color I was feeling at the moment.  One by one, we shared our colors and as expected, most of the descriptions were of blue, dark, grey. I gazed out the window as my turn came and I said "yellow, I'm feeling the brightness of a beautiful day here at my home". Next, we all wrote to photo prompts.  By the end of the session, most of the other writers had read, out loud, their soul-filled creations, most of which were in reaction not only to the prompt, but to the current and primal state of affairs.  Instead of reading mine, I sat and I listened to each of the wonderfully written pieces, marveling at the talents and wondering why I felt differently about so much of what was being exposed. Most were younger and most were residents of cities.  Time and place have so much to do with the writing process. Time and place.

So, I decided to not use time and place as a journal form. I have written so little about the Covid Crisis, in fact, I have written so little in general during the past few months.  A lot of my creative energy has been used otherwise.  I write daily, in the form of an email, connecting my neighbors. It takes time and thought but the feedback tells me that it is appreciated and therefore, I continue to do it. But, it is a factual rather than emotional outpouring. It's not about me. It's not Facebook or Instagram either.  It's more of a connection. Time and place, vital and not-so-vital news of within and outside the condo community. All the while, however, I have been sorting this in my brain, trying to find my own voice, to summarize rather than give a blow-by-blow description of what this all feels like and how this affects my life and my future, never mind the rest of the modern world. I think it's best to leave individual reactions to individuals.

My father is now almost 99 years old.  He lives in a nursing home and that, for the past almost two years, had been a source of some of the greatest relief I have felt since my mother's death eight years ago. Alone in his home, without her coaching, without her instigating daily life activities, he sat in his gigantic leather recliner chair for hours, looking out the window, rarely doing much more. His day was defined by his meal times, his foray out to collect his newspaper from the driveway, and his routines of simplicity. Prepping the house for the night, opening it for the new day. All very rote, all exceptionally un-inspiring, but all set in stone.  He deflected anything that was not within the set parameters of what he considered "normal" and "safe".  Each time I would try to encourage him to do something different, to perhaps visit the Senior Center for lunch or to take a small walk with his dog, he put me off.  Same clothes every day for weeks. No signs of attendance to hygiene. Same bar of soap, virtually untouched, on the bathroom vanity. Never asked me to restock toothpaste. Just a once a week trip to the barber shop. Wouldn't even shave himself. A boring and virtually useless existence as observed.  Safe harbor for him.  His answer to my question of "what do you do all day" was consistent. "I do what I want, and I don't do what I don't want to do". End of story.

Ah, reflection. Lots of time now to think about life. Not a lot of places to go. No more demands. Lower expectations. Good excuses. Early morning risings. Early to bed at night. It could be so easy. Oh brother, it could be so very easy.

Reflection has brought insight. I have to make sense of all of this.  I'm not sure that others have framed their thoughts this same way but I have made a foundation of belief that for me, is not going to crack. I know what this is all about for me. A sneak peak. A greater understanding. I forgive you, Dad, and I do understand.  I sense an opportunity here.  Enlightenment?

So, this is what it feels like?

Projection. I'm only seventy two. I have years ahead. I see that boulder rolling towards me and it
could move with fury. If I allow it. Life has become so complex. This is the life, the daily routine, of a ninety-something.  The new challenges presented by the Pandemic, they are reminders of what real, true, old-age must feel like.  It must be so damned hard to navigate in a feeble body, with a failing mind. It must be so damned confusing, the least change in the routine. So difficult to grasp and then to do something necessary but unfamiliar, just to get through a transaction, never mind a whole day, week, month, year.  Showering, shaving, changing clothes, choosing outfits, the right shoes for the time. What to eat. When. Where. How? Shopping, driving. Making phone calls. Answering the phone. Making small talk. Trying to fall asleep after a useless day of nothing but what you wanted to do. Nothing.

So, I'm thinking that this is all just one, huge dress rehearsal. That this time is good and valuable. That I have been given a great gift as it turns out. Not just me.  Everyone. A forward glance, that opportunity that I sensed. I have had a a taste of what, in not so distant a future, my life could actually resemble. I've had a chance to see, touch and feel emotions that one day I could own and I don't like them. I need and want to re-write the script. At the end of the drama, I want the star to be remembered as a vital and contributing member of the cast. I want to push back that rock, send it to the other side of the hill from where it originated. I want to declare now that I want to be as the top of that hill, slowly and assuredly making my way down, still taking in the view as I go along, still loving every moment of the journey.