Walking the Way

This may seem a bit random, but with my birthday tomorrow (25 is terrifying) I've been doing some re-evaluating and made some decisions about what I'd like to do with my life by the time I'm 30.  There's the usual suspects like marriage, children, and home ownership, but there's one other thing that's been on my mind in a heavy way for the last few months.

When I was about 12, my dad bought me a book from a used bookstore. He hadn't read it and didn't really know what it was about other than what he read on the back cover but that summary merely told him that his middle school aged daughter would probably like it. At the time I was obsessed with historical fiction (specifically the early English Renaissance/Tudor dynasty but I was also loving ancient Egypt and American Colonial stuff) so he made a good call. 

That was 13 years ago and I still have the book. My copy is worn and tattered and close to falling apart but I still have it. It's the story of a teenaged girl and her betrothed (just returned from the Crusades) whose parents arranged for them to join their estates in order to lend stability to their region (there was also an issue of money). In order to help them bond before their marriage, their priest sends them on Pilgrimage from their home in England, across the English Channel, through France to Paris and then west to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. Their journey takes them a few months and (because it is set in the year 1300) they face many obstacles including hunger, injury, injustice, and threatened kidnapping. It's an exciting story about imagining people complexly - especially people we think we know or who we've known a long time - and over the course of the story the two main characters eventually come to view their impending marriage as a way for them to unite their communities and do good for the people they will be responsible for. It's a great story even if - as a Catholic - there are moments that are a teensy bit problematic. Some comments are made that are critical of the Catholic Church which make it obvious that the author does not think highly of Her. (I just reread it and these comments don't feel obvious to me, but I may be biased because I love the story so much.)

Source: Giacomo Cantelli de Vignola, 1696 {{PD-1923}}

In any case, I've read this novel probably close to a dozen times in the years that I've possessed it. I just reread it again about 2 months ago and this is where things get a bit weird.

I finished reading it and was in this kind of book hangover (the kind you get after reading something wherein you're still living and breathing the stories and characters) and I started thinking, I wonder if people still make pilgrimage to Santiago. Spain has been on my bucket list for years anyway, maybe when I finally go someday I'll stop in Santiago... And there the train of thought ended for a while. 

Until it came back when I was babysitting and saw clearly a scallop shell in their seashell collection. This reminded me of the scallop worn by the pilgrims on the road to Santiago. The thought of someday going to Santiago became an internet search that turned into a dream on my Someday-Maybe list.

1896, Author Unknown, Public Domain Image {{PD - 1923}}

There were other little things: scallops for dinner, the feast of St. James the Less (and talk of St. James the Greater) in my Confirmation class, conversations with my mother about the book and how much I still loved it, and so on.

Then. On the drive up the mountain for my sisters' 2nd year Confirmation retreat, I rode with a young man I knew of but didn't know well. We got to talking about our families and family history and it came out that my family ancestry traces back to Spain and that I dream of going there someday. He said Spain is also on his bucket list because of a movie he'd watched recently. The film, he said, was about a man whose son (somewhat estranged) went to Spain and died on his first day there. So the man had to go to Spain to retrieve his son's body and chose to cremate the body. Then he decided to do the walk through Spain that his son had planned, all the way to -- 

Here I interrupted and asked him ecstatically if the movie is about the man walking the Pilgrim's Way to Santiago. We shared a look of awe at God's timing and bringing us together and we got very excited because yes, this film was all about the Camino, and yes, we both had been daydreaming about someday-maybe going on pilgrimage. We spent the next hour of our drive talking about the film and I told him about my book and this shared dream became a strong bonding point for us. 

After the retreat weekend I went home and found the film on Netflix. It's called The Way and stars Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez and I've watched it 3 times since Christian told me about it and I cry every time. The film tells a complicated story about love, loss, redemption, anger, and how sometimes, grief looks like a really long walk. It is secular but shows reverence for the Pilgrimage and the people along it and the Church and isn't sappy at all. I recommend it. I plan on buying the DVD so I can watch it with my mother. The film was actually inspired - in part - by a book by a man who walked the Way, called Off the Road. I'm currently reading it. While I think the author is a pretentious jackass, the book is pretty good so far.

All of this transpired about 2 months ago and since then I've done lots of research. I've been reading lots and lots of travel sites and doing lots of math and I've been praying about it a great deal.

I think I'm going to Spain in 2 years.

Church of Santiago, Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, Spain. By Vasco Roxo.

Source

I've calculated that it will cost me (at a very rough estimate) about $7,200 to get there, complete my pilgrimage, and get home. Airfare is going to be the most costly part of this adventure and there is also the issue of having at least 1 month's worth of rent and things covered ahead of time because walking the Way (all 500 miles of it) takes about 5 weeks. I'm budgeting 6 because I'll want to spend a couple of days in France getting used to the time difference and then I'll need a few days once home to take care of tidying my house and sleeping and generally recovering.  

All in all, I'm going to have to save about $300-$320 each month if I'm going to head to Spain in May of 2017.  That's my goal: 2 years. Two years to save the money, work out the logistics, dream, plan, and train. Yes, train. My intended path goes from St. Jean-Pied-de-Port in France through northern Spain to Santiago in Galicia. That's just shy of 500 miles. To do that in 35 days (with rest days, of course) I will need to practice walking up to 25 miles each day while carrying a 15 pound backpack. It's a lot more likely that I'll be doing 15-20 miles each day but I'd like to get comfortable walking up to 25 miles a day. I imagine the next two years will be good for my health, as well.

So that's my dream as I turn 25: spend the next 2 years saving and preparing so that within days of my 27th birthday I will be on a plane to Spain (more likely to France then a bus and a train to the Franco-Spanish border but you get the idea). I've made out 24 little envelopes which I intend to fill with cash earned babysitting, house sitting, dog walking, and parts of my paychecks and each will be put into a jar. I've used the image below to decorate the jar as a bit of motivation.  24 months, almost $7,500, and 500 miles. 

I think maybe part of not being afraid of getting older involves taking a very, very long walk.

Some European pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela
by Oula Lehtinen (cropped by me)
Source

Happy birthday to me!

See you in Santiago,

*Author's Note: All the images in this post - with the exception of the purple one - are from Wikimedia Commons and are either in the public domain or used under the GNU Free Documentation License. The original authors have been credited as requested and the Wikimedia source page has been linked to. I have no legal claim to them and make no money from them.*

 

Word After Word After Word

"I have so many word-thoughts rattling around in my head, but my hands aren't fast enough to copy them down. I feel them streaming out my ears, running down my arms and pooling on the floor, cascading into a puddle of incoherency... It seems the well has sprung at last."

That was running through my head just a few moments ago, and thus became my Facebook status. There's so much I could (and would like to) say about words, books, writing, and other such things, but for tonight I have something specific to discuss.

See a few weeks ago, R--- called me up and invited me out to The Press with her. I'd never been, but basically it's like a cafe/coffeehouse by day and a bar&grill/open mic by night. It was actually really fun, and after a few drinks and the amusement of some exceptionally drunk people in the ladies' restroom (including Madame Sake Bomb and High-Waisted Skirt Girl) we wound up walking a very deserted Claremont Village. While we walked, we talked about our current (or lack thereof) creative projects, and drifted to my writing. And it got me thinking. And then it got me writing.

I spent 45 minutes compiling a list of over 80 books I want to read before the end of the year. One of the things R--- urged me to do was to get a library card. I live within walking distance of the La Verne library so why the hell didn't I think of that? It's the broke-girl's bookstore (I have ZERO money these days after paying bills and other such grown-up type things). But the list includes mostly modern classics by authors I should have read in college but didn't, and books I've always wanted to pick up but never bothered to.

How are the two preceding paragraphs connected? Well, a very intelligent screenwriter once lectured me thus: "If you're a writer, write. But in the same way that you can't run a marathon without having eaten plenty of nutritious calories, you can't write without having ingested words. Writers read - they read far more than the average person or the above-average reader. If you want to write for an hour, you have to read for at least half an hour. Bare minimum. And magazines don't count. You'll put out what you put in, so make it count." (Paraphrased, of course.) The man was a genius and had zillions of such epithets.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm trying to write again. I have a number of projects going on that require tinkering, fiddling, and other such edits, and they deserve my attention. I deserve to write, well and in excess. I haven't touched my Venice Story in months, I have no further notes on my Tattoo Book and nothing short of a few  half-finished sections and a rough outline on my Babysitter's Guide. (Yes. I'm writing a babysitter's compendium. Shut up.)  And I'm going to write letters. So if you know I have your address, be prepared for a potential onslaught and don't you dare throw them away - my words will be national treasures someday, just you wait.

And to those I scared, worried, or otherwise caused concern to a few weeks/days ago: I apologize. I am not and have not been in a good place as of late, especially with my birthday and some mysterious psychological "deadline" approaching in the near future. But it'll get better. Right?

jassloves.tumblr.com

Stretching these Wings

Hmm... I've been complaining an awful lot these last few days. Granted, it's been a shit-show couple of weeks, and it doesn't look like it'll get any better any time soon, but I had an interesting train of thought a few moments ago.

Languor. Delicious. Luscious. Delectable. What beautiful words to describe the simple act of stretching. I've been lying in bed at my computer for a couple of hours and pushed my laptop off of my lap for a moment to stretch out a bit as I'm still sore from yesterday (babysitting after attempting an old dance routine without stretching = worst idea EVER) and the idea of how delicious a stretch it was occurred to me. I swear I'm turning into a cat.

But it was such a lovely, luscious stretch...

"Do you know what I need? To escape into the mountains, surrounded by tall trees, I will lay on the moss, and breathe in the scent of mushrooms, flowers and wet soil."
~Le'echappee

Yesssss. My escapism is showing again, but this time instead of desperation, it's a sweet longing. I'm not sure how they're different as phrased, but go with it. I want to go back to Europe and wander Munich or Paris. I think I want to give Paris another chance, since the one time I was there was a bit... Well, let's just say we didn't get off on the "right foot." (There's a story there, for later.)

(erroneously attributed to St. Augustine - anyone know the real source?)

I could come up with a reason to run away to Salem again but honestly? I need something more exotic. Salem has become comforting and familiar and I need something just a little bit dangerous. Maybe I'll plan a trip to Turkey - I do so love their music - and see what life brings me in the next few months. Maybe I'll go to Turkey, maybe I'll go to Salem, and maybe (just maybe), I'll end up somewhere a little more exciting than the crawlspace at the back of my closet where I've built a nest for hiding in. Maybe.

But for now, I'll settle for a walk in the park, even though it's almost 11pm. The air will do my brain some good, I think.

Things You Shouldn't Say

Words are powerful things. I've found, though, that most people forget that. Words mean things - which I'll go into greater depth at a later date, I'm sure - and words have great power. There are things you shouldn't say to a depressed person.

The term "crazy" for example, should be used with care. Also, the term "depressed." It's grating to hear people say, "God, I'm so depressed..." Your boyfriend didn't call you back last night, you got a C on an assignment, your boss is being a jerk, blah blah blah. You're not depressed. You got out of bed today, you're dressed, doing what you need to do, talking to people. You're not depressed, you're sad. Words. Sentence. Meanings.

But aside from words you must use carefully, there are certain phrases you ought to avoid. "I can't believe I supported your decision to leave school" is a big one. It's fine to regret giving support to someone, but for the love of all there is, keep it to yourself or at least don't tell that someone of your regret. Not if you don't want to inflict a great deal of damage.

Another phrase to avoid is, "It seems like you're not even trying to get better," coupled with, "Do you like feeling like this?" I shouldn't have to say this since no one listens anyway, but hear me now: You should not - EVER - accuse someone of enjoying their disease. Do you tell a cancer patient who's turned down treatment because it would cause more harm than good, "Oh, you must like being sick since you're not trying to get better," do you? No. A person who gave such an utterance would be summarily removed from said patient's presence!

But I don't have cancer. I have something far more difficult to comprehend. I take my pills and do the things I'm supposed to: eating well, exercising, getting sun, trying to socialize and not ruminating. But I'm still depressed. That doesn't go away. My symptoms are diminished, sure. But my sometimes crippling - paralyzing - social anxiety? My dark nights? Still there. Not going away. Manageable but not gone...never gone.

There was a time when I could tell people what I wanted to hear from them and they would listen and try to support me that way. Nowadays it's a good day when someone doesn't say something that not only belittles what I'm dealing with but manages not to offend and destroy my self-esteem in the process. Emily Haines (a writer, I believe) said of herself, "It bothers me that no one has the patience to deal with someone who is just sad." Why is it so hard to offer comfort? Face my doubts and give me faith?

So my last thought is this: Use words with care, for they can break people down swifter than they can build them up. Use your words for good, not pain.

November

It's November again. Strangely, I don't feel much different than I did last November: a little hopeless, absolutely exhausted, unmotivated. But there's something stirring in me this time. Last time I had completely given up and surrendered to the inevitability of my exit. I ran away. This time, I'm stuck. I can't leave again - that option is no longer viable unless I never want to return - and I can't keep doing what I'm doing these days. Skipping class is so easy and so sensible sometimes. I can't prepare for class since I don't go, therefore I continue to skip since I'm not prepared and unable to prepare because I don't go. It's a continuous cycle of self-sabotage. I go to work, though; that I never miss. I think working grounds me. Working and going to therapy give me a little bit of structure so I get out of bed every day.

I've been reading a lot of I Wrote This for You in the last couple of days (do you italicize the title of a blog or put it in quotes?), and it's made me think a lot about the person I want to be - aside from a person who's alive, of course. I want my spark back, but wanting it doesn't just make it so. It seems I have to go out into the world and bring it back into myself.

Basically, I'm going to start writing again, more frequently, and I'm going to start dancing again every day. I've really let that go in the last year and I want it back. I'm happier when I'm active and I know it, I just need to do it. And I need to work on school but thinking about it still makes me a little...panicky. So we're gonna move away from talk about school temporarily. I'll deal with it, but... Now's not the time if I want to hold on to the small bit of sanity I have left over from last week's suicidal shit show.

In addition to writing here more frequently, I've also started a little side project (because I need something else to do, right!?) for a certain super-special someone. For those who know, there's this amazing, precious, sunshiney 3 year old in my life who means everything to me. Her birthday was a couple of weeks ago and it got me thinking about who she's gonna be and whether or not I'll be around to see it. I don't mean that in a Big S------ way, but things happen: lightning, car accidents, sickness, gang wars, alien abductions, psycho roommates, freak happenings, etc. So if something happens, I want her to know how important she is. And maybe I can let some other people feel important while I tell her. If you feel like peeking, it's after the jump here at Letters to a Blueberry Girl. It's kind of like the video diary for Good Luck Charlie on Disney Channel, but... on the internet. And from her aunt instead of her big sister. And Kenzie is WAY cuter than Charlie, with tons more personality to boot, so there.

I just need to get through to Thanksgiving. I keep giving myself deadlines and pushing them back to get myself through the semester. You see, at first I just had to get past October 8 (the date of the Big Mistake), and then it was November 1st, and here we are. Frankly if I get through the next two weeks I'll have beaten my record for consecutive school in the last year, which is good, but then I have to get through Thanksgiving. And the nightmares that are coming in about 2 weeks or so. That'll be fun. I'll keep you posted.

But yeah, I guess it's November and we can get ready for Christmas and things. Kr---- and I are getting ready to decorate our apartment. She wants a real Christmas tree - I don't want to have to clean up the damn thing - and I want Christmas candles. We'll have to compromise. But it should be lovely all the same. I'm excited.

Oh. And I'm seeing Katie tomorrow. I'm trying to remember how to breathe without a panic attack jumping in. My hands are shaking. It'll be okay, I'm just... I don't know what to say to her. I don't know if I'll be able to look her in the eye or even be near her without freaking out altogether. I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow.

Lastly, this is what's keeping me together right now:

"Place your right hand on your left shoulder blade. Keep it there. Now place your left hand on your right shoulder blade.
And squeeze."

- ~ I Wrote This for You: The Clouds

Just keep squeezing; I'll get to you soon.
Willow

“November — with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes — days full of fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees”

- L.M. Montgomery, The Blue Castle

Write One Leaf: Rain

I think it might rain later. The fog and mist have rolled off the ocean and crept onto campus. The wind bears the promise of a change in the weather and the palm trees sway their testimonial agreement.

Speaking of palm trees, I've noticed something curious about them. They tend to grow best in dry places, but when the wind brushes through their branches, the whisper of it sounds like water. A few weeks ago I was sitting on the Bluff and looked around thinking there was rain coming or a water feature I had yet to discover, only to find it was simply the palm trees being loved by the breeze. It was a magical sound.

I don't love the rain the way I used to. I still love it, though. Maybe it's a sign of maturity? Growing up? Perhaps. I used to love the concept of the sky crying. Now I'm more enamored with the cleansing aspect of rain. The air, the streets - everything is cleaner after the rain.

There's also jumping in puddles, warm pots of tea, reading by the window... Going to the movies or having a movie marathon is a great rainy day pastime. So are good conversations.

Oh, my. I just looked out the windo and the wind has kicked up and one can actually observe the mist being blown about, ushered into every space available on campus. Eery and beautiful.

What do you do when it rains?

"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby."
~Langston Hughes

Peace,
Willow

"Promise"

I went home this weekend and - of course - my mother asked about the usual people, how they're doing, where their lives are headed, etc. I gave the standard answers, and in some instances (when she asks about people I no longer talk to, for example) just glared at her. In a good-natured way, of course. If that makes sense. Anyway.

On Saturday, I stopped by the house and we were doing laundry and talking about miscellaneous things (I know how to spell that without using spell-check: what now!?), and she turns to me and says,

"So Mark asked about you the other day."
Me: *Mark? Mark... Who the fuck is Mark? Mark, Mark, Mark....* "Who?"
Mom: "You know, the cutie at the bank."
Me: *Oh, GOD, stop! I don't want another relationship! Make it stop! ... He is super cute, though...* "Oh, really? Did he 'lose my number' again or is he just a chicken shit?"
Mom: "No! Well, I think he did actually lose your number and is just too shy to ask for it again -"
Me: "*snort*"
Mom" -- but I was telling him how you're back at school, and he commented on what a pretty campus it is and how he'd like to meet you there sometime for coffee or something."
Me: "What, does he want to transfer so he can ignore me at close range?"
Mom: "No, but I think it's worth a shot. Why not go curl your hair and put makeup on and come to the bank with me this afternoon?"
Me: "No. Because we both know he probably has a girlfriend and just wants a 'back-up plan.'"
Mom: "You might be right; he's way too cute to not have a girlfriend..."
Me: "Thanks, Mom."
Mom: "But he could be a good friend! God knows you're in desperate need of that. He could just be a nice person to get coffee with. He's such a nice boy, give it a try."
Me: "Mom. I don't want a boyfriend or any kind of "boy" "friend". I just want somebody to make-out with!"
Mom: "Well. I can't help you there."
Me; "Of course."

These kinds of moments always strike me. I mean, it's been over a year since R----- and I broke up. Okay, so I technically broke-up with him, but it was all his idea: I didn't have a choice. Since then, though, there've been so, so many moments like the one with my mother you just read. The very first was Brian. Oh, Brian... He basically looked like an angel - sang like one, too - but (as usual) he never called me back. After him was my first encounter with this Mark character by way of my mother's lovable meddling. Then there was Darren who came into the shop ALL the time and then disappeared one day... (I had nothing to do with that, in all honesty. No murderers here.) Then there was Riley at the Governor's Cup, David at my aunt's cottage, and now Mark again.

What I'm trying to say is that in the year or so that I've been in the shell-shocking state of singleness, I've been reminded more and more that I'm not "damaged goods." I'm young, (somewhat) pretty, (used to be) vivacious, (still) passionate, and (completely) driven. Nevermind that I've got one hell of a mental disease and all the social complexes that go with it, but what I mean is that I've still got life in me. It's like that song by The Rocket Summer:

"You've got so much love in you,
you've got so much love in you.
I'm amazed that I'm talking to you -
you look like the songs
that I've heard my whole life
coming true.
You've got so much love in you."

Right!? I've still got all this life and passion inside of me that one person didn't appreciate or deserve toward the end. So I need to start paying attention to the potentials that have... Promise. Like Mark. Maybe next weekend I'll curl my hair, put on my favorite dress and some red lipstick (which was finally returned to me by my aunt by way of my grandmother - thank you, Leslie!!!) and see if he'll live up to his promise. All of these situations birthed the beginning of a song (as yet unfinished) that kind of reminds me of every girl I've ever met.

We all daydream and wonder and fantasize about every guy we meet that has any kind of potential. We all wonder about the promise of what may or may not come next. I guess I should open myself up to it.

"So baby how can't I want want want this?
When we've got so much promise..."

I guess that's all for now. I should probably head to the library and get some work done.

Peace,
Willow

[insert title]

After being lectured about not writing, here I am at 11 at night, writing. It's important, I know.

This weekend has been frightfully normal. No craziness, no insane adventures, just homework, being at the condo (I guess I live here now?), and seeing R--- and K---. Talking to them keeps me sane, I swear. If I didn't have them... we won't go there. But they keep me sane and normal. As normal as normal gets I suppose.

I've been thinking about him lately. Not in a longing kind of way, but in a pensive, wonder-how-you're-doing way. I'm not interested in another relationship, truly, but I miss having someone. I guess I like having someone to fall apart with. Is that sound? Careful: insanity is catching.

That's all for now, but know that I am writing. It's all in my head, but isn't everything in the world?

But you're in my head, too.

“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds, our planet is the mental institution of the universe.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

Peace,
Willow

The Truth About October

You want the truth about October? October hurts. October is cold, windy, and full of memories. A lot of firsts, and plenty of lasts happen in October.

I'm not making sense. Again. Give me another chance.

I love autumn. I love the chill in the air, the clear days with amazing clouds and the occasional rainstorm. I love the bicycles and the sweaters getting pulled out of drawers and shaken free of cobwebs and memories. I love settling into school and getting back into the familiar rhythm of classes and roommates and "life as we know it."

I don't love the memories. I don't like Octobers because of what happened last October. The Big Mistake which led to the Big S------. I wish I could forget. I wish I could call the Big Mistake a Big Mistake and stop looking back at it fondly. Because it was a mistake and it ruined me. It was stupid, and selfish, and hopeless. But I walked into it anyway, knowing all of that, and I still look at it and know that at the end of the day I probably wouldn't do it any differently. Because I wanted it despite all the reasons around me screaming about what a terrible idea it was.

Slow down a minute.

SO. Octobers. Leaves are dropping - though not as dramatically as they are on the East Coast - and I'm dreaming of scarves and Christmas. It's eons away but I still dream. And I'm fantasizing about a year ago today, when I first heard the M--------- word. And it scared the shit out of me. And I set into motion the events that led me here. I started crying for no reason a bit ago. It wasn't for regret so much as missing how things used to be, when life was something similar to simple. A year ago today. A year.

But tomorrow I drive north, like I do every October. 1st week: Rodeo. 2nd week: roadtrip. It's that time of year I take for myself and run away to people who lovelovelove me and sing and cry in the car and escape the city I love. Then, 48 hours later, I'll return, tired and perhaps hungover, but return I shall. Because unlike last October, this one won't break me. If only because I'm not giving it the chance.

I guess the truth about Octobers is that they're a time of change and settling. Settling into change, I suppose. I've settled into school and work and now I'm working out the balance. I'm doing things I enjoy - hugging, knitting, spending time with the few friends I have left, and bracing myself for the harshness of November. If I make it through those first few weeks, I'll make it through the rest. I have to. No repeats, no do-overs, no backing out. Not this time. So the truth about October is that it's forgiving, and allows some room for stretching out and re-settling. So I'll settle in and get ready for the cold that always comes, but this time I won't freeze. I'll huddle in a blanket but I'll get up every morning and do the things I know I'm supposed to. Because it's a new October for me.