Pilgrimages Change Lives, Beginning the Moment You Decide to Go

Grace in Light and Shadow Posted on by
Pilgrimages change lives!

Celtic Cross at Calvary Episcopal Church in Fletcher, NC

Pilgrimages change lives beginning the moment you decide to go. Mine began months ago and has had me diving deep ever since. My pilgrimage to Inishmore, Ireland appears to begin in a few days when I take the first of three flights away from home (followed by car rides and a ferry to get to the island). In truth, it began months ago – the moment I decided to go – bringing with it excitement and dread.

That dread means the pilgrimage is already doing its good work.

A pilgrimage is typically a religious and/or spiritual journey that requires effort, even hardship, to make. These things were lost on me when I decided to make the trip.

All I knew was I’d always wanted to visit Ireland, though I never thought I would. Traveling has never been at the top of my list of desires. When I travel, even with my husband or with friends, I get homesick to a degree I’m not able to shake. I can’t ignore it. Even the pleasant and fun distractions of traveling don’t help. I never travel without my companion, Ms. Homesickness.

She shows up the moment plans for travel begin. This means she’s been hanging around for months now.

Though I’ve learned through the years to keep company with her – mostly tolerating her, learning what appeases her, and living with the discomfort of having her around – this time it’s different. She has required so much attention there’s been only one choice to make: hug her to my breast and welcome her!

This time is different for a reason.

I’m traveling alone and to a foreign place by myself for the first time in my life to join a group of fellow pilgrims. A group whose size I don’t know. And who’s leader I haven’t seen in person since August 2016. Though I have attended online meetings he’s led during the past few years as a group of us have gathered to study and celebrate Ancient Celtic Spirituality and Ancient Celtic Christianity.

Our leader is Kirk Webb, the director of The Celtic Center in Seattle, Washington. He is a spiritual director, professor, and psychologist. I’ve known him in all three roles, I’ve known him for a decade, and he is my friend.

That last sentence there appeased Ms. Homesickness. She caught the subtext: everything is going to be just fine. It may be hard. With my other companion, Chronic Pain, it may at times be arduous. But it’s going to be more than just fine. It’s going to be meaningful, deep, and fun – a time of much Curiosity at play.

If Ms. Homesickness accompanies me on every trip, what makes this one so different that I say the pilgrimage began months ago, the moment I decided to go?

My life circumstances have changed since the last time I traveled by myself.
  • It’s been a few years since my husband and I have taken an easy beach trip, much more since we flew anywhere.
  • We’re considerably older than when we used to travel frequently, with both of us having health issues we didn’t have back then.
  • We have a highly sensitive Great Pyrenees dog, Yeti, and a sweet old cat, Maya, that ground and root us to our home. Frankly, Yeti and Maya are my primary means of expressing my longing for motherhood that even in post-menopause resonates through every cell of my body.
  • When we moved to the country years ago, I became the primary errand-runner. The number of small things I do daily for my husband and myself, as well as the pets, to be honest, have increased my codependency. And that is where the rubber meets the rode on the pilgrimage having already begun.

 

Ms. Homesickness is scared to leave what’s normal because there’s no one to care for but myself on this trip. A pilgrimage where difficulty and challenge are purposefully built into the experience.

The difficulty and the challenges force my attention inward to myself minus the habit (and trance) of consistently looking out for and taking care of my husband, dog, cat, and home.

(Which, by the way, is one of two reasons my husband wants me to go! 1. Joseph is thrilled to see me make a lifelong dream a reality and 2. He knows the value of me making this journey for myself alone.)

Some might say, “Good grief, woman! Just go on vacation and enjoy yourself!”

But that isn’t how it works. Which is the point.

The point isn’t to go take a fun vacation and “finally” get some “me time.” I take time out for “me time” every single day!

It’s to come face-to-face with all the discomfort of leaving home for so many days and to a foreign place so far away that if an emergency arises at home and I’m needed, it’s going to take days to return.

All the discomfort and all the parts (Ms. Homesickness, Chronic Pain, Codependency, and Whoever else wants to come along for the ride) get to be recognized and receive loving attention in a way that nothing else but this pilgrimage can provide.

And dealing with those parts, those difficult, organic, uncomfortable, grief-filled parts whose only job is to protect me is deep spiritual work.

It is messy. And it has already begun.

The other side of it is this:

I get to see my friend again in a place I’ve always wanted to go because its music, its people, and its land have always moved my soul – as if some ancient part of me resides there.

There will be one or a few people there I’ve met on The Celtic Center’s 0nline gatherings that I’ll get to meet in person.

The pleasure of meeting new people in our group as well as some of those that live and work on the island of Inishmore will be a rewarding experience.

I will have fun! There will be play and pleasure!

And I get to prepare for my trip – the physical part of this pilgrimage – knowing that once I enter the first airport my resiliency and courage will take center stage. All these dear protective parts, so anxious in the anticipation, will relax once traveling is underway. I’ll meet each challenge, even any hardship, with confidence and self-leadership. And I’ll be kind and considerate of others while maintaining my own safe space.

Then the trip of a lifetime, via a portal called “pilgrimage,” that I never thought I’d take, much less in this way, will fill and bless my life.

Ireland – Inishmore, Ireland – here I come!

Sorry, Miss Maya baby, you can’t come with me, honey! 

Grief at Christmas with a Side of Magic

Grace in Light and Shadow Posted on by

Grief at ChristmasThough sadness during the winter holidays is a common occurrence for many of us, dare I say for most of us humans; grief at Christmas with a side of magic was an unexpected gift I’ll always cherish.

The first time it happened I was six.

I hadn’t felt well all day. It was a pain that began in my tummy and then spread as the day progressed. During the 11 p.m. candlelight service at church it spread to my chest. By the time I was getting ready for bed, I felt enveloped in a soft, persistent hurt all over.

Finding each parent to kiss goodnight, when I got to my mother I teared up and said, “Mama, I don’t feel good.”

“What’s wrong, Sally?”

“I’m sad. I hurt all over. I’m sad and I don’t know why!”

 

“You’re probably over-tired. It’s been a long day. It’s long past your bedtime and Santa can’t come till you’re asleep.”

“But I’m so sad. I’m crying for no reason!”

“I tell you what. Let’s get you in bed with your favorite doll and pray about it and I bet you’ll fall right off to sleep.”

“Ok.”

Of course, I knew exactly which doll I’d choose.

He was a soft-bodied doll I’d named “Charlie,” after Charlie Brown. My Charlie was bald too. Basically, he was a big navy-blue gingerbread cookie doll.

His body was made from a navy-blue furry material. To make him, pieces of the material were cut in the shape of a giant gingerbread man. He was about the length of a football. Filled with beads, making him perfectly huggable, he had felt fabric eyes, a felt nose, a felt mouth glued on his face, and three felt buttons glued down his chest.

Mama and I found him at an art fair while traveling. Back home, no other little girl had one like him. Charlie was unique to me, we’d bonded while traveling (which, in the world of dolls, is a very special bond indeed), and I loved him dearly.

Naturally, as I headed back to bed, it was Charlie I needed most of all.

Snuggling in bed with him, Mama sat on the edge of my bed, bowed her head, and prayed. “Dear Lord, Sally is sad tonight and doesn’t know why. Please comfort her and help her sleep. I feel certain she’ll feel better in the morning, amen.”

“Amen.”

“Now, turn over and go to sleep.”

“Night, mama. Leave my door cracked open?”

“Certainly.”

I turned over on my left side so I could see the light from the hallway.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out everything in my bedroom from that hallway light.

I held Charlie tight and kissed his face.

Then I held him at arm’s length to look in his felt eyes. They appeared shiny. His eyes held my gaze. Charlie’s eyes were shining…at me!

His eyes seemed to be aglow as if he were, in some doll way, truly alive.

I sat up in bed and looked around my room at the other dolls and stuffed animals there. Some sitting on shelves and a couple on the small, child’s desk Daddy had made for me when I started first grade a few months back. No matter what their eyes were made of – plastic, thread, or felt – all their eyes were shining.

And their bodies, regardless of what they were made of – felt, cotton, polyester, or plastic – they all appeared to glow.

Something magical was happening and it was happening for me.

For what happened next, I have no explanation.

I think sometimes grace opens portals in our minds, makes new pathways in our brains, instantaneously, showing up among us humans in the creative spark all the time. It often happens spontaneously in people’s minds when they either purposefully or in reaction to something stop thinking.

Hence, in the glow of that magical moment, I stopped thinking. And even though it made no sense, I felt a sense of company. I knew I wasn’t alone. And I understood why I was so sad on Christmas Eve – why I was experiencing grief at Christmas.

I was sad for all the suffering in the world – the sadness that is exacerbated during the winter holidays. This included my own suffering, yet I felt safe, even held. I realized that with the suffering that belonged to other people, and even my own, I could do nothing to help them or to help me. Feeling this sadness at the holidays and acknowledging we’re all in this together was all I could do.

It was empathy but on grand scale.

In addition, even though I couldn’t explain why or how, I knew my toys, with their shining eyes and glowing bodies, were an expression of Love. It was the Love that was holding me and the whole wide world, that was letting me know I wasn’t alone– a Love that is available to everyone, all the time.

It was Love. It was God. It was real.

As these dots connected in my mind and imagination, the sadness inside softened. I cried tears of relief and felt stronger.

I laid down to go to sleep staring at my “alive” toys. Until I drifted off to sleep, the magic didn’t fade. The next morning, it was gone. All their eyes and bodies looked normal. Except, I felt as if they and I shared a magical secret.

Needless to say, the next morning I awoke squealing, “It’s Christmas! What did Santa bring?!” and life pretty much went back to normal.

Until the next Christmas Eve and the one after that, and the one after that, when the sadness – that unique grief at Christmas – would revisit me, and my dolls and stuffed animals would come to life for one night.

At bedtime each Christmas Eve, I’d gaze around my room at the bright shining eyes of my dolls and stuffed animals, admire their glowing bodies, feel strangely comforted, and, even in the sadness, feel grateful for all of it before going to sleep.

Christmas morning, every year, found my dolls and stuffed toys back to normal.

The final Christmas Eve I had the experience, I was fourteen. By the next year, teenage interests and concerns and a move brought about a natural purge of toys. I held onto Charlie though and have him to this day.

With each passing year and more adult concerns and reasons for sadness impacting the weeks of Advent leading up to Christmas Eve, grieving at Christmas stopped being a singular event on Christmas Eve. It became something that touched most of the days of Advent.

But I knew how to handle it.

Just lean into it and feel the Love supporting all of us wherever we are and however we’re doing in all our lives.

More than being a container for my own and others’ suffering, it became an opportunity to recognize all of our humanness, especially in our grief, and yet experience the Love that holds all of us.

The present.

Naturally, all this begs the following question. Since I still have Charlie, including another doll from childhood, as well as some dolls I’ve collected over the years, what about this Christmas Eve? Might their eyes shine and their bodies glow in the light of a nearly full moon close to midnight?

There’s only one way to find out.

 

Grief at Christmas

 

 

Firefly Lamp Memories

Grace in Light and Shadow Posted on by

firefly lamps a trip down memory lane

Gazing at lightening bugs on a recent summer evening brought back a sweet memory

Firefly lamp memories create a trip to a summer weekend afternoon when I was six. There, one of three beloved great aunts dropped by for a visit, bringing gifts for my brother and me, which were two store bought firefly lamps. The gifts made my mother happy as she recalled summers when she and her daddy would create a firefly lamp using a mason jar with holes cut in the metal lid – creating a nighttime lamp for the bedside.

Our lamps were ready made. They had clear plastic containers with fat, bulbous bottoms, skinny necks, and a wide mouth on top. Their green plastic lids had slits instead of holes. They delighted my six-year-old taste in toys. 

Anticipation

Because Mama’s enthusiasm was contagious, we could hardly wait for sundown. Taking charge, she decided we children would take our nightly bath prior to supper. This way, as soon as it was dark, we had all the time between then and bedtime to collect fireflies.

After supper, we pulled grass to line the bottom of the lamps, added some sticks, leaves, and white clover flowers, all to give the fireflies a “natural environment.” The lightning bugs, with their slow graceful flights, were easy to catch. With wide, swift movements, they didn’t see us coming.

In a short amount of time, our lamps had plenty of fireflies to provide a sweet glow through the night. I wondered how I would ever fall asleep with this magical lamp flickering on my nightstand.

Sure enough, instead of even trying to fall asleep, I lay on my side to watch the fireflies dance in the lamp. All was peaceful and bright, when I noticed something.

A few of the fireflies found their way to the top where they saw the slits in the lid as an escape route. Well, a hopeful escape route anyway because they couldn’t slip through. Their little antenna peeked through the slits, followed by their heads, but they could not get their bodies through to escape. 

The lightning bugs hated the firefly lamps!

At first there were only a few trying to break free but then it was as if a call had gone out to the rest. They all swarmed to the top, struggling to escape!

My heart swelled and ached. Tears brimmed. Sitting up in bed, then frozen in place, I panicked on their behalf. Frightened by their distress, I watched their beauty turn to madness as they courageously fought for escape at the top of my beautiful lamp.

“Mama! They’re dying! Mama! Mama! They’re dying! We have to save them!”

She dashed in, the door swung open, light from the hall lighting half my room.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re dying, Mama! They’re killing themselves! We have to save them! We have to set them free! Can we set them free?”

“’May’ we set them free?”

“May we set them free?!”

“Certainly, let’s take them outside.”

“Will you carry the jar? I’m scared.”

“Of course.”

The lamp safely in her hands, I unfroze and ran to the hallway. My brother and I nearly collided. What courage! He held his lamp in both hands even as his fireflies tried to escape. 

We both yelled, “Hurry!”

The three of us flew out the patio door into the dark and watched as Mama opened the lids of our firefly lamps, setting them free. Some flew off right away. Then she used her fingers to gently nudge the ones stuck in the lid back down and out so they could fly away too. No fireflies were harmed!

Sweet relief

And just like that, I went from firefly jailor and executioner to firefly savior. As the fear and panic subsided, my heart swelled with pride as a sense of peace and satisfaction settled in.  

“They’re happy now,” I said. “They’re safe.”

As we watched their lights flicker in the pitch black, Mama added, “When you write your thank you note to your great aunt tomorrow, you’re only going to tell her about much fun it was to catch them and how pretty they were in the jars. There is no need to hurt her feelings with how the fireflies struggled to break free. You understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

We went back to our bedrooms emotionally spent but fulfilled for having done the right thing. 

Sometimes a walk down memory lane, even over something as innocuous as firefly lamps, remind us of when we were strong and brave, even in moments that were full of fear and emotion. 

(Even as I’ve sat on the front porch tonight, after dark, working on this blog entry, a firefly settled first on the laptop keys and has now settled down on the screen. I reckon she’s attracted to the light. They certainly are magical creatures of summer. And I promise to shoo her away before I close the top!)

 

firefly lamps a trip down memory lane