I'm Here at Santiago

It is five in the morning in Santiago de Compostela and I cannot sleep. Now that I'm here, and having spent a day with my friends, actual pilgrims, I want to change the name of this blog. I have not done the Camino--although I explained earlier that I'm using the word in a figurative sense--and am not deserving.


On the Morning of My Departure
On the morning of my flight, I hosted a book club meeting at my house. These well-read ladies have graciously agreed to read my novel manuscript, "Tales of a Half-Life" and I had told to be candid. Some of the chapters had already been "processed" by a highly critical group of novel writers in a workshop led by a Northwestern University professor, and I felt that I could take whatever they dish out. I'm not as prepared as I thought. I guess it's different with friends, or maybe I was aware of the fact that these are my final readers, people who would pay money to buy a book of their choice. While the comments were generally favorable, a few said they could not sympathize with any of the characters. I must admit that remark was unexpected; I could have understood had they said they did like my writing style, the narrative too dense, the story unbelievable. But over the course of writing it for two years, I had developed an attachment to my characters, not unlike what one would feel about household companions. I thought they were interesting and poignantly sketched. They were flawed and the "growth" they experienced in the end was not dramatic--in fact, the book club thought the ending was depressing--but I thought I'd portray incremental changes because life happens in increments, we change subtly, we often do not have dramatic incidents of life-affirming revelations.
Nevertheless, I felt lucky to have such feedback, and I carefully noted where the novel needed revisions. I put the breakfast brunch I had prepared away--plenty of quiche, almond croissants, olive crackers from Sprain and fruit left--and finished my packing. Then it was off the airport, where my husband was thoughtful enough to request a pass so we could go to the American Airlines lounge together. I spent a nervous half-hour there, trying to eat, and when he looked at me and said, "You know you have to get on that plane," I nodded in resignation. I don't know why I felt so apprehensive then. I was headed to a glorious five days eating and spending time with dear high school friends. Maybe years of mishaps and plans gone awry conspired to plant some doubt in my head. Turns out these little devils in my brain were right.

Chicago to Santiago via Madrid
The seven-hour flight was uneventful enough. I had comfortable back row window seat, close to the lavatories. My seatmate was a woman about my age who spent most the eight-hour flight scribbling geometry problems. I did not feel like striking up a conversation because I wasn't prepared to reveal anything about myself. Plus, I wanted to sleep. The difference in time would render me useless in Spain, and I wasn't about to spoil my time there. At the end of the flight, however, as connecting flights were announced, she asked a flight attendant about going on to Tel Aviv. I suddenly felt the weight of my crucifix pendant heavy on my chest, and I felt relieved I had worn a shirt that did not put my religion on blatant display. In the US, we have become so sensitive to differences in faith that I think we have become less tolerant, more aware of what keeps us apart rather than together. After I asked the attendant about my connection, my seatmate and I strike up a light conversation about Madrid airport. It was enough that we recognized each other as anonymous travellers, experiencing the same roadblocks and twists to separate destinations.

The Agony of Interminable Connections
I had a four hour layover at Madrid airport. Seizing the opportunity to become intimately familiar with my new unlocked GSM phone (whose SIM card for Spain just arrived a few hours earlier) I sat down and fiddled with the buttons, icons. During the entire four hours the only thing I succeeded in doing was to change the language from Spanish to English. I couldn't send texts to anybody and was particularly anxious about Bunny whom I was meeting up with in Santiago. I thought my husband would try sending messages. Frustrated with the phone, I thought I'd cheer myself up by withdrawing euros. That was a dispiriting experience as well.
I kept reminding myself that I should be busy observing people, storing little details in my head for future writing. This group of men, for example, whom I pegged as mechanics (ask my subconscious why) seemed all worked up to go to Santiago, and I wondered why they were traveling. I was aware of a few Americans who looked like pilgrim types, but I discovered they were there for a scientific convention. I imagined the utterances that accompanied gestures (my Spanish is very rusty), the emotions they were feeling. A young woman in high heels and off-the shoulder sweater: "Oh, just off to do my bit of promoting fashion consciousness in a laid back town."
Then it was time to embark, and I felt my anxiety dissipate. Soon I would be with friends.
"Soon" turned out to be relative. For some reason not revealed to the passengers, our plane just sat on the runway for an hour. I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the lack of airconditioning. A migraine started to build. When we finally took off, the attendants hurried with the food service. For some inexplicable reason, they missed asking me if I wanted anything, so I had to motion to them when they were four rows behind. My throat was parched, and the two granola bars I had eaten had done nothing to stave off my hunger. Landing with hunger tremors in Santiago would not be good, since I had no idea what time I would eat with Bunny and Annette.
I was fortunate to have trusted my instincts. At the small airport in Santiago, I was one of about five passengers whose luggage were left behind. I thought, "What, 4 hours to move my luggage weren't enough for you?" After filing a claim with Iberia--the employee seemed disturbingly familiar with the situation and I started to worry about how things might be on my return where I would have a much shorter connection time--I went outside. It was a very comfortable day, and I felt relieved that I didn't need my jacket (stored in the outside pocket of my luggage.) It was a silent trip from the airport to my hotel, and I gave the driver a small tip, reasoning that I had no luggage anyway.
Funny how living in a city like Chicago makes you guilty about things like that.

Settled, but not Quite
My room was very nice and comfortable, and lo and behold Bunny started to receive my texts! We planned to meet at the main entrance of the Cathedral, so after eating another Granola bar I set off. My hotel was a five-minute walk to the Cathedral, and although the people looked the same as back home (what did I expect, matadors with capes strolling down the cobblestone paths?) I knew I was not in Chicago anymore. It was vaguely unsettling, being powerless to communicate. I think every writer feels helpless in this situation; we live to convey.
The Cathedral was magnificent, and I had my first sensation of what it takes to be a pilgrim. They looked exhausted and happy, stretching out on the ending point marker, groups of poncho-wearing people laughing in the light rain. "Could have been me," I kept thinking.
When I saw my friends, one of whom I had not seen since high school, I felt ... ordinary. But that only speaks as a testament to friendship: you could be separated by time and space (one lives in the Philippines, the other in Saudi Arabia) and you could just pick up where you left off. As we caught up with each other's lives and ate (wonderful tapas and pinto to accompany it, paella in squid ink) I started to feel happy. Time has been kind to my friends, and here we were, experiencing something new.
Tomorrow my friend Pi from London flies in, another dear friend whom I haven't see in ages. Time rolls on.

Thanks for reading.
Almira

Short Essay, Way Back When I Still Thought My Daughter Was Going to Spend a Year Abroad

Now that you know the story, here's an essay I wrote before my daughter changed her mind
This is a sort of retrospective on how I felt then.

The Way of Saint James

The year before I turned fifty, some of my high school classmates decided that a milestone year deserved something special: the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrim walk of at least 100 kilometers, starting from several points in southern Europe and ending in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Why they had not decided to do something less arduous to mark a pivotal point in our lives, I did not understand at first. Most people would have chosen to celebrate half a century of living with luxury or, if finances did not permit that, a much-deserved languidness.

But their motives soon became apparent. Since we had graduated from a Catholic school in the Philippines, a country dominated by steadfast Christians, they wanted to take advantage of the fact that this was an auspicious time for the Camino pilgrimage. 2010 was a jubilee year for Saint James, and anybody who completed the requisite 100 kilometers on foot would be rewarded with a reduced term in purgatory. I think my gastronomic classmates were enticed by Galician cuisine as well—they began posting photographs of seafood platters and bottles of wine—and their calculus of sacrifice and pleasure accommodated this perk quite nicely.

Although my cost-benefit equation contained the same factors, it was slightly different. In addition to the above, my pluses consisted of a much-improved physique and the company of friends whom I had not seen in a long time. As a writer with motivation issues, I also hoped that the experience would unleash the creative dragon that waited inside me, smoldering and impatient to escape.

Unlike my classmates, the get-out-of-purgatory card did not affect my decision. My attitude toward the spiritual spheres of salvation was a little more cavalier than theirs. I believed, as Pascal did, that we have nothing to lose and everything to gain by believing in God. If this pilgrimage would indeed shorten my trip to heaven, I would certainly sign up for a well-organized, reasonably comfortable meander along the Spanish countryside. In my opinion, this was not mercenary behavior. A significant part of my spiritual constitution is anchored in my acceptance of the mysticism of God: we are human and weak, and God is hard to fathom. If heaven dispenses gifts from time to time to keep us going on earth, then maybe the food and beauty of Spain will be a benefaction for me.

As the planning for the pilgrimage shifted to a higher gear, I began to realize that things were shifting in my equation as well. This was not going to be an expert-guided tour with a support van to carry our luggage, prepared meals with three courses, and accommodations with private toilets. Two of my friends who had done the pilgrimage before opted for a less refined walk; they would arrange our own lodging and we would be left to the mercy of roadside dining places. I think they mentioned looking into the possibility of ferrying our luggage from town to town so as not to scare us newcomers. Not only that, but these hardy pilgrims wanted to do a longer walk, starting earlier on the route, while the rest of us would meet up with them to walk the last miles of the Camino. I would have to travel from Chicago to the meeting place alone. My four years of college Spanish would desert me, and I imagined myself waiting at the wrong train station, weak from hunger, and desperate to use the restroom.

But I did not divulge my apprehension to the rest. In fact, I did the opposite, researching timetables and airplane fares, trying to convey to my stalwart wayfaring friends that I was resolute in joining them. I even started a blog about my Camino preparations, a challenge I had hurled at myself: I had gone public about my vow. I was hoping that the momentum of planning would thrust me inevitably forward to a point where I could no longer turn back. The external would grind down the internal, and at the end I would be a salvaged soul with a toned body.

Except the internals were shifting too, in ways I could not control. My cradle Catholicism was proving to be too potent to ignore, and I started to question the integrity of my formula for spiritual and physical wellbeing. At the heart of my doubt was the Camino itself: why not just be a tourist if all I was after was to experience the splendor of Spain? Why plod along the Way of St. James if I am primarily a seeker of the secular more than the spiritual? Would I be defiling the path that pilgrims have taken for over one thousand years with my misplaced motives, my unsteady faith?

The answers began to be revealed to me through my earnest friends who persisted in organizing a Camino in what had been heralded as an exceptionally busy year. They had to find acceptable lodging at a series of towns, plan logistics, find the best route for a group with varying fitness levels. They had to answer all our questions about weather, equipment, and internet access, no matter how silly. They had to synchronize vacation schedules for three continents since we were dispersed throughout Asia, America, and the Middle East. In spite of all these complications, they managed to find points of convergence, areas of flexibility.

What my dear friends demonstrated to me was that the Camino de Santiago demanded not only an exceptional sacrifice but also a profound faith. My classmates were all accomplished, busy professionals and traveled extensively for business and leisure. They were accustomed to comfort and agency-planned tours. Yet they had already begun their Camino before taking even a single step, working through the entanglements while keeping the final destination in sight. They intended us to be co-pilgrims, taking step after heavy step together, buoyed by our friendship and the promise of heaven. In the presence of such generosity, I felt undeserving. Pascal’s wager seemed inadequate and self-serving.

Serendipity provided a way out of my moral quagmire. My daughter decided, entirely on her own, to study in the Philippines for her high school sophomore year. The stars aligned in her favor: she was admitted on early decision to the prestigious International School, the coursework done there would be credited, and she would spend time with my aging parents, whom she loved. I could not stand in the way of such a unique opportunity. Since I would have to accompany her, my schedule could no longer accommodate the Camino. External forces saved me. I gave my regrets to my friend who, in typical fashion, exulted that we would be able to spend time together in Manila. There was not a hint of wasted time and effort on her part.

Maybe what we call serendipity is God and our faith in Him working in synchronicity. Maybe friendship is a reflection of God’s goodness. Maybe my daughter’s initiative to spend a year abroad is God’s handiwork, pushing a passive believer to realize that a pilgrim must travel outside her comfort zone to attain redemption. Maybe Pascal should have a corollary that reads thus: Our belief in God is true and real when we feel that we have everything to lose and nothing to gain but our spiritual salvation. Maybe doubt is the seed of revelation. I have taken shaky, first steps on this path. When I am ready, I will traverse the Camino de Santiago not as a tourist but as a trusting traveler, and hopefully I will walk with friends.

I'm Back:Part 2

To start where I stopped:

• June: Preparations for Isabel's departure are done for the most part; now comes the emotional part. Classes are winding down at her high school as well, and I decide to give her a bon voyage party. I plan an excursion downtown, with swimming at our condo and a movie at my friend's condo movie room. About ten teenagers, my husband, and I take the train, then water taxi to River North. A few minutes after the boys start splashing in the pool (the girls are taking forever to get ready), an employee from the condo association tells me that we have exceeded the limit for guests, and that she has received a complaint. I explain that I had called earlier and was not informed about that; she replies that it's in the condo rules. I answer in turn that the condo unit is not my primary residence and that I didn't have a copy back in Palatine; she says it's on the website; I say I looked at the website and it wasn't there. I concede and wait for my husband to come down to the pool to help me herd everybody (my fob doesn't work, so I can't go in and out of the pool area.) A second employee, more irate, storms to where we are and brandishes the condo rules in my face. I tell her that we have already been informed and that I am waiting for my husband with a good fob. She continues her tirade. In the meantime, the girls have arrived and are setting up their sunbathing areas. The employee tells us they can't stay there either. I feel like asking her where it says that there is a limit to the number of sunbathers, but my husband shows up and we all leave. This episode aside, my daughter and her friends have a fabulous time, strolling in Millenium Park, lying on the grass, people-watching. Chicago is a beautiful city, offering more enticing treasures than an indoor swimming pool with cranky supervisors.
• About the same time: My daughter receives her current HS schedule in the mail, and it looks excellent. Too bad she won't use it. There is one administrative chore I need to attend to: formally withdraw her from Fremd HS. I go to the office where I was advised to go, during their office hours, and it is closed. I do not withdraw her, and I keep putting it off for the next few weeks.
• After the bon voyage party: My husband, daughter and I attend a mass and reception with Cardinal Francis George. I ask for the Cardinal's blessing for my daughter's trip, and he obliges, telling us to look up an old friend while we're in the Philippines.
• First week of July (we're scheduled to leave July 15): My husband comes home after picking up my daughter and tells me that she has voiced some apprehension about her trip. "How serious?" I ask. "'One never knows with her," he answers. That answer is not good enough for me but when asked, she remains vague. I ask direct questions, "Is it a boy? Is it because you're afraid of the rigor of academics there?" She answers no to all of my questions but does not offer much in the way of explanation.
  
• Next few days: I start reading the fine print of our e-tickets. I debate whether or not to call my travel agent then, hoping that things will still change. They don't. My daughter now comes up with more concrete reasons, but she doesn't sound convinced herself. I ask for percentages; she says a little over 50%. I tell her that is not good enough for something that will cause a lot of money, anxiety, effort. She shrugs her shoulders. My husband says, "That's what you get for leaving the decision to a fifteen year old."
• To conclude quickly: She decides not to continue with her plans a week before we are scheduled to leave. I quickly jump into action, canceling our present travel schedule, waiting to see if maybe we can still make a summer trip there (my mother started crying when she found out; her room is ready), making a new reservation for my daughter to join us when we go to the Philippines for Christmas (and changing my husband's reservation to coincide with hers). I tell my friends who ask, and they have mixed reactions: "But it was such a brave and interesting plan!" "I didn't know how you would survive the separation," "It was not meant to be." Good thing I had not formally withdrawn her from Fremd or her great schedule would have dissolved.
  

The result of all this was that we were left bereft the entire summer. We had made no other travel plans, my daughter had not signed up for summer school or any other classes. I didn't really mind though. My headaches went away. We spent time with my son who was home from college (even though our interaction consisted mainly of us visiting his room and talking to him as he lay prone on his bed, half-asleep.) We even had a family trip to Quebec City. I sent my novel manuscript to agents, and one in NYC has agreed to read the entire thing. I started a new novel: never mind that the beginning was amorphous, the point of view kept changing, the topic itself still daunted me. But I now had time for all this pre-writing confusion and felt at peace sorting it out, knowing that my daughter was safe, ensconced on the couch in front of the TV a stairway away.

Which brings me to the Camino. Bunny and company embarked on theirs last week, and after posting gorgeous pictures of the scenery and food, I asked myself, "Why not? It is still the year I turned 50." I knew I would not be able to walk the distance, but maybe showing up is in itself a virtue? Especially for a someone who has not travelled alone for a long time and is suffering from leg and shoulder injuries--long story--and gets sick on the plane? So I research airfares to Santiago de Compostela and am surprised to find them very reasonable. I start looking at hotels, which proved to be more arduous than selecting airfare, and my long-time friend from London decides to join us.

I leave for Spain on the 22nd of September. I will spend four days there with friends, some of whom I have not seen in ten years. I will read, write, think. I go with very few expectations, practical or spiritual, leaving a space for others to fill. At fifty years old, I think I am entitled to such whimsy.

Thanks for reading.
Almira

I'm Back: Part 1

So, like I said in my last post more than 7 months ago, it has been interesting. To summarize what has happened (because frankly, I don't have the mental energy to describe events in detail and relive the emotions involved) here is a rough timeline:

• Sometime late February (soon after I turned 50; hence, the intended Camino): My daughter decides to spend her sophomore year of HS in the Philippines "to be with my grandmother (my mother). Sometime soon after that, I agree.
  
• March: We embark on a frenetic filling out of the application. The International School of Manila designates us as second to the lowest priority, since we are not expats, not already there, not foreigners. We are told that we would have to wait until May, after enrollment of current students, if there are slots for new ones. Nevertheless, we solicit teacher recommendations, e-mail grades, get my father to sign a guardianship form, comment on the uniform. My daughter fills out her part of the application, answering the question, "Why do you want to study in IS" with "I want to spend time with my lola." I tell her to supplement the truth. Headaches start to beset me in the mornings. IS classes start August 5th and if accepted, we would have to leave middle of July for placement testing. Two and a half months of preparation for staying away the whole year seem like nothing. Add to that my emotional preparation: I would have to leave my daughter after accompanying her.
• Early April: Duly impressed, the director of admissions agrees to give my daughter a slot way ahead of time. She is going.
• Mid-April: I coordinate schedules for my family and satellite members. My parents were going to visit my brother in Vancouver in June; now they have to rush home. Various planned events now have to be rescheduled or cancelled, including this Camino. Since I want to spend a few months with my daughter in the Philippines, I would not be able to join Bunny on her planned dates. After navigating the maze of travel arrangements--with an increasingly heavy heart each day--I buy tickets. Travel to Manila for my daughter and me in the summer, travel back to Manila in December for me, my husband, and son (my father is planning an 80th birthday party), open return sometime the next year for my daughter. At some point during all this, my son's girlfriend decides to join us in December, thereby complicating my son's schedule, but this is all worked out. My headaches intensify.
• May: I start packing. There is a service that will ship enormous boxes from the US and Canada to the Philippines via container freight, called "Door-to-door." I fill two boxes with my daughter's uniform, shoes (she wears a size 10, not your regular Filipina shoe size), cereal, mac and cheese (she's vegetarian), not-tested-on-animals deodorant, sunblock and cosmetics, contacts solution, snorkel mask (with prescription). I throw in a few gifts for the family as well, for Christmas. The guy comes to pick the boxes up, tells me they will be in Manila by mid-July. I have timed it so that they will be waiting when we get there, yet not too early in case my daughter wanted to pack something last minute, a special book or stuffed animals, for instance.

• Whenever the Chicago Lit Fest was: I walk six blocks to Lit Fest (formerly Printers Row Book Fair) to buy my daughter a hand-tooled leather diary. She likes to sketch. Maybe she'll write too. I put it in a box in my bedroom for things to pack in my suitcase for the trip. I realize that the cover is made of animal hide, and hope she is so bedazzled by the design (checkerboard and dragon--she draws both obsessively, it's perfect!) she doesn't notice.
  

I would like to stop here. We're getting to the climax of this narration and, as I feared, I'm re-experiencing my emotions a little too vividly. There are a lot more details that I had planned on writing, but I guess that's what a purge is: uncontrolled dispensing. I will write more tomorrow or very soon because I have a deadline, which is Sept 22nd. You'll know why soon.

Thanks for reading.
Almira

2010 ALREADY

Review of the Last 2 Months
Last post October 2009? I can really let things slide. Anyway, a few events worth noting since then:

• Belly dance recital. Some dear friends and somewhat reluctant faimly members had the "privilege" to see a side of me I did not know I had. No, it wasn't that kind of belly dancing; I was referring to my attraction to Middle Eastern music. And, okay, I do adore those long, dangling earrings straight out of Arabian nights. Also, I learned that I have the ability to cover up a mistake quickly, and pretend like nothing happened--a useful skill to acquire.
• What's wrong with Filipino American communities in the U.S.? Enough said.
  
• Christmas in Vancouver, Canada. Generally overcast skies, and nothing like Chicago in terms of the Christmas spirit, but I did spend time with my brother and his family, their first Christmas out of the Philippines. Unlike most family holiday movies, this did not result in people screaming at each other or the revelation of dark secrets. It was subdued and poignant, for me at least. And Matthew reveled in the fact that the drinking age is lower in Canada. The biggest revelation of the season for me was how well he could hold his liquor. The most endearing: my seven-year old niece calling herself a historian, carrying a list around of famous people (including Hitler, go figure). The most heart-wrenching: the good-byes.

Body
Haven't done much in terms of getting ready for the camino. Took a break from belly dancing, zumba, and swimming; when it's below freezing out I just want to curl up with a book or my dog, whichever happens to be near at the moment. I have started walking Isis again, cut down on my calories, and will go back to my physical regimen. It's only 7 months before the camino, and Bunny and company have started to look at the logistics in earnest.

Mind
In lieu of prose, I'd like to offer a poem that I wrote some years ago, from my chapbook called "Old Man Walking." I've set aside Proust for the moment--there's enough gloom and despondency in these winter months. Not that this poem is a beam of radiant sunlight either, but with the coming national elections in the Philippines (and the difficult times here in the US) I thought I'd share what I think of politics in general.

The Alley
With barely enough space to cast a shadow
the alley sucks pneumonic breath
from a child whose saucer eyes have seen much
and reveal nothing.

The alley divides but does not hide
her neighbor's stale rice and thoughts
which she doesn't quite understand
but makes her shudder.

When it rains the alley is a river
carrying shoes tin cans
even a cat
to places unknown.

The alley provides passage
but does not promise emergence.
It is escape without destination.

The alley is two worlds leaning in
gravitating toward communal collapse

while they stare across the dust
each daring the other to blink first.


The coming months promise to be interesting.

Peace,
Almira

Open Again for Business

Been Away
For those who have expectations of reading a weekly post from me, I apologize for not delivering. Several events have come into play the past two weeks, some of which follow:

*my daughter got sick, I think with H1N1;
*my sister's house in the Philippines suffered from the flood; her husband almost didn't make it;
*I had a lingering cough/cold/sinus infection that just refused to go away;
*I organized a relief program here in Illinois in coordination with a Rotary club in the Philippines, where my father is president;
*we have a new puppy, 10 weeks old today
photo courtesy of Bunny Fabella

Of course, I could just say that life intervened. But that's a sorry excuse, one I'm embarrassed to admit that I've used too often to justify not working on my writing projects.

Body
One thing I could say is that people have told me I've lost weight. I haven't confirmed it by using my bathroom scale; allow me to savor this delusion for a bit. I've kept up my zumba classes (except when I was sick). Every Tuesday night I swear I'd never make it to the cooling down exercises (which still leave me panting.) Thank God for Gatorade.

I walk my very energetic puppy at least twice a day. I've come to appreciate the beauty and serenity of early morning walks, when it's still dark and nobody's about. (Well except for that one time when Isis and I passed a car with its motor idling under a street lamp. When the driver saw us, he drove just a few feet forward, under the next street lamp. Just happened to park at a private subdivision at 6:30 am?) We walk at a brisk pace, to keep my puppy focused, and I like feeling that I'm already into my day while the others are still sleeping.

I'm still belly-dancing. In fact, I'm participating in a short dance in a student recital in two weeks. Does "Rock the Casbah" sound like anything I'd be doing? Those of you who know me well know I don't even know what the Casbah is. They're probably saying it's a midlife crisis. I'll tell you what the crisis was: what to wear. Since I'm very shy about exposing my midriff (which is ironic for belly dancing), I ordered a body suit from Australia with the most coverage, snipped the bottom off an old shimmery blouse, and fashioned a long tie that hangs all the way past my belly button. It will do for a five minute dance. I'll be the most inexperienced there, having taken lessons for less than 2 months while the others have been doing it for over a year. My 14year old daughter refuses to go (Good. She'll dogsit.) My husband makes funny noises and averts his eyes when I practice--you'd think a husband would be more eager, curious, at least, but he winced when my coin hip scarf arrived in the mail. So why am I doing this? Why do we do anything?

Mind
I've been making progress on my novel. I try and write several hours a day, when the puppy is resting. I've taken to writing at the kitchen table--quite a change for me since I usually write in isolation so I can more fully imagine this world I'm creating. Since the story is set in the Philippines, it's not a difficult transition, except now I'm working on a chapter that takes place in Quiapo and Binondo, where I've never been. I guess I've been there a few times, but I have nothing close to the intimate knowledge required for the chapter. I've resorted to eating Filipino food to get me in the mood, which actually works. Eating is such a sensory experience that I think it fuels my imagination. Now if only it were hot and humid here, instead of dry and 67 degrees fahrenheit. And if only I were surrounded by a crowd of Filipinos instead of my Wisconsin husband, my high schooler (a world of its own; need I say more?), and an Australian shepherd. Funny how somebody in my writing class who read my manuscript called my novel magical realism, when in fact, this world does exist, on the other side of the globe. And the narrative is based on actual events, although I've made the characters more eccentric. The theme is ambitious: How does religion survive in a secular society? This is something I grapple with everyday, coming from a devout Catholic family. My mother would probably answer, "We survive because of religion." My mother is a very insightful woman. She's 82 years old and still active with volunteer work. I owe so much to her. Damn, now I'm missing her.

Questions
I haven't received any feedback regarding our camino arrangements. I'm sure the typhoons set things back a bit, but I'm ready to start asking my friend again. After all, I've been telling my friends about this walk and now I'm setting expectations. I have a habit of doing this.

Answers
None at the moment. Just something I heard watching a Mad Men rerun last night: Chinese saying goes, "The faintest ink is better than the strongest memory." Not a mind-blowing insight, but a useful tip for a writer. Especially one who gets the names of her daughter and dog mixed up sometimes.

Peace,
Almira

Unloading

Body
Took a short break to spend a long weekend with childhood friends in the Washington DC area. Of course, that reunion completely sabotaged my diet: spicy catfish, salmon, crabcakes, native Filipino sausage, all eaten with copious amounts of rice. Exotic ice cream--2 huge scoops.

I did try and work it off by walking from museum to museum, standing around for hours taking pictures, saying a few prayers. I fear, however, that the calculus of calories and exercise tilts heavily toward added poundage.

Photo taken by Bunny Fabella

Mind
As I gazed with awe at the beauty of the National Shrine (Basilica of Immaculate Conception in Washington DC), I couldn't help but wonder about the busloads of pilgrims gathered there. Now, they probably would get some special dispensation too for making the trip, but how would that equal to the arduous journey I'll be making this time next year? As a friend laughingly told me, she crossed the threshold in Rome when the curtains parted, thus earning her deliverance from purgatory. All she did was take a few steps; I would have to hike 60 miles. Where is the divine justice in that?

What other burdens would I have to carry from now until the time I take those first steps in Spain? How are we judged--by discrete actions, or in the course of a lifetime? Does one act of faith cancel an offense, and vice versa? When do we actually attain salvation?

And to make things more complicated, here is my weekly quote from Marcel Proust:
"We become moral when we are unhappy."

How's that for food for thought?

Peace,
Almira