Camino Day 3--6/17/2020

Originally I had planned for Wednesday to be a 6-miles-down, 6-miles-back walk along the coast from around Mussel Shoals, past Rincon beach, and down into Ventura County. The elevation change: "mostly flat," according to Google Maps. On reflection and with our recent experience, though, I thought that 12 miles of road walking sounded like it would be really hard on our bodies. I looked around for a local replacement of about the same length, and decided that previewing our final-day descent sounded like a good idea. While this did require that we also make the ascent, I thought that would be fine. We like hiking. No big deal. 

This is solid evidence that one's context shapes one's view of normal. After Wednesday I'm aware that we're a little skewed. For example, thinking "It's only 12 miles, so some elevation isn't a problem!" Or "It's only 12 miles, it shouldn't take that long!" seemed rational...but was wrong. Only after two 16-mile days could such a thing even be possible. I'm sorry, J.

Camino Day 3: Rattlesnake Canyon Trailhead to Camino Cielo, via Rattlesnake-Tunnel Connector and the Tunnel Trail

Representing Salas to Tineo   

Conditions were overcast and cool as we headed up the Rattlesnake Canyon trail for the second time ever. We first hiked the front part of the trail on a date hike about two years ago, when "our" trail was still out of commission from the Montecito mudflows.  Wednesday was our first time back, and this time around there was running water and some small cascades--beautiful. We hiked the canyon trail to the meadow at the top of the trail. 

We were so happy to see this cool water on the way back down

Tin Can Meadow

We were grateful that another hiker taking a break at the top of the meadow was able to point the way to the connector trail. Having read up on it, I knew that it was about three quarters of a mile long and to expect some significant elevation gain. Even so,  I wasn't quite prepared for the trail to look like this:

As we climbed, I was grateful for the training we have done over the past year that made such a hike doable, though difficult. I also was a little discomfited by how much work it was. I would like to think that if I have prepared and trained for something that the execution should be easy; that the training itself is the work. In some cases this is true: multiplication tables and driving a car come to mind. However, the vast majority of worthwhile things are still really hard work to execute: a steep ascent, for example, or birthing babies or running a race. Training and experience are helpful but don't take away the pain of the actual doing. As my joints and muscles groaned, I struggled with resenting the work required. I'm afraid that's not only the case on the trail. Don't I have this [insert any of my roles or responsibilities] thing down yet? Why is this so hard?

Ugh. 

I was relieved to make it to the signed crossroads with the Tunnel Trail at the end of the connector trail (and didn't notice the poison oak all around the sign until after we took our photos). 

It was a moment of elation. I didn't yet know that the continuing trail would look like a lot of this:

and this:

But also this:

Still a ways to go

We were very excited to make it to the trailhead up on Camino Cielo. The trail flattened and widened out and we knew we had a few kilometers of road walking ahead of us in order to hit our day's distance. Camino Cielo runs atop the ridge above Santa Barbara. 

The road walking was beautiful. The wildflowers were still in bloom, heaping along the side of the road like a planned garden. The way was smooth; no sharp or rolling rocks meant that we were free to lift our eyes to the beauty. We were above the marine layer in the sunshine and could feel the cool sea breeze unencumbered by hills in between. One of the pleasures of having a smoother walk is that there's attention left over for conversation. On the road we talked some about the connection of this metaphor with where our lives are at present; where the road feels rocky and demanding of our attention; and what it looks like to balance the tension between keeping our eyes on the goal and on the road at hand. I'm so grateful for these kinds of spaces.

                                            

                                   

We kept walking until we got to a clear view on both sides of the road: south to the ocean, and north into the Santa Ynez Valley. 

We stopped for a break to breathe it in and for Noon Prayer. 

Turnaround point on Day 3

From there it was retracing our steps: "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!"  (Not a perfect match, poetically, but there are tiger allusions and some overlap and also let's count St. George toward the fighting of the Dragon. In any case we often say it when starting up again). 

Back down into the clouds for a bit

And in this case we needed a rallying cry. Not even going up was preparation for coming down, especially on the connector trail segment where the rocks and soil were loose. Even going slowly and paying attention, I took some spills. Three, in fact. My third fall came as J was suggesting that we may need to reconsider our final day's route; that hiking down this trail while tired might not be safe. I believe his words were, "It is the grace of God that you have not been seriously hurt on either of those [previous 2] falls." Right in the midst of his statement, I fell. Again. Without serious injury or anything that would prevent me from getting home. We're considering our options for Day 8. 

I can be stubborn

My hero and the self-proclaimed official photographer of the Camino

As difficult as today was, it was incredibly rewarding. And long. And a testament, indeed, to the grace of God. I love spending the time with J and having the mental space to stretch out just a bit from the everyday--even if I'm coming home to just that at the end of every hike, and even if much of the time the challenge of the walk itself makes it difficult to focus on anything but the steps immediately at hand. Even in those steps (and perhaps especially my missteps) God is with us and at work.

At the end, after I'd drenched my buff in the icy stream multiple times to cool down

Camino Day 3

(When we started training I switched my tracking apps to the metric system so that I would mentally be prepped to track our progress while in Spain. As it is, here I'm getting better at the constant conversions. May it become easy as multiplication tables!). 

Camino Day 2--6/15/2020

Ok. In all of my thinking about that first day, I may have missed a key feature: it was a long walk. I'm pretty sure it was farther than I've ever walked before...  or at least since I was in my 20s. So we finished the day with a fair amount of exhaustion but also (at least on my part) a little elation that we finished it! One of my little anxieties going into this whole Camino plan was that I wouldn't actually be able to do it.  One of my real shortcomings is that I tend to avoid areas where I don't think I'll succeed, and doing the Camino takes a commitment of time and resources that I was afraid of having done poorly. We had trained for the walking, of course, but never more than 8 miles hiking or 12 miles walking.  At the end of the day,  I had to accept that the only way to know whether I'd be able to do it was to lace up and get going. Liberating and terrifying.

Also, Saturday was the 23rd anniversary of our meeting one another! Bonus holiday. 

It takes a while walk 16 miles, and we crashed once we got home. After having Sunday off, we had another 16 miles ahead of us on Monday. This hike was intentionally planned with much less elevation and much more sea breeze, which was great...considering our legs had not quite yet recovered. 

Day 2: 6/15/20

2x Coastline between More Mesa and Coal Oil Point (or, down and back again)

Representing Grado to Salas

We parked at Goleta Beach Park, more or less at the halfway point of the loop we were walking. We decided after Saturday's walk that we needed to have more water with us; and getting to pass our parked car halfway through the walk to reload our water bottles saves pounds out of our packs. Even with that real bonus, I switched from my hip pack to a backpack (my Christmas present for the Camino!) in order to accommodate the extra H2O. 

We headed south (east?) towards More Mesa, which I had somehow never visited in the 13 years we have lived in Santa Barbara. It was breathtaking. I couldn't believe that something this spacious and peaceful was so close (dare I say walking distance? haha) to home. 

                        

The cliffs and sun and breeze were a gift. I also realized pretty quickly that I probably should have saved this half of the loop for the second half...but really, both halves were a "save the best for last" kind of option. What a gorgeous day!

I took these next two photos standing in the same spot but facing different directions:

The northern part of the walk crossed Goleta Beach and the coastline of the campus at UCSB. We then had about a mile--the longest road ever--through apartments being cleared out by college students and their parents. We were walking it the Monday morning after the end of the quarter. After that we had more hiking of coastline.

Not as scenic but just as real: Move-out day in Isla Vista

Because the coast cuts in and out, you can often only see what's within your own "bay"; out on the points you can see much farther down the coastline. We found a spot under a tree for our lunch. From that vantage point, we were able to look back the length of the coast. It was hard to believe that we had come so far. Usually, there's a limit to how much of the road you can see at a time; Monday we could see the whole expanse.

View from More Mesa: we walked miles past that farthest promontory

One of us commented that it seemed amazing that we could cover that much ground on our own two feet, just by taking one step at a time. It underscored to me the need for faithfulness and persistence, two things I find hard to hold onto in tasks that seem less rewarding or more tedious (or insurmountable). J reminded me of something Rebecca DeYoung once said about ethics: that in addition to asking whether a particular action was right or wrong, we might also ask in what ways taking that action over and over again for ten years might form us. Narrative ethics sounds like a nerdy thing to be talking about on a pilgrimage, but in the context of seeing how far our little steps had carried us it felt just right. The pursuit of holiness can seem tedious, and also (in my case, anyway) that progress just doesn't happen. J remembering the comment started a conversation was the gift of the walk that day; and I came home and bought a book that will (I hope) help me to think more clearly about other ways to keep moving forward.

Our Turnaround Point on Day Two

We also listened to some music together for the last couple of miles, when our legs were tired and J was getting blisters (although we didn't know that part yet). We are midway through building our Camino playlist (y'all probably know I have a playlist for almost everything). I would love any suggestions of songs to add--whether for reflection, celebration, or to keep our legs pumping up those hills!

Closing in on the finish line with the music pushing me forward

Day Two felt good, and I wasn't as physically wrecked at the end as I was on Saturday.

At this point we had 32 out of 102 miles done after just two of our eight days of walking. Now THAT feels like progress!

                              

Camino Day 2

Camino Day 1 --6/13/2020

26km/Franklin Trail in Carpinteria, + a hike to/on the coast

Representing Oviedo to Grado

"If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together."

I was able to go and meet three dear friends for a socially-distant hangout in a local park last Friday afternoon before J and I started our Camino the next morning; this little proverb was given to me by one of those friends as I headed out early to get home asap and start cooking.  

 There is no photo from our time together on Friday, but here they are the last time we all got away for a retreat:

I thought that I would be able to spend time with them in the afternoon and still be able to get our kickoff feast on the table in time for J and I to celebrate with the kids/ get everything ready/get a good bedtime before our first hike. 

Hilarious. Even with a lot of help from Jesse, we sat down to eat with the kids quite late. But worth it!

Menu:

Tortilla Asturiana (Onion, Tuna, and Tomato Omelet)

Chuletas de Cerdo a la Asturiana (Pork Chops with Apples in Cider Sauce); green salad, potatoes

Casadielles  (Walnut-Filled Turnovers)

It was a proper sendoff! By the way, Happy Birthday yesterday to Grandma, who sent me the Spanish cookbook a while back and whose family roots deep in the Asturian hills have been a significant part of drawing me to the particular Camino we had chosen. 

Speaking of Asturias, in Fall 2018 we were all able to visit the cathedral in Oviedo that would have been the starting point of our camino. It was a very generous thing for our Spanish family to do for me; and then at lunch afterwards, they gave me gifts that either prepared me for/or celebrated my camino in advance. I still hope to do it someday. Getting to spend time with them would have been a highlight of this trip.

At the Catedral de San Salvador

As J and I hit the trail on Saturday morning, I spent some time mulling on the proverb, and how I tend to aim for the most efficient (aka "fast") way of doing things. As I walked I pondered ways I might move away from that kind of mindset. I also felt very, very grateful for the many people who have helped to get me--and us--so far. And not only in the cancer season! Even Saturday morning I was receiving email messages full of words of celebration, commiseration, and encouragement. We do not walk alone.

Our first day's hike was a new-to-us trail down in Carpinteria. We got our legs under us pretty quickly and followed the Franklin Trail 5.25 miles into the backcountry. This trail whispered to me of those who had gone before (it was the early way into the backcountry before the San Marcos Pass was created). 

I just know there's a story behind this ford of a dry creek!

Unlike our usual singletrack hiking, there was a road for some of this hike, which was a treat. I always lead our hikes, but it was really nice to walk next to J instead. The exception to the usual rule on this hike was when we came across some very active (and very many) bees right in/on the road. We had passed a wild hive or two already (which reminded me of the bear warning sign) but they had been farther off the trail. Jesse led the way through the bees! I still don't know if I would have gotten up the guts to walk through them if I had been on my own.

No idea yet that the bees are up ahead somewhere

Up beyond, the views were beautiful, and I appreciated the different perspective on our same general coastline. 

On the way down we stopped and had a picnic in a little dell before retracing our steps to the trailhead. We reloaded with more water at the car, and then started walking down through Carpinteria to the coast. 

The turnaround point for us

We turned east once we hit the water and walked another couple of miles to a seal sanctuary. In the process, we found a new-to-us beach that we returned to with the kids the following day...we are trying to be very present with them on the days that we are home. They are being absolute champs, and I am relishing how we are moving into a season with older kids. We have a lot of fun.

We returned footsore, but having accomplished our goal of 16 miles. A neighbor had conspired with a our children to have a celebratory feast waiting for us on our return! It was such a gift. 

A gift of delicious food, yes, but also a gift to be known and welcomed home. So grateful for the beauty that's all around us and for the beautiful people who love us so well. 

Camino Day 1

Half Caminos and Irony

Last Saturday was our final #caminotraining of the season. As we headed up into the hills, Christina Rosetti's poem "Up-hill" ran through my head; the rhythm matching my footfalls. It consistently comes to mind at a certain point of the trail when the switchbacks stop and it settles into a long, relentless climb:

Up-hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

It's a pilgrimage poem short enough to remember and deep enough to encompass both my actual physical hiking and the metaphor for life and death that pilgrimage in general and hiking in particular have become for me.

We were supposed to fly to Spain today: one more coronavirus detour among the billions made by people everywhere. In spite of that particular disappointment we still wanted to celebrate the fifth anniversary (of me being alive? of us all making it through? of cancer held off? surely not the diagnosis itself) in a real and really embodied way. A pilgrimage seemed right, and still does. Instead of the full Camino Primitivo in Spain we are walking a half-camino here in the Santa Barbara area. Over the course of the time we would have been walking in Spain, we hope to walk every other day matching the mileage of that particular day on the camino. We plan for 8 days of walking and just over 100 miles. Some days will be hiking through the glorious mountains behind us, and other days we'll walk the coast: we will have walked most of the coast between Carpinteria and the Ellwood butterfly preserve by the time we are done. 

It will be a very different pilgrimage from what I had planned. We'll be doing the physical labor, yes, but will still be very much tied to the domestic and mundane--all of it while hoping for some sort of space for deep reflection and transformation. Oh the irony! When I teach my course on Christian pilgrimage, I often find myself encouraging students who are embarking on their own pilgrimages (and worrying that God won't show up in a meaningful way): "He's already there!...but we are not guaranteed mountaintop spiritual experiences." I'm grateful for how often I have already plowed that row of thinking. Being tied to the responsibilities of laundry and feeding people and tidying up feels far-off from a mountaintop-like divergence from the routine. We will be coming home every day, and of course spending the days in between at home with the children. 

Adding to the irony is that this season falls after 18 months during which I have felt the call to stay put and tend rather than build, to try to follow-through rather than envision fresh pursuits. I really enjoy coming up with new plans and how to go after them: but am not as excited about the (sometimes quite boring) day-to-day faithfulness required to see those very things through. So it is hard to contemplate the pilgrimage with all of the work and exhaustion of 16-mile days in the hills without many of the perks: the thousand-year-old churches, Spanish food and drink, and time with J away from the daily round. Hard, and also just right.

Christian pilgrims through at least the last 15 centuries have gone on pilgrimage for a variety of reasons: devotion and repentance, but also but also a longing for adventure and a break from limiting circumstances. So I find myself in good company.

As I reflected on all of these things during our hike last Saturday, I was put in mind of a poem by Eavan Boland (it was obviously poetry day on the trail):

The Necessity for Irony

On Sundays,
when the rain held off,
after lunch or later,
I would go with my twelve year old
daughter into town,
and put down the time
at junk sales, antique fairs.

There I would
lean over tables,
absorbed by
lace, wooden frames,
glass. My daughter stood
at the other end of the room,
her flame-coloured hair
obvious whenever—
which was not often—

I turned around.
I turned around.
She was gone.
Grown. No longer ready
to come with me, whenever
a dry Sunday
held out its promises
of small histories. Endings.

When I was young
I studied styles: their use
and origin. Which age
was known for which
ornament: and was always drawn
to a lyric speech, a civil tone.
But never thought
I would have the need,
as I do now, for a darker one:

Spirit of irony,
my caustic author
of the past, of memory,—

and of its pain, which returns
hurts, stings—reproach me now,
remind me
that I was in those rooms,
with my child,
with my back turned to her,
searching—oh irony!—
for beautiful things.

On this particular hike I especially meditated on the end. Here I am in beautiful Santa Barbara county. Here is an opportunity to turn around, and look. Accordingly, I think one of my "words" for this pilgrimage is a confirmation not to despise the everyday tending of life.  I have in fact been given the opportunity to walk my pilgrimage right here in the very midst of it, and starting as I have taught that pilgrimages always begin--right at my own front door.

We start walking on Saturday! 16 miles in the mountains above and coastline below Carpinteria. 👣 

H/T to TK for pointing me to EB ♡

Tour of the Routines

Calendars! Routines! Liturgies! I love them all, love marking time, love thinking about how the ways we choose to shape our time shapes us, in turn, as well. I also thought I'd take you on a tour of some of my routines; so many of you are far away. 

Now that we are five years out, I have a pretty well-established liturgy for this time of year and thought I would share it. It steadies me to know there are certain markers and rituals to look forward to in a season that by nature is one of uncertainty.  

Looking forward to the familiar can help even if it is unpleasant, as with my CT prep by Barium smoothie. I know I'm going to feel really sick as a result of taking this stuff, but I also know I'll get better soon.

                                        

not my favorite flavor

I also know what I'm going to wear to the CT in order to streamline the process (no metal anywhere means no gowns!) and that there will be no milk in my tea. I know that it will probably be Luis or Christine starting my IV, and we will chat, and it will be quick. The liturgy this time was only disrupted by us all being masked. It's hard to feel like a human instead of a specimen in the midst of these scans, but happily in these contexts everyone is pretty practiced at working against that and so the masks didn't make as much of a difference as they do, say, out in public. I was definitely seen (inside and out..haha). 

The more extensive routines come with my testing appointments down in Los Angeles. There's the prepping of the car (thank you, J) and the packing of the lunch (or dinner) in my little cooler. The night before, I pack my bag for the waiting room:

some of my favorite things (detail)

The mask is new. The dark chocolate is a must. The iPad is not pictured.

The visit itself if well-choreographed and extremely familiar; I literally have lost count of the number of MRIs I have had. A dozen visits? 20 scans? However, with COVID, even the familiar landscape has changed: instead of the bustling "city" Cedars-Sinai usually is,  it was a ghost town. Me and a security guard on the street.

Instead of my usual MRI kit, there was an extra addition:

special mask with no metal on the nose ✔

I also have my routines in the car. Usually it's NPR on the way down, reminding me that while I may feel in a tough spot I am part of a wider world with wider problems. On good trips I pray about them. On worse trips I can be sad or angry. This time I listened to some news but also made a lot of space for quiet. 

During the scan I always listen to the Hamilton soundtrack (through headphones and earplugs). Once, early on,  I requested Chopin as my MRI soundtrack with the idea that it would be soothing. As it turns out, the "Chopin Channel" that was piped in played the same famous nocturne about every third piece. Back then I had two MRIs back-to-back--about 90 minutes straight in the machine. The repeating Chopin made me unable to tell how much time had passed and I felt a little crazy. Hamilton plays through in order, and since I am familiar with the show I can know whether I have drifted off to sleep and exactly how long it has been. My two back-to-back scans lasted almost exactly the length of the first act! Hamilton also debuted on Broadway at basically the same time my cancer returned, so it's a marker of an era. 

**I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge how amazing it is that they provide headphones and music during the MRI, and that they even take requests. Thank you, Cedars-Sinai. As an amateur connoisseur of MRI machines across the country I do not take this for granted**

On the drive home, it's often Taylor Swift on repeat:  

Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet? Are we in the clear yet?
Are we in the clear yet? In the clear yet, good

Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet? Are we in the clear yet?
Are we in the clear yet? In the clear yet, good

This time, as I was driving home and singing those questions over and over, I had a moment where I wondered what exactly asking those questions over and over to myself might be doing.  I knew there wasn't an answer like I was looking for; I've been told that I won't get a permanent "in the clear now, good" answer at any time. Which is true for all of us, in one way or another, if those are the kinds of questions we are asking.

I decided to try switching out those questions for other ones that come with answers, and put this album in around the halfway mark to see me home: 

The whole of nature groans with longing
We ache for that promised glory
Still we rejoice because we know
plans formed of old, faithful and sure

The whole of nature groans with longing
We wait for that promised glory
Still we rejoice because we know
that sorrow’s end is coming

He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces
He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces
We’ll sing this is our God we’ve waited for
and he saved us
He will swallow up death
and wipe the tears from our faces

Here in the darkness of our mourning
We wait for the Light that’s coming
And on that day we will return
with joy and gladness singing

Behold, your God
He will come and save you

(also 2015. What a year).

I opened up the sunroof and was amused that the view was basically the same as during all of my scans (you know, the special ceiling tiles they have).

complete with Nutmeg's handprints from a recent "parade"

Besides the change in the homecoming soundtrack, I've made one other significant deviation from the usual routine. 

Ever since I was caught completely off-guard with the metastatic diagnosis, I have not waited to again get surprised by news in a doctor's office. I come home from the CT scan and we immediately fax in a request for the imaging and report, in two sets: one mailed to my oncologist in LA and the other for patient pick-up. Sometime between 48-72 hours later I drive out to Patterson Avenue and retrieve a small manila envelope. I walk to the car and sit inside. I pull out the report, folded around a disc of images that I cannot access, and then read the report which will tell me whether the cancer has returned to my lungs. If the kids are with me, I wait and read it after I get home--still in the car, but in the driveway.  

We are trying to follow the stay-at-home guidelines. I know this particular routine is not essential. I have only requested the records sent to LA this time. It makes me very uncomfortable to wait, but I also hope that the practice in waiting and the space provided will leave room for other questions and hoping. 

That change is definitely the most difficult part of my liturgies this time around.

As we prepare to do a lot of walking that is not routine, I hope we have time to consider which routines we keep and which need to be traded for something new.

PS: I heard back on 6/2 that my MRI on 5/30 was clear: my leg looks good. I'll share here when I hear about my CT scan. ♡ Oh goodness, at the telephone follow-ups instead of in-person appointments this time around.