From "The Art of Pilgrimage"

"The pilgrim is a poetic traveler, one who believes that there is poetry on the road, at the heart of everything. Soulful travel is the art of finding beauty even in ruins, even in inclement weather, even in foul moods. Like poetry, pilgrimage is beyond time and space. It happens now or it doesn't happen at all."

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"To hear the pounding on the door, we have to remember to pay attention to what we have lost and what is calling for us. Not a day goes by when the world doesn't cry out for us, signal us with signs and sounds, calling us home. Listening closely is nearly a lost art, but a retrievable one. The soul thrives on it.

Words heard by chance have been known to change lives."

Woolgathering

Winter's sticking around. Flurries outside, daily. Our parking lot slowly taken over by snowpiles which gradually metamorphose to ice piles. I'm comforted by worse temperatures in North Dakota in two ways: 1. That it could be worse here and, 2. Memories of my time in the bitter cold. I'm getting hardier, and this year I actually felt happy when the temperature dropped again with the thought of my cross country skies in the garage, waiting for another woosh-wooshhh in the snow.

 

And yet, last night I spent the evening flipping through all my old Runner's Worlds, wanting to train for another marathon. I told myself no. Only a half, or a 10k. I pondered races, locations and timing, since I'm drawing to a end here in nine months. There's something about running- it's never going to disappear from my life. This time there was a 1-2 month hiatus. I always go back to it. For fifteen years now.

 

I wonder where I'll be next year at this time. It's an unknown, but something that pops into my head often as I look at the Christmas lights, and the snow. Christmas abroad again doesn't bring sadness or loneliness, but maybe I've trained myself too good in the art of independence.

Little Bird: A Sad Story

Oh no. I open my window shade and there's something I don't recognise on the windowill. A little dead bird. Yellowish markings. How did it get there? What happened? I can't look at the little thing. All his friends are up in the tree, flying among the falling snow. And he's dead. How am I going to get him off my windowsill? Maybe I'll ask Ernst. No that's really pathetic. Maybe if I take a picture of him, it will be okay and then I'll be able to move him. I can't look at him. I leave and make coffee in the kitchen. Grinding beans. Boiling water. Sitting in my chair, looking out the window. I concoct various schemes for the dead bird removal.

The next day, I sneak up early in the morning and take photos and plan how to move the bird. It still bothers me. But I am going to do it.

After four days of bird removal contemplation, I get the bird off my windowsill into a paperbag and move him to the trash. Even though that seems mean. I only screamed twice. When he was stuck under the windowshade and one other time. My mom told me I could not fling him off the patio, in case he exploded and created more of a mess. That would be mean too. I guess. Anyway, he is gone now, to bird heaven.



Birds and ducks in Amsterdam:
They were skidding into landings, slipping around on the ice-- and flying about. I watched a long time, their beauty.

What happens in winter in Germany

Fun Story:
You head for the Amsterdam airport at about 4pm to catch your 7pm flight, even though it's a bit early. Oh well. Once at the airport, you wait. The plane leaves late for München, where you have the connecting flight to Nürnberg. You wonder if you'll make the connection but tell yourself worrying does no good. You booked your flight to Nürnberg because it's approx 40 minute drive to your house, or one hour, depending.

You're know you're going to be quite late, and you may have missed your connection, but the pilot announces that finally you've been cleared for landing in München. The planes starts its descent. You see lights. You are happy.

The lights disappear. You wonder what is happening. A while later, the pilot announces, "München has closed its two runways. They're too slippery. The air traffic controllers have found another airport to land in, one that is nearby and at least it is in Germany." Scheiß, you think. You know it's bad when the pilot thinks it's great that they managed to land the plane in the correct country. Only in Europe...

Three and a half hours after the flight left, you land in Stuttgart. The flight was supposed to be 70 minutes. The pilot announces, "No one wanted this and we are very sorry, but we have safely landed in Stuttgart."

Photo Documentation of the Fun Experience:
The line at the airport to reschedule. Approx 30 minutes per person and TWO Lufthansa employees assisting everyone. Fortunately you were at the front of the line and already knew a train was your best option.

Stuttgart. From the Movenpick hotel. Isn't it beautiful?

Your look of wonderment at your unplanned visit to Stuttgart Airport.

The happy welcome ducky. It makes you happy.

The Stuttgart Train station.

You got up at 4:45AM after going to bed at 1AM, but you are still happy. No one will stop this smile.


Finally you arrive at your car. You are so happy.

You fall before you even get to your car. Here is your look of shock. You are not smiling anymore. You think this winter shit which showed up while you were on holiday might not be as fun as it looks.

Damn snow.

Driving home. It takes 2 hours. You just focus on keeping your 4 pound car on the road. Telling yourself that you know how to drive in this white shit. And you will get to work. Safely.

Just outside of post, right where you live. Where the roads are smaller.

You finally get to work at 10AM. 18 hours after you left for the airport in Amsterdam. Two hours after you arrive at work, they close the post and you go home. What a journey. You think it is going to be a long winter. And it's only just begun.

On opinions and myths

"For the great enemy of truth is very often not the lie-- deliberate, contrived and dishonest-- but the myth-- persistent, persuasive, and unrealistic. Too often we hold fast to the cliches of our forebears. We subject all facts to a prefabricated set of interpretations. We enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought" – John F. Kennedy