Travel

Home just over a week now, I'm thinking a lot about the places I've been and what these experiences over the past five months have meant -- and will mean -- to me, and to the way I live my life and practice my ministry. St. Augustine is reported to have said, "The world is a book. Those who don't travel read only one page." (I can't find the reference, but it's all over the web so it must be true. HA!) It sounds good anyway. And that's the way I've tried to live: I want to read the whole book. And in fact, there's something about the experiential nature of travel for those who are fortunate enough to be able to do it that adds yet another dimension than reading alone can do. If reading engages the imagination and the intellect at a deeper level, travel can actually add muscle memory to it.

Before I left on my sabbatical, Courtney Davis Shoemaker gave me a poem called "For the Traveler" which upon reading it again now that I'm home feels so perfect. Here it is:

For the Traveler

Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.

~ John O'Donohue ~


(To Bless the Space Between Us)

Earth, Sea, and Sky

As some of you who are following this blog realize, I haven't been keeping up very well with blogging my recent travel adventures. It has all been a little overwhelming, frankly. Last week I was bicycling through Danish farm country. Three days ago I was kayaking in the fjords of Norway. Two days ago I flew from Bergen, Norway, to Manchester, England, via Copenhagen, and then drove up through the exquisitely beautiful Lakes District to spend a night in the quaint English countryside south of Keswick. Yesterday, I drove from there, up through Glasgow, and on to Oban, Scotland -- another absolutely beautiful drive. I spent the night in Oban at a backpackers' hostel, and got up this morning to catch a ferry to the Isle of Mull, then take a bus across the isle to Fionnphort, and then catch another ferry over to Iona. That's where I am now.



A couple of nights ago I counted something like forty different beds that I have slept in since my sabbatical began in March. There have been some incredible experiences, and I'm going to try to capture as much of it as I can during this last leg of my journey. I'll be going from here to North Wales where I'll spend two weeks at St. Deiniol's residential library. I hope to do some serious reflection and writing, trying to pull all of it together in some meaningful way.



But for now, I'll just share a few images with you. I've been thinking about how much of my journey on this sabbatical has involved oceans. We started out on the Gulf of Mexico in Naples, Florida. From there it was on to a rural seaside home on the Izu Peninsula in Japan -- on the western side of the Pacific. Then George and I did our bike trip down the North American Pacific Coast. From there I was home for two weeks, with some time on Peaks Island, Maine. Then Carolyn and I flew across the Atlantic and down to South Africa, where we went to the very southern tip of continent of Africa -- right about where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. Then it was on to Scandinavia and the Baltic Sea, first on an island in southern Denmark, with visits to other islands in the Baltic. I sailed overnight to Oslo, Norway, on the North Sea, then traveled across the country by train to Bergen, where I spent two days, one of them kayaking in the fjords, just inland from the North Atlantic. And now, I'm on the west coast of Scotland, on the Isle of Iona, back on the Atlantic.



In all of those places, I have noticed how amazing the interplay of the earth, sea, and sky have been. Endlessly fascinating. I've been very fortunate to have really good weather virtually everywhere -- even the places where I was told it would be cold or rainy. The only exception has been the coast of Oregon, but we had some beautiful days there, too. It was two days ago when I was driving to the Lakes District in England that I noticed how many and varied colors there can be in the earth and sky. As I was driving along on a partly cloudy Sunday afternoon, there were about ten shades of blue, gray and white in the sky, and at least as many shades of green and brown and heather in the hills -- hillsides perfectly sculpted by ancient stone walls that everywhere mark the grazing lands for the sheep and cattle. It was striking and beautiful. And then, when you multiply the effect of being in the places where you see not only the earth and the sky, but the sea as well, with all its many colors and moods, it often leaves me speechless.



I've put together a very brief photo journal of just a few images from these places -- all of them (except one) involving earth, sea, and sky. I offer it simply as a meditation on the beauty and mystery and grandeur of creation -- a visual articulation of beauty that is truly beyond words. There's something about being here on Iona -- where St. Columba founded his monastery in the 6th century, and where so many of the early Celtic Christians were nurtured in a spirituality that was much closer to the earth than later versions of Christianity that had more to do with empire and power -- something about it that makes me want to pay so much more attention to the earth and to all of creation and what it has to teach us. One of the ancient standing crosses here at the Abbey just next to the St. Columba's Hotel where I'm staying marks the spot where the monks would have gathered for worship -- outdoors. It was the only space they needed -- a cathedral made of earth, sea, and sky.

I can certainly say that I have felt my own heart opened more fully to God through the beauty of creation, not only here, but in all that I have been experiencing in these past months. The pictures hardly do it justice, but I hope you'll enjoy them anyway.


[Hint: If you'd like to see fuller sized versions of the pictures in the little scrolling slideshow at the top of this post, just click on the link in the bottom left corner of it and it will take you to the Picassa website where the photos are located in their original size. Once you get there, click on the "full screen" slideshow. ]

Finding Joy in Burundi

I might have left the impression in my last post that Burundi is a joyless place – because it ranked last among the world’s countries on the “happiness” index. I know a lot of people who would take offense, for a variety of reasons, with this assessment. I’m actually one of them. It’s true that based on the criteria used in the study out of Leicester University I referred to, people in Burundi have a lot of reasons not to be happy: high mortality rate, short life expectancy, lack of educational opportunities – not to speak of the poverty and violence that are normal parts of life for most Burundians.

There are some other things about Burundi (and countries like it) that would challenge these criteria, however. I’ve attached a slideshow of smiling faces in Burundi to prove the point. (Thanks to my friend, Fuzz Kitto, for allowing me to filch some of his photos – all of the really good ones you see here.) People really do find reasons to be happy even in the worst of circumstances, and this is important to remember. And, of course, it’s equally true that not all people who have all the things named in the criteria for happiness are happy people. Duh.

Rather than writing a sermon here, I want to share the recent newsletter of Jodi Mikalachki from Burundi. But first, I have to tell you a little about Jodi for those of you who don’t know her. I first met her a year ago this past April in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the home of Steve Bonsey, a mutual friend. Jodi was a parishioner at St. James’ Episcopal Church in Cambridge where she had met Steve a number of years ago. Steve, Jodi, and I were preparing to go to the Amahoro Gathering in Rwanda. But Jodi was also preparing to leave before that for Burundi, where she had just signed on to work for the Mennonite Central Committee at a rural school among the Batwa people. Now Jodi is not your typical missionary teacher. She was a tenured English professor at Wellesley College for many years, but has now given up her position (and her tenure) to teach the poorest of the poor in what some consider to be the unhappiest little country in the world. Jodi writes the most incredible newsletters from the ground there. I want to share what she wrote just two weeks ago, with her permission. I think you’ll see her joy – mixed with a lot of sadness – in the experiences she describes. The woman in the last picture you see is Jodi.

Dear Family and Friends,
It's been great to hear from many of you over the last few weeks. We're about to start exams at the Hope Secondary School. Please do hold our students in your hearts. They've worked so hard and sacrificed so much this year, and for some of them, it's going to be a very close shave if they pass their year.

I have another story I'd like to share with you. I love the stories you send me, too, whether it's an exceptional period such as a sabbatical, or the hopes, concerns, longings, and joys of everyday life. It helps me feel connected to you, and to the part of the world that has shaped me.

Love, Jodi

Story: Weddings Bells in Mutaho
Two Saturdays ago, I attended the weddings of at least 75 Batwa couples in Mutaho. There's a movement afoot to formalize Batwa marriages, which have had neither the legal status of papers signed at the municipal office, nor the cultural status of a "dotte" (bride price) paid by one family to another. Formalizing marriages is a good thing in many ways: it helps Burundi develop its social security network by identifying couples and families; it contributes to the restabilizing of domestic and national life after the civil war; and it gives women and children some leverage when a husband or father does not fulfill his responsibilities. So I've been excited and happy for my night guards and their wives (and children) as they've gone through the many stages of this process over the last few months. When they invited me to the legal ceremony in Mutaho, I accepted with joy, as I did their request that I buy their wives imvutanos (ceremonial dress) for the occasion.

There is however, a downside to this movement. Numerous Batwa men (like many of their counterparts in other cultures) walk out on wives and children to start new families with younger women. One of the leaders of the Batwa community in Nyangungu left his first wife, Kejuru, the mother of his nine children, to marry a younger woman. He has since provided no support to Kejuru or his children with her. When Kejuru wanted to remarry herself, he told her he would kill her if she did. So she's remained a single mother, raising her large family (two of whom have died) on the little she can scrape together herself. She's an intelligent, graceful woman who still commands respect in her community, despite having been abandoned.

The eldest son of the second wife is now fifteen, and one of the brightest students in our 7th Grade. He has a great sense of humor, and I really enjoy talking with him when he comes by my house from time to time. When I first heard that his parents were preparing to formalize their marriage, I was really happy for him. Although I knew Kejuru was his father's first wife, I thought of it more in terms of a western divorce—unfortunate for her, but nothing to stop his father from making good on his second marriage. That was before I heard several Batwa women bellowing at the father all the way across our long schoolyard. They were outraged that he could think of formalizing his second marriage while his first wife was still alive. Kejuru and the leaders of our organization tried in several ways to stop him, but he remained determined to marry his second wife formally.

So I set out this morning with some mixed feelings—happy for Lazare and Luminata, for Joël and Luce, and even for my student, but very unhappy for Kejuru and other women who might be in her position. My night guards had arranged a motorcycle ride for me, which I underwent in my imvutano, clinging (against all cultural norms) to the drivers' shoulders as we wound our way through the hills on rutted roads. We arrived in Mutaho to find a crowd of brightly dressed women, many with nursing babies, and somberly clad men waiting outside the municipal offices for the ceremony to start. As I began to greet the women, I noticed Kejuru among them, dressed as finely as anyone, and hugged her along with the others.

About two hours after the stated time, a municipal administrator arrived and started calling couples into the hall, two at a time. I stood by the door to watch them come in, recognizing many from Nyangungu. I was moved to see many of the older people I shake hands with on the road coming forward after however many decades of marriage, children and grandchildren to formalize their unions. There were others who looked to be no more than teenagers. Every woman under forty had a baby on her back or at her breast.

One of the Batwa elders was seating them on benches—three couples to a bench made for four people. When half the benches were taken without making much of a dent in the crowd, there was a pause while two men went off and returned with one additional bench. Seating resumed until all the benches were full, leaving at least as many outside as in. There was another pause while the same two men went off and came back with one more additional bench. That was immediately filled, and from then on, it was standing room only.

After more waiting, something official seemed to be starting. When I saw Joël and Luce step forward, I went to stand with them, assuming they were being married, and wanting to show my support. The municipal official, a tall slender middle-aged woman who could be a model, smiled at me and began a long conversation with the Mutwa elder sponsoring the couple. Finally, she motioned me to sit in a chair at her side and explained that I could not be the bride's maid of honor because I wasn't a Burundian citizen. I apologized, explaining that I had naïvely joined them simply to offer my support.

While I was sitting there, a middle-class Burundian man walked up and spoke vigorously to the official. She turned back a page in her book and scratched out a pair of names with a flourish. Then pandemonium broke out. The middle-class man had come to stop one of the marriages from proceeding because the husband was legally married to another woman. Much shouting went up from other men, and finally a Mutwa elder brought calm. He asked a question, and I heard the crowd answer, "Nta numwe"—None! I realized he was asking if there were any other men in the same situation. The moment the crowd answered, "Nta numwe," the matrons of Nyangungu rose in a body to say there was indeed another man whose first wife was still living. Kejuru approached the official and I presume made her case. Because her union with the father of her nine children was not a legal marriage, however, she was powerless to stop him from formalizing his second marriage. [My colleague Béatrice has since informed me that in Batwa culture Kejuru's marriage was and is legal. Her husband's own sister, now quite elderly, walked from another province to try to stop her brother's remarriage. She slept that night in Kejuru's house.]

About an hour later after the uproar was quieted, the municipal secretary arrived, wearing something like a graduation gown in red, green and white, and an engineer's cap in the same colors with streamers of red, green and white hanging down the back. He put a deacon's stole in the same colors on the other official, and they started calling couples to the front. In a voice that all could hear, he asked each person if they were willing to take the other as their sole man/woman. After they affirmed that they were, the woman official grabbed their hands, stuck their thumbs on an ink pad, and then on a page in her register.

I thought this was a bit of a shame, especially for the women who'd made such an effort to dress so beautifully. Although it is the case that most Batwa old enough to marry don't have much formal education, many have recently taken adult literacy classes and can at least sign their names. (My night guards, for instance, sign every month for their salaries.) But no-one seemed to mind.
I was sitting next to representatives of two NGOs working with Batwa. They had come with boxes of soap and airmail envelopes, each of which held 1000 francs (700 francs is a day-laborer's wage). After being thumb-printed and applauded, each man and woman received a bar of soap and 1000 francs "to encourage them," as the lovely young Burundian woman working for a German NGO explained to me. She asked me to hand out envelopes so she would be free to take pictures. I shook hands with each couple, saying "Muragira ngeni," the appropriate form of "congratulations" for weddings. After a while, I saw that the back of one of my hands was blue with ink from the stamp pad. "I'm married, too" I announced to much laughter.

After a while, the municipal secretary asked couples to come up in groups of ten to save time. That's when the whole thing took on the air of the Moonies for me. But I kept handing out envelopes and saying "Muragira ngeni." When Kejuru's husband, whom I know fairly well, came towards me beaming, I handed him his envelope with a smile only. ("Muragira ngeni" literally means, "You're making a bride.")

As things were winding down and the young woman from the German NGO was preparing to leave, I asked her if I could have two bars of soap for Kejuru, whose situation I had already explained to her. "Yes, indeed," she said. I put them under the folds of my imvutano and carried them across to Kejuru. Later, when beers and soft drinks were being passed out to the couples, I took her a Coke. The following Monday, I sent her two thousand francs with Hélène, who is a good friend of hers.
Once the beers came out (also, I presume, "to encourage them"), things started getting a little out-of-hand. Lazare made his way through the crowd to say it was time to leave. I worked my out after him and waited for my motorcycle driver, who took me safely and slowly home in the cool evening wind that heralds the advent of the dry season. About halfway there, he gestured out over the lush valley and forested hills to our right. "Abantu benshi barapfuye hariya," he said—many people died over there. Since he had showed me moments before where his father and brother had land, I asked him whether he had lost any family during the civil war. "Ego," he said emphatically—yes. "Ntakundi," I answered—I'm sorry. "Were they killed by other people from this area, or by soldiers?" "Ego," he said again. I guess there was plenty of killing to go around—civilians killing civilians with clubs and machetes, and soldiers killing civilians with guns and grenades. Nothing could look more pastoral now than that valley and the hills on the other side.

Along our way we passed Joël and Luce, Lazare and Luminata, and many other couples on bicycles, the husbands pedaling, and their newly legal wives sitting side saddle on the back in their bright clothes, holding their babies. We all waved to each other and called out greetings. Everyone looked very happy. [end quote]

Happiness, indeed.

The Happiest Place on Earth

About a year ago I had just returned from a month in Africa when I read a story on the BBC website about a British social psychologist who had created a "world map of happiness." The author had studied the subjective sense of well-being in people all over the world to determine "the happiest place on earth." Countries are rank ordered from highest to lowest.

I had just come from the country at the bottom of the list: Burundi.

And I was just beginning to write a proposal to the Lilly Endowment for my sabbatical, which I was focusing around the theme of joy. So, I took note of this study. And I was especially interested in the fact that the country at the top of the happiness list was... Denmark. I had been to Denmark a couple of times. In fact, I have friends in Denmark. I even have a "Danish brother" -- Michael Balmer (formerly Michael Knudsen) who lived with us for a year as an exchange student when I was in high school. We've stayed in touch these past 38 years and visited in each others' homes from time to time.

So, I thought it would be a great idea to visit Michael and his wife, Aase (pronounced Oh-sa), during my sabbatical, and just see what it was about Denmark that made it "the happiest place on earth."



The BBC article contained some initial analysis of this auspicious designation. "A nation's level of happiness was most closely associated with health levels. Prosperity and education were the next strongest determinants of national happiness." The author suggested that "...there is increasing political interest in using measures of happiness as a national indicator in conjunction with measures of wealth..." suggesting that we might do better to work toward increasing our happiness levels rather than simply our level of wealth, since wealth does not necessarily determine happiness.

Anyway, partly to make a convincing case for my grant proposal, and partly out of sheer self-interest in seeing friends in Denmark, I decided to make the happiest place on earth one of my sabbatical destinations. And I decided to try to pay particular attention to what I was seeing and hearing from people here.

Here are just a few observations:

1) People indeed seem very healthy. Why? Perhaps because they have universal health care. I didn't say free. They pay for it -- with their taxes, not private insurance. And the people I have asked seem very happy with the national health care system. There are things you have to wait for, and some wealthier people supplement their health care coverage with private insurance, too. But everyone has basic health care, and it's very high quality. No one is worried about losing their health insurance. No one has to be concerned about insurability because of a pre-existing condition. Everyone, whether a corporate CEO, government employee, self-employed or unemployed, gets the same health coverage. This takes a lot of the anxiety out of life for the Danes.

2) Education is free -- including university and graduate school. In fact, even high school students, from the time they are eighteen years old, get a monthly stipend from the government for being in school. The stipend amounts to about $1000 a month for university students, meaning they don't have to worry about going into debt for education. If you happen to have children while you're a student, you get an additional allowance, and free child care. Danish society has determined that an educated population is a high priority.

3) There is less inequality in Denmark than in many countries. Some people call this socialism. The Danes don't seem to care what it is called. Relative equality is achieved, at least partially, through taxation. The lowest income tax rate is 30% and the highest is 63%. The average is 47%. No one that I've talked to seems to mind. They all, including those in the top bracket I've spoken to, seem to think they get a pretty good deal for what they pay.

One of the interesting possibilities for the relationship of this equalizing factor to the happiness index could be this: if you know you are going to pay a lot more in taxes if you have a high paying job, there might be a greater incentive to choose your profession not on the basis of how much money you will make, but on the basis of what you really enjoy doing. Now there's a thought! Could it have something to do with overall happiness??? And by the same token, if there is a very strong social safety network, and no one really falls through the cracks even if they have a lower paying job -- and you just happen to like doing something like caring for children -- you don't have a disincentive for doing what you really love to do, and you still make a reasonable living. Speaking of which, the minimum wage in Denmark is roughly $20 an hour. Even the fast food worker or school janitor or day care center worker makes this amount. The minimum wage is actually a living wage -- even after the 30% income tax. Two parents each making minimum wage can support a family of four in relative comfort and security.

Our obsession in the US and many other countries with wealth just might be misplaced -- surprise, surprise. I like the idea of measuring happiness instead of (or in addition to) wealth; and it seems clear to me that the two really are not necessarily linked. I know that from my experience in Denmark, and my experience in Burundi as well. I think Jesus even had something to say about it.

One final observation. When Michael and I were out on a bike ride around town a couple of days ago, he pointed out the home of the wealthiest man in town. Maribo is a town of about 5000 people. It was a nice home, but it was neither enormous nor ostentatious. I think Michael said he's worth about $100 million. Within about 100 yards, he started pointing out to me a neat little row of "poor people's cottages." These are not homes, but little one or two room "vacation houses" with garden plots around them that are available upon request to low income people as a place to get away to, plant a garden, and experience some peace away from the cares of life at home. The idea seemed amazing in itself. But the fact that it was only yards away from the wealthiest person in town was astounding. No "nimby" factor here. Everyone from the poorest Somali immigrant (of which there are quite a few in town) to the folks in the 63% bracket have the chance at living with dignity and security.

I shouldn't make it sound like there are no problems here, social or economic or otherwise. Yes, politicians and citizens still debate the tax code and the level of services that people should get. But I do think there are some broad, general indicators here that the rest of us could learn from as we face the ongoing challenges in the US and the rest of the world.

Oh yes, and you might be interested in where the US stands in this happiness study. Not too bad, actually. Out of 178 countries studied, the USA ranks 23rd. The UK is 41st and Japan is 90th. That one was a surprise to me.

And now, off for another bicycle ride -- on Denmark's flat-as-a-pancake countryside. No grueling northern California hills to climb. Another reason for happiness!!

A few pictures from the safari

We continue to have slow connections to the internet, so uploading pictures is hard. I've reduced the size of a few here just to give some of the highlights of our three day stay in the Pilanesberg National Game Park. Carolyn was able to get some to load to her Facebook, so check them out there, too, if you're on Facebook with her.
Pilanesberg is one of the smaller game parks in South Africa, but it has a lot of wildlife, including all of the so-called "big five" -- lion, leopard, buffalo, rhinoceros (both white and black), and African elephant. We saw them all (actually saw cheetah, not leopard). Our good friend John de Beer, who is from South Africa, got the recommendation for us from a school friend of his, and it turned out to be a great choice of parks -- neither as big nor as far away as the more famous Kruger. It was only a two hour drive from Johannesburg (driving at 140 km/hr like everyone around here seems to do). We stayed in the park in a small chalet with some mischievous vervet monkeys running around, sitting on our wall, and running across the rooftop at night. We were able to drive through the game park on our own for as much time as we liked during our stay. We did early morning drives, afternoon and evening ones, too. We went on a three-hour night ride with a tour guide to see all the interesting nocturnal activity.
We enjoyed the scenery nearly as much as the wildlife. Pilanesberg sits in the crater of an ancient volcano that formed the geology of this area 1.3 billion years ago. It sits a few hundred feet above the plain surrounding it. It is a mixed environment including desert-like areas similar to the nearby Kalahari Desert, as well as more lush areas. Sitting on this kind of boundary enables the park to be a home to many different species within a relatively small area.
The safari experience was a nice way to round out our South African adventure, and to experience some of the beauty and wonder of creation in this part of the world. We have returned now to Johannesburg for our final two nights. We got up this morning and drove into the center of Johannesburg to attend the 9:30 High Mass at St. Mary the Virgin Anglican Cathedral. It was a wonderful and welcoming experience. We definitely stood out in the crowd, but people could not have been more friendly. All the visitors were asked to introduce themselves during the service, which we did, and lots of people made their way to us to welcome us and speak with us after the service. Several people warned us about the possibility of getting mugged outside the Cathedral, so we were careful leaving and driving through the somewhat chaotic urban neighborhood in which the cathedral sits. We drove from there to the suburban area north and east of downtown, the neighborhood where Nelson Mandela now lives. It's a rather posh area of the city with walls around all the houses. The security business is booming in Johannesburg with alarm company signs at every gated house, and guards
standing at the ends of driveways. We found a shopping mall with a lovely restaurant where Carolyn took me for Father's Day lunch, followed by an Argentinian film, Café de los Maestros, and then a stroll through an open air bazaar with every manner of African handmade crafts. All in all, a good day in Johannesburg.
Tomorrow we leave South Africa. We fly to London together. Carolyn will head home to Boston from there, and I'll continue on to Denmark, where I'll be visiting my Danish exchange brother, Michael Balmer, and his family.

Safari

It's going to be hard to do this one justice with words, so I'm going to let the pictures do the talking. We've just finished a three-day safari at the Pilanesberg National Park in North West Province, not too far from the border with Botswana. It was an amazing experience. We saw all of the "Big Five" game -- the lion, African elephant, Cape Buffalo, the cheetah, and rhinoceros -- and hundreds of other species.



The highlight had to be this morning, when before breakfast, we took an early morning swing through a corner of the park where we had seen lots of animals before. Until now we hadn't gotten a good view of lions. Our only sighting so far was during a night ride with a tour guide. We had seen two young males just leaving the carcass of a hippo, but our view was limited. This morning made up for it all. Coming down a road we noticed a herd of giraffes on a hillside across a ravine from us. We noticed that they were all standing still with necks straining -- all in the same direction. Not far from them was a herd of wildebeest (or gnu), also facing all in one direction. Looking closely we saw four lions -- two female, two male -- walking in a line along the bottom of the hill about a quarter of a mile from us. We sat patiently, following them and watching as the giraffe and wildebeest nervously reacted to their presence. We backed the car back up the hill we had just come down to be able to keep them all in view. At one point the herd of wildebeest ran and scattered as the nervous giraffes, by now feeling somewhat safer themselves, looked on. We continued following the lions as the wildebeest kept moving away -- in our direction. Eventually the herd ended up right where we were sitting, the lions by now quite a ways behind them. But we knew the lions would keep coming in their direction, and as they did, we were able to watch the two pairs separate to try to outflank the wildebeest. We were sure we were going to see them get their breakfast from the herd.



That did not happen, but we did get to follow the lions -- only three of them by now, one of the females having left the group -- as they came right past us and the other cars who by now had also gathered in the area. We sat for about a half hour watching the three of them, sometimes no more than ten feet from our car. It was an unforgettable experience.

Youth Day -- June 16

At last week's Amahoro Gathering, many of us were taken aback by comments made by Trevor Ntlhola, a pastor from South Africa, during a session having to do with the role of money in the relationships between Africa and the West. Trevor is a pastor in Soweto, made famous by the Soweto Uprising on June 16, 1976 -- 33 years ago today. More about that later. But what Trevor said that caught our attention was this. "Don't send your money to South Africa. South Africa has plenty of money. We're 18th on the list of wealthy nations in the world."



It was surprising to hear this coming from a black South African pastor, in a country that has a lot of poverty and a lot of need. However, from the perspective of the rest of Africa, he was stating the obvious. South Africa is the wealthiest country on the continent. Immigrants stream into South Africa from the neighboring states and all across the continent. There are gleaming cities in South Africa and pockets of wealth that rival the seventeen wealthier countries of the world.



Carolyn and I have been struck by the incredible contradictions we see and have to face on a daily basis in this country. For the past two days we've been sitting in the lap of luxury, staying at the lovely Zandberg B&B and winery near Stellenbosch, about an hour outside of Cape Town. Stellenbosch is in the heart of South African wine country in the Western Cape province, which includes the city of Cape Town. Western Cape is the most "Western" (as in European) of the provinces, and the one province in South Africa that is not dominated by the ANC (African National Congress -- the party of Nelson Mandela and the current government). It is also historically the area most dominated by Afrikaner culture. It is the most conservative in its politics, and the wealthiest area of the country. It is also a exquisitely beautiful part of the country.



Following the Amahoro Gathering in the Johannesburg area, we flew to Cape Town where we spent two days with fellow Amahoro pilgrims, getting to know the city as we were led by two local Amahoro guides, Rene August and Marius Brand. They introduced us to this remarkable city, with all of its contradictions and complexity. We started with a visit to The Warehouse, a ministry of St. John's Parish, which includes six Anglican congregations who have partnered to reach out to the very poor in the Cape Town area. Their ministry includes providing food and clothing to local churches of all denominations for distribution to the poor, as well as spiritual guidance, facilitation and technical assistance to congregations wishing to develop ministries of justice and compassion at the local level. It is an impressive ministry led by a group of very committed, very intentional Christians with a lot of wisdom, compassion, and grace. We followed that up with a trip to top of Table Mountain, the stunning backdrop to this amazing city, 3500 feet straight up from the coast just below, to watch the sun set on a picture perfect partly cloudy day. Later that evening we were introduced to our host families where we would spend the next two nights in one of Cape Town's large townships -- Guguletu.



Guguletu is a huge area that most white South Africans have never seen. They just don't go there. It is an area of very modest housing, some of it run down and some of it well kept, but an area that under apartheid would only have been for blacks. And although anyone can now legally live there, it is hard to find anyone there who is not black. Our host was a lovely woman named Noxie. (The X is a click sound in the Xhosa language, and Noxie is actually a nickname for her surname, Noxolo. For us she pronounced it Nok-see since the click is very hard for non-Xhosa-speakers to pronounce.) She drove us to her beautifully kept but modest home, where we spent two nights in a detached bedroom behind her house in a neighborhood of houses that were substantially less desireable than hers. Some of them were shacks. They're all, including hers, on very small plots, side by side. If something is going on in the house next door, you hear it all. We fell in love with Noxie, and she was able after a day to share with us some of the real pain in her own life -- the death of her only child, an eighteen year old son, who was murdered in 2003. She told us how, as he lay on the hospital table dying, she was presented with the possibility of donating his organs, which she did. She gains comfort knowing that other people were enabled to live because of that decision. She hears from at least one of them, who stays in touch to express his deep gratitude. She also talked to us about what it was like to be in the crowd of hundreds of thousands of people who gathered to hear Nelson Mandela speak in downtown Cape Town after his release from prison, and to vote for the first time in her life after the fall of apartheid in 1994.



Guguletu is not the worst slum in Cape Town. There are massive shantytowns where virtually all of the housing is shacks made of corrugated tin or other semi-permanent materials. Some of them began as "informal settlements" when the people who moved there had been the victims of forced removals under the Group Areas Act of the apartheid government. Some have now been made "formal" settlements, the only change being that there are now utilities and addresses.



We began our second day in Cape Town with a visit to Mannenberg. This name also strikes terror into the hearts of many people here. Under apartheid it was a "colored" area -- that is, the mixed race, Afrikaans-speaking people who are descendents of Malaysian workers in South Africa. We met with Jonathan, a man who grew up in Mannenberg and now runs a ministry called Fusion that works with gangs and gang leaders. Eighty percent of all young people in Mannenberg belong to a gang. Jonathan walks the streets, befriends them and their leaders -- and he prays. When people ask him what Fusion does, he says, "Walk and pray. We walk and pray." I left our meeting with Jonathan in tears, moved by his courage, and his love for the young people he gets to know. I was humbled and deeply grateful for people like him who do this kind of work on behalf of the rest of us.



From that experience we took a driving tour around the Cape of Good Hope. It's hard to describe the sheer beauty of this area. The interplay of mountains and sky makes for an often breathtaking display of natural beauty. At Cape Point, we stood on a precipice at the very southern tip of the Cape of Good Hope looking across the intersection of the Indian Ocean and the Atlantic with no land between us and Antarctica. Dinner that evening was in a rather posh restaurant in a large modern shopping mall on the Cape Town waterfront -- "the other Cape Town" from where we had been staying. It was hard not to think of our hosts in Guguletu or the people in the Khayelitsha shantytown or Mannenberg.

Just two days later is a national holiday here in South Africa -- June 16 -- Youth Day. It is named for the 500 youth of Soweto township in Johannesburg who were killed in a day of rioting known as The Soweto Uprising on this day in 1976. A few days ago we were in Soweto and visited the memorial to the first and the youngest of the youth who died that day, Hastings Ndlovu. The Soweto Uprising took place in response to the Afrikaans Medium Decree of 1974 which forced all black schools to use Afrikaans and English in a 50-50 mix as languages of instruction. Afrikaans is the first language of about 13% of South Africans -- both Afrikaaners (people of Dutch descent) and the mixed race (or "colored" under apartheid) people. Hardly anyone in the black townships, including the teachers, spoke Afrikaans, and hence the uprising. This event is looked upon in this country as a watershed moment in the effort to put a stop to apartheid.

It's hard not to think about those young gang members in Mannenberg who don't really have a lot of other options, or Noxie's son who was murdered, or the children who grow up in the shantytowns across South Africa today -- even as we bask in the beauty and gentility of Stellenbosch and South Africa's wine country. As in all of life, there are competing realities that must be held in some kind of creative tension that keeps us aware of the multiple truths around us -- and keeps us working for justice and freedom for all people.

So much to do, so little time

We've been in South Africa now for three days, and I've hardly had a minute to blog. Lack of time, combined with problems of slow internet connections and keeping batteries well charged have made it more difficult to share it all here than I had expected. Consequently, this will be short tonight.

The program has been very full -- and powerful. Just as we heard stories last year of people who had lived through the Rwandan genocide, we're hearing the stories this year of the experience of living under apartheid, working to overthrow apartheid, and now learning to be a new kind of society in the post-apartheid era.

For those not familiar with Amahoro (see blog posts from May of 2008), it is a gathering of emerging church leaders from across the continent of Africa, together with friends and partners from around the globe. I'm so impressed with the people I meet here. The young people here truly give me hope for the future of our global community -- young people both from Africa and other parts of the world.

For me this experience has been an opportunity to renew many friendships I made last year in Rwanda and to meet many, many new friends both from South Africa and other countries. It's also been wonderful this year to have Carolyn with me. She has thoroughly enjoyed the experience, and is now beginning to understand why I wouldn't stop talking about it when I got home last year! Her presence with me has brought another whole dimension to the experience -- and something we now share together. She is eager for us to find a way to come again next year when it will be held in Nairobi.

The gathering closed tonight with a communion service, followed by a banquet with some fabulous South African entertainment. We leave early tomorrow morning for a few days in Cape Town. I'll do my best to find some time to be a bit more reflective and articulate about the whole experience along the way. It's hard to do.

And now, on to South Africa

Early tomorrow morning Carolyn and I will leave for Johannesburg, South Africa, on the next leg of our sabbatical travels. We're packing our winter clothes (didn't we just put them away?!), and preparing ourselves for winter in the southern hemisphere. Friends on the ground there warned us today to "bring your woolies!"

Some of you have asked, "so what are you going to be doing in South Africa?" We'll be part of a gathering of emerging church leaders from all across the continent of Africa and beyond, sponsored by an organization called Amahoro-Africa. Amahoro is a Kirundi word used as a greeting (with variations in many other African languages) for Peace. As Westerners, we'll be there as participant-observers and partners, but the main conversation is one between and among Africans, on the topic of The African Reformation. If my experience last year in Rwanda is any indication, it will be a powerful experience to witness the vibrancy of a new generation of leaders emerging into the post-colonial, post-apartheid context, finding new ways of being and doing church -- ways that don't depend on some of the unhelpful (and downright hurtful) aspects of the Christianity brought to them in the colonial period, ways of being authentically African while authentically following in the Way of Jesus. We go as learners, companions, and fellow travellers, hoping that we might see better what it means to follow Jesus in our own context as well, and engaging in partnerships with those who have so much to teach us about what the gospel really means for the transformation of our world.

At the end of the main part of the Gathering, we'll go on a field trip with some of our fellow Western participants to Cape Town. There we'll visit Robben Island (where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years), visit the Khayelitsha township, and witness the context for ministry in some of the city's more challenging areas.

Carolyn and I will be staying in South Africa for an extra week after The Gathering, so we're taking a couple of extra days in Cape Town right off. We've booked two nights at the Zandberg Bed & Breakfast outside of the city in wine country. We'll fly back to Johannesburg where we've also planned to take a three-day sarari in the Pilanesberg Game Reserve. We'll be sleeping out in the bush in a tent (in the cold winter nights!) and hopefully seeing lots of amazing wildlife. We're told we'll be pretty much guaranteed to see "the big five" -- lions, elephants, giraffes, hippos, and rhinoceros (rhinoceri?) -- and many other exotic mammals, birds, and reptiles -- hopefully all outside the tent.

We expect to have good internet service along the way, so we'll let you know how it all goes!

A journey complete

George and I rode across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco on Sunday afternoon, the 17th of May. What a feeling! And what a way to wrap up this incredible adventure we've had together.

Our odometer tells us we biked almost exactly 1200 miles since we left Vancouver, BC, on the 22nd of April. If you take out the days when we were not riding, either because we were with Liz and Duncan, or because of foul weather, we averaged just about 60 miles a day. Slow days were 40. Long days were 80. We didn't break any records, except our own. But I think we absolutely got out of it everything we set out to do. I wanted to see a part of the country that I didn't really know all that well. I wanted to do something adventurous and "out-of-the-box." I wanted to do something physically challenging. I wanted to spend time with George. I accomplished all of that, and I think George pretty much wanted the same things. We had a really great time together.



There are far too many details to share completely here, of course. And it will take me some time to figure out what this experience has really meant for me. I did a pretty good job of journalling every day, even if I couldn't always blog -- sometimes because we didn't have phone and internet service and sometimes because I was just too exhausted.

But I'll take some time to read through my journal -- and, oh yes, see the pictures. I'm sharing a few here. But even as I do, I realize that they capture only small fragments of the experience. They're mostly shots of us standing still, looking at beautiful places. And there were far more of those than we could possibly have taken pictures of or shared here! But, there are no pictures of us screaming down the side of a mountain at 40 miles per hour -- or sweating our way up at 5 or 6. There are no pictures of the 30 mph headwinds and rain that made parts of the journey so interesting. There are no pictures of the smells or sounds, or just the feeling of being in these places. It shows nothing of the interesting people we met along the way, many of them cyclists, too. And there are no pictures that can capture the deep bond of a father and son sharing such an adventure together.


George let me know that this was so much more interesting and enjoyable for him than the coast-to-coast motorcycle trip we made together in 2000. He was only twelve back then, and his role was a pretty passive one much of the time, sitting on the back seat riding. It was long and sometimes boring. But there was very little that was inactive or boring about this trip. It put every fiber of our being to work -- all the time -- physically, emotionally, spiritually. That's always a better recipe for enjoying something completely.

We had the perfect end to our trip spending two days in San Francisco. We were hosted by David Kyle, a young man who grew up in our parish in Topsfield. David is a runner (marathoner, in fact) and a cyclist, too. He's also a very enthusiastic 6th grade social studies teacher at a boys' school in the city, and the founder of Books for South Africa. He was a great host, and it was a lot of fun to reconnect. We ate some great Thai food one night and had homemade pizza (hand thrown, no less) at Dave's house the next. George and I got our bikes packed and shipped home, then did a ferry trip out to Alcatraz. We now know we're both glad not to have been prisoners there -- although I have to say how interesting it was and what a beautiful view of the city it gives. We enjoyed two visits to Ghirardelli Square for ice cream, an art gallery next door, and the overall energy of the city. It was George's first time to be there.

We flew out the next day, he to Richmond and I to Boston, just in time to get home for the tail end of my birthday and my reunion with Carolyn. I hadn't been home since I left for Japan on March 15 -- over two months ago. It was REALLY good to be home!

Time and Money

It would be a lot jazzier to say that George and I were going to cut our trip short because of... I don't know -- swine flu in Mexico, or forest fires in Santa Barbara perhaps. But, yes, we are going to cut it short, and no, those are not the reasons. The reasons are time and money.

We lost almost a week in the beginning, hanging out in Vancouver waiting on George's bike to arrive. Since then, we've had a few rain days when it was just too nasty out to ride. Unfortunately neither the clock nor the cost stopped running when those things happened. And George has to be back to work in Williamsburg on the 20th of May. We won't make it to Mexico by then.

We've also had to face the fact that the budget for this trip has run out. I've always been one to try to squeeze every penny I could out of a dollar. But our budget calculations were off by quite a bit for this trip, it turns out. There haven't been as many $40-$50 motels as I was told there would be. And for some reason, George and I are eating a lot! So, we're spending about 50% more per day than we planned.

As a result of all of this, George and I have decided that we can feel okay about making San Francisco our final destination, at least for now. We have about a week. We're feeling strong. And the weather forecast is pretty decent. We're in Northern California, and we should be able to make it at our current pace of about 60-70 miles a day on average.

I'm tempted to be upset. ("Why do things like time and money have to have so much power over our lives?!"). Another part of me is relieved. (Been having nightmares about climbing Big Sur! -- well, almost). But, I have to admit, as great an adventure as this has been and continues to be, I'm about ready to be home for a while, be with Carolyn, sleep in my own bed -- and yes, not have to climb any more mountains on a bike for a while.

I haven't blogged here for several days, so there are a million little things I haven't shared. Biking the coast of Oregon was an amazing experience. I LOVE OREGON! Just when we thought we had seen "the mother of all coastal Oregon views," the next day we would see something just as or even more gorgeous. The pinnacle just might have been on our last full day in Oregon when we rode through Humbug Mountain State Park along the coast and through the coastal mountains of the park. It didn't hurt that the roads were I, with nice wide margins for bikes -- and that they had been swept of the winter's sand, which was not true everwhere. But the views were absolutely spectacular, from the many rock stacks just off the coast, to the deep blue of the Pacific water, to the wide sandy beaches and rocky cliffs, to the mountain streams and waterfalls making their way into the ocean -- not to speak of the birds and other wildlife speaking to you from the forests -- one surprising thing after another.

I definitely found lots of joy on that ride -- and on so many others,
too, during our ten (or was it eleven?) days in the state. I feel so
lucky to have a daughter and son-in-law now living there (Duncan, of
course, is a native), so I'll definitely have excuses to return!

So, with all of this, how can I possibly be disappointed? Time and
money can't take away that kind of joy.i

Great day for riding north

But, alas, we're riding south. Strong sustained headwinds of 20-25 mph kept us working hard today. The good news is that the rain that was forecast for today never found us! And, the best part is that we had a spectacularly beautiful ride on the central coast of Oregon. It wouldn't have been nearly so dramatic without all that wind, either. But, wow, are glad we decided to ignore the forecast and ride anyway today, even if we did ride only 25 miles.

When we left our Motel 6 to have breakfast at Pig 'n Pancake early this morning it was miserable -- wet, cold, rainy, and very windy. We pretty much decided after we got back to the motel that we were staying in today. I talked to the desk clerk, and she said "this is December weather here, not May!"

We watched the weather forecast again, checked the internet, looked at our maps for possible stopping places. Just as I was going down to tell the clerk we were staying another night, I looked outside. No rain. And there was even the hint of sun behind one of those clouds. I ran back to tell George. Within about 3 minutes, we were packed and ready to go.

In spite of the wind (didn't someone tell me the wind was always out of the north here? Right. Just like the one who told me if we went north to south it would all be downhill!) it was one of (if not THE) most beautiful day we've had for the raw beauty of nature.

Somewhere along Route 101 between Lincoln City and Newport we came upon a place called Boiler Bay. The water in this area churned like a boiling pot of water. It was powerful. The waves were probably 10-12 feet and breaking out at sea. It was an awesome site to behold. The entire Depoe Bay State Park area was breathtaking. And then we took a little detour off 101 onto the Otter Crest Loop, a small road that stays close to the water, and goes down to one lane plus a bike lane. The views were the perfect combination of coastal rainforest, moss-covered trees, with rocky coast and hard pounding surf. Quintessential Oregon coast, from all I can tell. We noticed a house built high up on a promontory 500 feet above the water. Unbelievable. Our little road took us there, and it turns out it is a little gift shop called The Lookout at Cape Foulweather -- aptly named. But today, the foul weather is far outdone by the spectacular beauty of this place. Someone knew that about this place when they built it in 1930, as a gift shop. It was taken over briefly by the Coast Guard during WWII, but has otherwise been in continuous existence as a gift shop. We have no room for things, so I couldn't buy anything, but someday I'm going to come back here and buy myself one of those Cape Foulweather caps they had there.

I asked the woman minding the shop if she had to pay to work there. She said she should have to. We asked how far it was to Mo's Clam Chowder, and she informed us to our delight that it only about a mile and a half down the road -- all downhill. We had a great lunch at Mo's, then went right outside to see The Devil's Punchbowl. Liz and Duncan had told us it was not to be missed. It is a giant round rock formation, hollowed out, with giant holes at the bottom where the tide forces water into the big bowl. It is a ferociously churning cauldron displaying the contest between water and rock that define this endlessly fascinating coast. We were there at low tide. I'm told it's even more dramatic at high tide.

We rode another eight miles or so into Newport, where we headed straight for Bike Newport. We needed a tire check as well as a couple of other little things. I had the first flat tire of the trip two days ago, and even though the roadside change went flawlessly, I was pretty sure our little hand pump had not gotten me to the 120 lbs. of pressure we're supposed to have. Great shop with very helpful people.

We met two young guys there who left Vancouver a week or two before we did. They're roughing it with camping gear, pots and pans hanging off the bikes, and the bikes are one speed. We felt like a couple of pampered babies after seeing that. We promptly came and checked into our (cheap) motel, after a brief ride through the local beatnik area and past the club where we hear that tonight is jazz night. We put our feet up, checked our email (none) and thought about what a great day it has been.

And we almost missed it all because of a little wind.

A few random shots of the first 450 miles

Discovering my inner jock

Last week in Canada I got my hair cut... well, not totally off, but very short. I didn't want to have to mess with hair -- you know, shampoo, combs, and all that -- while on a bike trip.

I got two very different reactions to my altered persona from the first two people who commented: one said I looked like a monk; the other said I looked like a jock. I've never pretended to be either, but frankly, being called a jock is about the last thing I ever thought I would hear. You've got to realize that I was always the skinny kid with almost no athletic aptitude. I was usually the next to the last kid to be chosen for a team in school -- right before the, let's just say, most athletically challenged kid on the other end of the scale, so to speak.

What can I say? I excelled at other things. But even if it was a sport I liked, like baseball (sorta) or tennis, I just knew I'd never be able to compete with the kids for whom it was actually important.

Consequently, I am a late-bloomer when it comes to the rigors of athletic activity. I work hard at other kinds of activities, but I have rarely ever broken a sweat doing something athletic. Honestly.

By now, some are wondering why in the world I ever thought I wanted to bike from Canada to Mexico. I also am asking myself the very same question. Yes, I love adventure, and I love a challenge. And I love the outdoors, and I love spending time with my son. But I don't particularly love pain -- physical pain -- and there has been a lot of it this past week.

Now George is only slightly more of a jock than I. He endured a few football and lacrosse camps when he was at prep school -- mostly because he HAD to do a sport. But he learned a lot in those experiences. He's our "trainer" on this trip, making sure I do all the right stretching exercises in the morning and at stops throughout the day. He's also the "encourager" reminding me that Richard Simmons is right -- "You've got to work through the burn!"

We've been working through lots of burn, believe me. But now that we've ridden over 300 miles (we'll get to the Columbia River tomorrow!), I'm feeling less and less of that pain.

Today we had a spectacular day. We only rode 65 or 70 miles, but it was fun! Yes, the terrain was a little flatter and there wasn't as much of the brutal climbing we've been doing some days. But if we had started a little earlier in the day today, I honestly could have gone another 25 miles.

A woman stopped me outside the Mexican restauamt where we ate lunch today to ask where we were headed. I told her and she was surprised. She told me she had recently done a triathalon, and I assured her that she was much more of an athlete than I. She then drew the distinction between sprinting and the endurance required for long distance, and made a comment about not having what it takes to go the distance. I could have said the same thing -- except that I'm learning otherwise, even at this rather late point in life.

Both George and I are more conscious than ever of how important the food we feed ourselves is. Keeping a healthy, balanced diet makes a huge difference in how we feel and how we perform out there on the road. We're feeling really great with zero caffeine, alcohol, or junk foods; lots of protein and fiber; and making sure we keep lots of fluids (almost exclusively water and juices) in our systems.

George also mentioned at one point that endurance is as much mental as it is physical. I think he's right about that, too. I also realized this morning as I was dreading the ride ahead of me that I hadn't been preparing myself spiritually each morning as well as I might, so we took some extra time after our stretches, just to sit, quietly, for a time of silent meditation and prayer together before we set out for the day. It definitely helped set a tone, and enabled us both to find new strength -- inner strength for the challenges ahead of us.

I'm far from being a jock (or a monk for that matter), but I'm learning some great things about endurance, about pain, and about how important it is to feed both the body and the spirit to be the whole person I want to be.

By the way, I love getting your comments, and if you're shy about them being posted, or just wish them to be a private note to me for any reason, just say so and it will not be published to the blog.

Sent from my iPhone

Washington State is bigger than Massachusetts

I know this is true, because George and I have been riding for three days now, have logged 190 miles since we left Vancouver on Wednesday morning, and we still aren't to Seattle yet. They make states a whole lot bigger out here in the West than they do back East!

And they have much bigger mountains, too. I have the sore legs to prove it. I have discovered, however, that there is apparently an inverse relationship between how easy the bike riding is, and how spectacular the mountain views are.

Today we had some breathtaking views of (I believe) the mountains of the Olympic National Park. Sometimes the view comes just after you've made a mind-numbingly (or other appropriate part of the anatomy) difficult climb, and then there it is - the most spectacular view you can imagine. And then we were riding through some farm country today, through a little out of the way town, then out past some rich black fields ready for planting, when the most amazing panorama of mountains in the distance appeared before us. Just couldn't believe the view that farmer got to wake up to every morning!

At least on days like today. We've been very fortunate with weather so far. Although we woke up to 36 degrees and cloudy this morning, it got up to around 60 with mostly sun. Perfect riding - and viewing - weather.

George and I are already learning a lot together. First of all, how much we really do like being together and having this kind of experience together. We're also finding that we're good for each other. Just when one of us doesn't know if he can make it up the next hill or not, the other one kicks into gear, encourages the other, and we end up doing things we didn't know we could do.

I had lots of good advice from biking friends before we started this trip, and it has come in very handy - all of it. Todd Miller said to spare no expense on good padded biking shorts. He was right. Today on day 3, I began to feel a bit saddle sore, but the good padding definitely helps.

I also got lots of very helpful advice from Tom Jones in Andover. Tom and his son did this same trip in 2000 and have done other big ones since. When I told him a couple of months ago that George and I were planning to do this, he looked at me and said, "I just have one thing to say: you will never be sorry you did it."

Actually, Tom is pretty much responsible for our doing this trip at all. In the fall of 2000, I was still rector at Trinity Church in Topsfield, and for a fall stewardship event we invited Tom to speak. As we were talking before the event, somehow my recent cross-country motorcycle trip with George (then 12 years old) came up. He then told me that he and his son had just done the Canada to Mexico ride along the Pacific Coast. I was definitely impressed - and challenged - and have been imagining doing it ever since.

One of Tom's pieces of advice in a recent email was to remember that the first 4-5 days are the hardest - and secondly, to take the maximum amount of Advil recommended. I forgot to do that the first two days, but I remembered today - and it definitely made a difference in how I'm feeling tonight. If he's also right about the first 4-5 days being the hardest, that means we are well on our way!

George and I are both overwhelmed by the experience already. We're deeply grateful, first of all, for the opportunity, and thrilled to be learning all the thing about ourselves and about life that we are learning.

It will be nice, I have to say, to cross into another state - eventually. But, we're going to soak up every bit of the experience in Washington in the meantime.

Another Christ Church

Still stranded in Vancouver. But if you have to be stranded somewhere it's a great place to be.

So, I got up this morning for some breakfast in the hostel refectory, then trekked off to Christ Church Cathedral for the 10:30 service. It's the cathedral church for the Anglican Diocese of New Westminster. I had stopped in already a couple of days ago, so I was familiar with the space. I was struck by how similar it is to what we're planning at Christ Church in Andover, so I was eager to see what the experience would be like for worship.

Thumbs up! What a great experience! Here are just a few of my observations.

Similarities to our plan in Andover include:
1) new organ in a rear gallery
2) altar brought forward into the nave on a flexible platform
3) area behind altar is a flexible space, which here is a gathering place for children during the opening of the service. After the opening hymn and collect, they come forward to the font in front of the altar for a brief word for the day and then go to a children's chapel until Communion.
4) the front half or two-thirds of the nave has flexible seating -- nice wooden, interlocking chairs that were arranged in a semi-circular pattern on three sides of the altar. They were comfortable to sit on, and wide enough that people did not hesitate to sit side by side -- even with me, a visitor.

The church was roughly the same size as Christ Church Andover, and nearly full -- about 300 people, on "Low Sunday." Made me wonder what it was like last week on Easter. The congregation reflected pretty closely the great diversity of Vancouver -- people of European, Asian, and African origin; old people and young families with children, a substantial number of GLBT folks, people with physical and mental disabilities, including a number of adults and children in wheelchairs, some making use of the ramp to the platform during the service. The congregation included Vancouver's leading citizens and outcasts alike. There was no difference between them here. It was an inspiring glimpse of the Beloved Community.

The music in today's service was led primarily by a small guest ensemble of Indian musicians playing sitar and tabla, together with a bass flute and a couple of other types of flute and vocals. They're playing services and concerts across Canada and are based in Toronto. The psalm they did was particularly moving. The organ played only for the doxology and the Creed (Merbecke). There was no choir -- perhaps had the day off after a full Holy Week and Easter. Congregational
singing was great, even being led by guest musicians. There was only
one traditional hymn, and the text was new to me.

From the perspective of a first time visitor, I give them an A+. The
space works beautifully -- even though they had made no effort to
duplicate the original Gothic architecture in their renovation. The
old and the new seemed to work together, with no pretense that the
balcony or cathedral seating were original. That's in the "for what
it's worth" category.

All were welcomed to the table here. It was an experience worthy of
their name -- Christ('s) Church. Glad to find myself stranded here --
for now.

--

Sayonara

Wet cherry blossoms
fall on the pavement telling
us goodbye for now

Sayonara is a beautiful word in Japanese, but it sounds just a little too final -- like it could be the last time you see someone. There's a hint of sadness in it.

The sadness feels appropriate now. But I hope not the final parting. Tomorrow morning we leave Shimoda on a train to Tokyo, then Narita Airport. From there Carolyn will fly home to Boston, and I'll fly to Vancouver, where I'll spend a couple of days with Liz, Duncan, and George. Then on Saturday, George and I will set out on our Pacific Coast cycling adventure.

But in the meantime, Carolyn and I are enjoying a final evening together in Japan, listening to the rain fall softly outside. The pink is turning more to green as the cherry blossoms fall to the ground -- right on cue.

Sayonara (for now), Japan.

A different kind of Easter

It has been years since I went to a sunrise service on Easter, but it’s a tradition for many Christians on this holiest day of the year. There are many things in nature that inspire awe for me. It happens nearly every day, in fact. But today, on Easter morning, it reached a new pinnacle. Carolyn and I set our alarm for 5 am so that we would be up when the sun rose. We were staying in a hotel on the northwestern-most point of the Izu Peninsula, looking across the Suruga Bay at Mount Fuji. At 5 am, I got up, looked outside, and it had begun to get light, but, sadly, it was cloudy – too cloudy to see Mount Fuji. We still had a great view of the Bay, and we were hopeful – hopeful that the clouds would burn off or blow away as the morning went on.

Well, they did. Slowly emerging from the mists, Fuji-san (as it is known by the Japanese) began to make its presence known. Mysteriously, powerfully, quietly, majestically – actually, in a way that kind of rocks your world. We’d had a few other glimpses of Fuji since being in Japan this time, but usually from speeding trains on the Tokkaido Line or Shinkansen. Carolyn had one main goal for our time in Japan this time – go to Mount Fuji, which is to say, go somewhere we you get a really, really good look at her.

This weekend was our last chance to do that. We had made reservations for Monday and Tuesday after Easter to go to the north side of Fuji and stay in a Japanese style hotel with a bath that looks out over Fuji – the kind of place you see in all the tourist brochures. It was also about a four-hour trip on three different trains (through Tokyo) to get there. But when we checked the weather forecast a few days ago, we saw that Monday would be partly cloudy, and Tuesday cloudy. Gotta cancel those reservations!!

So instead, we rented a car on Saturday, and we started following our noses up the west coast of the Izu Peninsula to the nearest place we could get to Fuji, which isn’t really all that far at all. In fact, this is one of the best places from which to view Fuji, and yet, from the lack of traffic we encountered on this beautiful, cherry blossom, picture-perfect weekend, it must be a very well-kept secret.


We ventured off the beaten track, and onto some very small roads in the extreme northwest corner of Izu. In fact, the road is only one lane in places. Instead of tunnels through the mountains, it has long winding switchbacks up and down the sides of the hills along the coast. Cherry blossoms are everywhere and in full bloom.

Now I know that I have made some pretty extreme claims for the beauty of other places we have recently been here in Japan (like Irozaki, for example), but I have to say there is no more beautiful place that we have either one been on the face of the earth than the west coast of the Izu Peninsula. Carolyn says she finally understands all of that exotic Japanese art she has seen all of her life, but didn’t really believe had any basis in actual places or in nature. She now knows that it does. On the Izu Peninsula. Between the clear, deep beautiful blue ocean with picturesque bays small and large, the exotic rock formations along the rugged coast, the green pine boughs and the delicate, omnipresent cherry blossoms, passing through quaint little towns and pristine countryside, much of it high above the coastline just below, it was a jaw-dropping experience. About halfway up the coast, we had our first sighting of Mount Fuji, buried in the mists on the horizon to the north and slightly to the west across the pure blue bay. We didn’t have a hotel reservation, and had planned on this being just a day’s outing, but we couldn’t imagine now not taking full advantage of this opportunity. So, we found a hotel on Izu’s closest point to Fuji – at Osezaki. The only thing between our hotel room and Mount Fuji was a little spit of land with a beautiful Shinto shrine on it, and the Suruga Bay.

By the time we checked in, Fuji was beginning to fade back into the mists. We had an elegant full Japanese dinner, with sashimi and a variety of steamed mollusks and other sea creatures, and later tempura with all the accompanying little dishes of pickles, fish pastes, whale fat noodles, and various exotic seaweeds and the like. Not only were we the only foreign guests at the hotel – we were apparently also the only people who were not there for deep-sea diving school. Over a hundred mostly young people (roughly college age and older) were on the beach for diving classes, including underwater photography. You wouldn’t believe all the equipment up and down the beach. Some were out late at night and then back up before dawn. It was all very interesting to see.

But this morning, at around 6:30 am, we finally got our first Easter morning glimpse of Mount Fuji from our room. We immediately set out for a walk to the little spit of land. It was a breathtaking experience to go to the far shore and look across to see Fuji-san standing there – still, silent, snow-capped from the winter, peering at us from beyond. It was not a crystal clear kind of day, but one that in some unique way lent itself more fully to the sense of mystery and awe inspired by things like Mount Fuji than if it had been. Kind of like I imagine it was with Jesus appearing to the disciples.

It was a different kind of Easter. There were no church services for us (although, I have to say that I was thinking almost hour by hour about what was surely happening back in Andover – thirteen hours behind us here. In fact, as I write this at 9 pm on Sunday evening here, the 8 am Easter service is just beginning there.) After a very full Japanese breakfast, we began our trip back down the coast toward “home.” There would be many stops along the way to glance back at yet another amazing view of Fuji-san or other eye-popping scenery – and yes, to take yet more pictures.

As I mentioned to someone in an email a short while ago, the whole experience of Holy Week and Easter has been very different for me this year. It has been odd, in that it has been totally disconnected from church, from the liturgies I so love, from hearing the lessons read aloud, from being together with others to celebrate the holy mysteries – from Communion. I have missed all of that. And yet, because of being in such a different place, it has been framed differently for me here and allows me to see it all with different eyes. It’s odd just being in a place where hardly anyone even knows that it’s Easter – or what Easter is. (Although we did see one man walking through one of the small towns through which we passed dressed in a black suit with a bouquet of lilies in his hand. I suspected he had been to church this morning.)

I’m thinking a lot about what the past four weeks have meant for me. The first week was a kind of “pinch me, I’m here!” experience. The second week involved Carolyn’s arrival, getting her acclimated, and establishing a routine together. The third week was bracketed by a trip to Tokyo and then the visit of Junko and her family. The fourth week has been different. I was very conscious of it being Holy Week, but parallel to that I was very aware that being here was beginning to feel “ordinary” in some strange way. It had become “home.” We spent more time at our house, and less time running into town, having seen most of what we have wanted to see and experience there. We did lots of reading (Carolyn is now on her eleventh book since she came – I’m on about my sixth), walked to the beaches, did chores, cooked, ate and slept. Even took an occasional nap.

Now I’m finding that I’m thinking a lot about what comes next – leaving Japan, arrival in Vancouver, BC, and a bike trip down the Pacific Coast with George beginning later this week. Wow. Wonder if that will start to feel like home.

One of the books I’ve been reading is Matsuo Basho’s Narrow Road to the Interior. Basho is a 17th century Japanese poet and wanderer who routinely set out on walking journeys of hundreds or even a thousand or more miles. In the opening words of this book he writes, “The moon and sun are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means for me right now. I do know that if I thought I was getting away from myself by taking such a long journey, I was dead wrong. I keep bumping into this Jeff Gill guy here, too. I’m the same person I was, for better or for worse. But the “home” part of it all is a bigger place than it was. What “home” means to me keeps getting bigger and bigger, sometimes forcing me out of comfortable places into unknown ones that eventually become, well, home. They become part of me. Familiar. Kind of like family.

I think I have begun to ramble. I know this because my word count is now 1,651 – just about the normal length of one of my sermons. (DON’T say it!) So, I’m gonna stop here. Lots still to ponder. Lots of mystery today – Mount Fuji on Easter morning. Lots of nostalgia beginning to build as we prepare to leave a place we have grown to love. The journey continues.

Sawako's visit

Carolyn and I fell in love this week – with Sawako. She’s our two-year old Japanese “granddaughter.” Her mom, Junko, lived with us for a year in 1991-92 in Topsfield as an exchange student, and is very much a part of our family. Our last trip to Japan in 2004 was for her wedding.

This past Sunday evening, Junko, along with her parents, Shunichi and Keiko Nakao, and, of course, little Sawako, came to visit us in Shimoda. They stayed for two nights here in our place with us. It was wonderful to see them all, and to finally meet the adorable Sawako in person. Junko had taught her how to say “grandpa” and “grandma” in English. She’d also given her instructions on giving us kisses when she met us at the train station. It was precious.

The Nakaos are lovely and gracious people. Although we had never met them in person until 2004, we share a bond that is stronger each time we meet. Our visit this time was a little unique in that we were introducing them to a part of Japan they did not really know. It was fun playing host to them in their own country.

Unfortunately, Tomo (Junko’s husband and Sawako’s father) wasn’t able to be with them. He is a busy priest – a Buddhist priest – at a Jodo Shinshu temple in Osaka. Junko’s father told us he felt the reason Junko ever even considered marrying a priest was because of her experience living with us. And it’s amazing how much the lifestyle she describes does indeed sound like our own clergy household, the one big exception being that they live and work alongside Tomo’s father and mother, his father also being a priest. And because it’s passed through families in Japan, the Nakaos wonder if their own granddaughter, Sawako, might also become a priest someday, which is indeed possible for women in the Jodo Shinshu tradition. We had a good laugh when I was cooking one evening and accidentally rang the edge of the metal mixing bowl with a big “gong” sound, and Sawako immediately went into prayer position and started a chant. She’s a very spiritual young girl!

Together, we walked through Shimoda on one of the most perfect cherry blossom days of the season, and we learned a lot from them about the many varieties of cherry blossom – the hanging branch varieties versus the upturned branches, the different colors of pink and white, and the difference, for example, between the yamazakura (“mountain cherry blossoms”) and the hybrids. Yamazakura have little green leaves that come on along with the blossoms, and are seen especially on mountainsides and in the wild, while some trees are bred to have only the blossom before the leaves come on. They each have their own beauty and charm. During the days and weeks leading up to this time of year, the Japanese speak of the state of the cherry blossoms in terms of what percent completely open they are – 50%, 60%, 80%, etc.. We were a good 80-90% in most places during their visit, more in some areas.

One of our more memorable experiences with them was a visit to the very southern tip of the Izu Peninsula, about 15 miles south of where we are living – a place called Irouzaki. We parked the car and walked a stunningly beautiful, steep path, perhaps a half mile or so to one of the more spectacular places I have ever been. The rugged coastline of Japan, and particularly along the Izu Peninsula, is beautiful enough just about anywhere, but this was truly amazing. The pictures barely do it justice, but I have posted some here anyway. At the very end of the walk, out onto a promontory overlooking the Pacific Ocean was a little Shinto shrine, marking it as a place that inspires awe and reverence. It surely does that. Prayers written on wooden plaques or paper are attached to the shrine with people’s wishes for good luck and fortune. Shinto shrines are everywhere in Japan, but I’m not sure I had seen one on a precipice quite so awe-inspiring as this before. It was breathtaking, and worth every step of the rather arduous walk to get there.

Sawako was a cheerful presence throughout our time together. Her little voice, often singing or asking the questions a two-year old always asks (“Haha, nani?” Mommy, what’s that? “Baba, doko?” Where’s grandma?) were a source of constant joy to us all. Five grownups, four of them “grandparents” (two of them gaijin), all doting on one two-year old! It was quite a sight, I’m sure. She will never have to wonder if she is loved.

The fewer words the better

It's Palm Sunday. You wouldn't know it for the most part here in Japan. But I do -- even if I didn't go to church today. First time probably in my whole life that I wasn't in church on Palm Sunday. I've been thinking about it all day, however.

I don't really have any words to share today -- but I do have some pictures. Intimations of Easter -- if that's permitted when the rest of Holy Week is still before us. But I can't help sharing the pictures of the cherry blossoms from the past couple of days here in Shimoda.

Gaijin

A hawk swoops down to
take the apple from his hand
I saw it happen

This actually happened a couple of days ago. Carolyn and I were walking along the big beach (Ohama) with a couple of new friends. Like us, they’re gaijin – foreigners. I had wanted to believe that the out-of-the-way neighborhood where we’ve settled for this month was a place that no other foreigner had found, but I wasn’t here more than a few days until I occasionally caught glimpses of blond hair and Caucasian features whizzing by on a bike or in a car. At first there is the subtle hint of recognition, sort of like what I always imagine it must be like when two African Americans catch each others’ eye in a crowd of white people. Do you go and talk, just because their skin is like yours? Finally the day came. Carolyn and I were walking down the hill, and just ahead of us about ten or twenty steps were two of them. Didn’t know whether to speed up and engage them in conversation (always at first with those few cautious words, “eigo ga dekimasu ka?” – “Do you speak English?”), or to slow down and stay immersed in the experience of being away – “We didn’t come here to meet Americans!” But they slowed down to look at something, and we caught up. Eyes met. “Hi, how ya doing?” “Great! What brings you to Shimoda?” And the conversation begins.

Darshan is in his early thirties. His mom, Shannon, is roughly Carolyn’s and my age – perhaps a couple of years older, probably an old hippie (...her son’s Sanskrit name, her San Francisco address, hmmm…), now a rather conventional middle-aged west coast suburbanite from all appearances. Darshan is married to a Japanese woman, and they’ve just had a new baby. He lives here in the neighborhood, and has lived in Japan for ten years. His mom is visiting for a couple of weeks, eager to convince her son and daughter-in-law to move back closer to home, especially now that her grandchild has been born. We talk for a few minutes, long enough to learn that he sailed from here to Hawaii last year, and that he runs an internet-based business of indeterminate nature, though we’re guessing real estate. He’s the one who clarifies for us that there are actually two cherry blossom seasons here, and that we have not missed out. He also tells us about the wild pigs in the neighborhood. We love the exotic bamboo forest just behind us, and the lovely palms at the entrance to the neighborhood – we didn’t know that wild pigs went along with it!

He asks us if we’ve met any of the other gaijin in the neighborhood. We haven’t. He says we’ll surely meet David Dix, an Irish handyman who is something of a presence in the area. When we ask about wireless internet access in the neighborhood, he tells us about an open network next door to his house called “Home” which we can surely use. The homeowner hasn’t been around for six months. Yeah! No more treks into Makudonarudo! We finally part with some final “see you around the neighborhood” comments.

Through the tunnels and down to the beach, we stroll casually, until the two of them catch up to us again. We stop to talk again, watching the surfers, and getting more local information.

And in a terrifying split second, a hawk that had been soaring above swoops down between us, and attempts to take the apple out of Darshan’s hand, which he would have accomplished – perhaps along with his hand! – if Darshan had not jumped when he did! Whoosh! I’ve never experienced anything like it. We stood and watched the hawk soaring above, then engaging another large bird in some menacing aerobatics, until Darshan unloaded his apple and we watched the raptor dive for it on the beach, finally taking his prize. The hawk gets his apple – Darshan gets to keep his hand. Not a bad deal.

Later the same day we were walking around Shimoda when we spotted another Euro-American-looking gaijin couple ahead. It’s not all that uncommon here in town, actually. In fact, I spotted a guy in a Boston Red Sox cap about a week ago. He was with a group of West Point cadets here for a week on Spring Break. But this time, Carolyn had had enough of the familiar for one day, and was probably afraid that I’d want to stop and talk (as, yes, I often do), so we crossed to the other side of the street and made our way to our next destination. I guessed they were Germans.

An hour or so later, there they were again. This time we were looking right at each other. “Eigo ga dekimasu ka?” A blank stare. “Hi, how are you?” This time a response, even though English is not their first language. They were Germans. When Carolyn asked them what part of Germany, they said the south, near Stuttgart. Carolyn’s eyes lit up. She’s been doing a lot of family genealogy the past few years, and her Shilling ancestors came from the Stuttgart area, where they used to be Schillings. She told the couple that her family had gone to the US from Heilbron about five generations ago in the 1840s. Now their eyes lit up. “That’s where we live!” Long-lost cousins? We ended up bumping into each other a couple of other time as we both made our way through Shimoda Park and its lovely vistas overlooking the city and the harbor.

The next day Carolyn and I each took our laptops in search of wireless internet, walking up and down Darshan’s street until we found “Home” in the network list. While I am usually loathe to be such a conspicuous gaijin, it’s a quiet neighborhood – mostly a weekend getaway for Tokyo professionals and summer residents – so we each found an outdoor perch where we got at least two bars worth of connection, and from where we could catch up on the news, pay our bills, and read our email. Sure beats going into McDonald’s. Later on, walking back to our place, I saw two gaijin, one of them perched precariously on the side of a hill with a blazing weed-whacker in his hand. I walked on by. The other stopped me with a “Hi, how ya doin’?” (I guess I’m the only one who starts off with the cautious, un-prepossessing “eigo ga dekimasu ka?” bit.) This was the famous David Dix – Irish guy with a US passport, married to a Japanese wife. He’d made his fortune with Dell, so they decided on a lifestyle change, and now live in a lovely home here in the neighborhood with their three kids. He runs a handyman business. Strikes me as a variation on the Dominican or Nicaraguan doctor or engineer doing yard work in Andover, except with a very different level of comfort and security. He invites me over for a cup of tea or a beer. He’s a very outgoing, friendly guy, and I’ll probably take him up on it.

That same evening, I went out for my customary walk. It’s getting dark, and I’m walking through the tunnel to the beach, now listening for wild pigs (thanks to Darshan), when instead I notice the sound of a bicycle coming from behind, through the dark tunnel, on the right side of the road (they drive on the left side in Japan). It’s either a drunk, or a gaijin, or both. I see the blond hair as he whizzes by. Makes me nervous. I emerge from the tunnel, and the bicyclist has stopped to rearrange his cargo. I stop and we introduce ourselves. He’s Tom, a twenty-something from Colorado. Over the next twenty minutes, the story pours out, while he’s nervously showing me pictures of his family back home that he just happens to have with him – his brother, his mother and father, and his sister – and their family vacation to Cozumel last November. Tom came to Japan right after that vacation to see the girlfriend he’s had since they met in college about five years ago. Ignoring the warning his father gave him before he left, he and Yasuko got married in December. No big wedding, just a civil ceremony at the US Embassy. Tom doesn’t speak Japanese, but is trying to learn. He showed me his books in the basket on the front of his bike. He also showed me the picture of him “playing the harmonica in a Buddhist church.” Said that his mother-in-law wouldn’t let them stay in her house after they got married unless he converted to Sokka Gakkai. Tom didn’t seem to know much about it, but I know just a little. It’s a very aggressive Buddhist sect – one of the so-called “New Religions” in Japan. Relative to the more mainstream Buddhist denominations, it has roughly the same place as the Jehovah’s Witnesses do in Christianity. He doesn’t like praying the chants for three hours at a time, which he has to do, or pray for his wife Yasuko to be restored to the faith as his mother-in-law insists, and he says he doesn’t really believe any of it, but it’s a price Tom seems willing to pay for now – keeps a roof over his head and food on the table for him and Yasuko until he can get their act together. Then it’s “so long, Sokka Gakkai.” Meanwhile, he finally got a job – doing yard work for this really nice guy named David Dix. Ah yes, the kid with the weed whacker on the side of the hill. David, he says, is not only giving him a job, but is teaching him a lot about life in general and about marriage. “He’s like a father to me…”

You go, David.

I can’t help being slightly parental myself, and I mention my concern about him riding on the wrong side of the road out here after dark. “Oh, yeah, I was just over at David’s house and we were having a few beers. Guess I kinda forgot.”

Yikes.

I move along as he continues to get his stuff together. Ten minutes later, he passes me again – on the wrong side of the road again. “Don’t forget, they drive on the left side here, Tom!” I yell after him.

Oh dear. All I can think about is Tom’s poor parents.

Enough gaijin stories for now. Tempts me to start crossing to the other side of the street.