Approach to the Inmost Cave

Week 7 of the Your Story track (Spiritual Formation for Artists) unpacks the Approach to the Inmost Cave--in which the Hero prepares for a major challenge in the Special World: one that is life-threatening, defining, transforming; a stage in which a hero is either forged or fails.

We took the students up to a nearby cave, one of many where Waldensians met secretly to worship.  A sobering sensory experience to underline the dimensions of approaching the inmost cave of our hearts, where we do business with God--spiritual life or death moments.  

How does one prepare to enter the inmost cave of the heart?  Who or what are the threshold guardians?  What are the fears?  What if there is a betrayal?  We climbed with our tour guide, an OM Italy worker, who gave us historical context, while I connected some spiritual dots. 

We had 6 'stations' mapped out--natural landmarks where we could stop, catch our breath on the uphill climb, and share a principle embedded in the history.  The sun was shining and the birds were chirping--but we  were on a mission.  No cameras or chit-chat allowed on the way up.

We then entered the cave--"entered" a euphemism for the crouch-bend-crawl into the darkness of the cave, with Matt guarding each head from banging into the lowest boulder.  Once inside, we groped along a damp wall, letting our eyes adjust to the darkness.  Overhead a few cracks in the jumbled boulders let a shaft of light in. 

Matt shared the story of betrayal and massacre: the cave was so hidden, one of the Waldensians had to have betrayed the community in order to find the cave church.  Once found, the soldiers poured in oil and torches.  Those who managed to crawl out were immediately killed. 

We left the students with a few thought-provoking questions and a half hour to process, while we crawled back out into the sunshine and chirpy birdsong.  It wasn't long before we were all up and out, and forming into our small groups to process further.

As I sat with my group in a rock overhang, the conversation opened, and somehow meandered into one of life's fundamental questions: "How could God let that happen?  Why does evil endure?" 

One of our artists shared how she had come to realize how complex the heart is, where both good and evil can reside in the same heart.  None of us were immune.  I shared the story of Elie Wiesel and Adolf Eichmann--how Wiesel broke down when he saw Eichmann, presumably in nightmarish memories.  But no, Wiesel protested: "I remembered a monster.  But when I saw him enter the court, I saw a man, just like me, and realized I could have been him." 

We all sat chewing on that, until our artist friend took a stand. Throwing off a yoke of victimization with an old identity, recognizing how good and evil could reside in her heart as well as those who had wronged her in her life, she renounced some bitterness and unforgiveness she had held.  She forgave some and immediately turned and asked forgiveness of two others in the group for national sins of her country that had affected theirs.  Wow.  All in the sun and on a dirt path leading away from the cave, in the middle of a secluded, obscure wood.  

We stood as a group, renouncing the evil that ran in our own hearts, forgiving those through whom evil had come to us, praying for one another, and hugging, of course.   

The Boot Wars--Part 2

Muddy Boots, Muddy World.  

After a week of intensity on a number of levels, a flash of insight arrived during one dinner conversation, and illuminated a black hole of despair.  

We were talking about setting boundaries, for ourselves and others; of getting rid of unwanted junk in ourselves, and keeping it from 'coming in' through others.  How do you become healthy when so many around you operate, and press you to operate, in unhealthy ways?  (A simple example: we are practicing Sabbath during the school; how do you unplug for a day in a 24/7 world?  What is rest anyway?) 

How do you change when you may live in unchanging family systems, teams, political and economic systems, churches, even a whole culture imposing its mentalities, rhythms and values?  How do you keep someone else's dysfunctions from deranging you?  How do you separate the junk from the person?  How do you welcome the person/friend/family member, but not the junk? 

How do you live in a broken world?   

Just some light conversation over dinner...

Somewhere between the pasta, potatoes and pizza (yes, we are carbed up), a flash of insight came, in the form of a string of images: the photos I've been taking of muddy boots.  I had the perfect analogy to respond with.   

"It's like I invite you over for a meal and you arrive with muddy boots.  You are so welcome to come into my house, but the boots have to stay outside."

A light bulb came on in the other person's eyes, a smile lit up the until-now-cloudy face, and we toasted clarity and insight, and muddy boots.

Now it's a beautiful spring day in Bobbio Pellice, a Sabbath day of rest, and the boots are getting less use...at least one one level.  On another, they are being used to bring light and truth in an otherwise muddy world.  Shabbat Shalom! 

  

The Boot Wars

Living in a muddy farming community with lots of ice and snow melting, and mountain hiking as one of the major activities of the day, one must be properly shod: boots.

The accumulation of boots from all over boot-dom overran the lobby early on in our first week.  We got a shoe closet for the lobby, and instituted a new rule: wear indoor shoes/slippers to the lobby (no walking around in socks; feet in socks leave footprints on the tile floor = complaints from the management).  If you’re going out, change to your outdoor boots, and store your indoor-wear in the shoe closet until you return.  If your boots don’t fit in the shoe closet, take them to your room, and leave outside your door.  

A scenario rife for pranksterism...

One night the boots took a hike down the hallway, in a conga line.  Another night, shoelaces were tied together.  One found boots piled up outside one's door any given morning, or filled with empty bottles of adult beverages.  Then the dinosaurs and snake appeared...

The boot wars were on.  

Four new pairs were spotted in our hallway, outside the two doors of our current guests who arrived yesterday.   We contemplated their neatness, their proximity, the possibilities...oh the temptation….

How might these guests react?  To be continued...

February 16

We bundled up for the dark, cold, and stormy night, to climb a muddy mountain in the pouring rain, to spend several hours on our feet getting drenched.  Why on earth?  

February 16 is a huge big deal in this part of Italy: after almost a millenium of persecution, Religious Freedom was signed into law this night in 1848, granting the Waldensians civil (not religious) freedom (a nuance that escapes me).  News traveled fast up the valley--by bonfire, ending in Bobbio.  Since that night, people make a torchlight pilgrimage up the mountain to commemorate their ancestors’ endurance and final victory.  

Now the bonfires start in Bobbio and go down the valley.  And neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail can stop Bobbio.  “How can we not remember” was a comment I heard over and over.  

The topic of conversation in the town square as everyone gathered—a colorful sea of umbrellas—centered around the hardships of the Waldensian forebears, while we had the good fortune of warm homes to return to, proper clothing, and umbrellas.  What did we have to complain about?  

More folks turned out than I ever would have imagined--from the elderly Emma to the toddlers in strollers--everyone chatting cheerfully as Pastor Grigorio arrived with the torches.  They were quickly distributed, lit and dutifully photographed.  And then the procession began.

I had the delight of discovering Silvano, Jane and her daughter in the crowd.  We trudged up the mountain together, the stories flowing as steadily as the rain; I learned more details of the valley, its history, and Jane herself. 
 
We arrived at the bonfire in time to see the first torch carried up a ladder to the top, and soon the soggy mess gave way to a hot blaze,  sparks flying up into the night.  Below us, we watched other bonfires blazing into life, one by one.  Behind us, an adult choir sang traditional Waldensian hymns.

Mulled wine and hot chocolate followed, after a welcome in several languages by Pastor Grigorio (we marveled at his nod to our international community).  Jane and I elbowed our way through the soggy crowd to get our warm drinks, thoroughly soaked but happy in the muddy magic and the memory.  

The evening came to its end all too quickly, and we descended in the pawta (mud) and dark, contemplating the bonfire that starts in Bobbio and travels down the valley.  What fire could we start or be part of as well?   Part of our acceptance in the community has been our solidarity with the present-day Waldensians, who are not particularly religious, but deeply committed to their roots and one another.  Our two communities have intersected one another--to what purpose?  The Waldensians are as curious about us as we are about them.  Time--and lots of conversation in the coffee bars and trattoria--will tell.

In the meantime, time to get out of the soggy clothes and into bed.  Our next week of school is about to begin. 

Dispatch from the Sky Lounge

After a grueling 36 hours, Life is Beautiful!

Last minute buddy passes, a 4:00 am wake up call for a 5:00 departure, discovering that, since my luggage was at the office, scheduled for a 9:00 am pick up, I couldn’t get it before 6 am without triggering the security alarm.  Oy. 

The only possible solution was to eat breakfast.  I pulled out some blueberry almond muffins and bananas.  Arwen, my driver, and I then attempted conversation--which ranged from rambles into family history, Janis Joplin and transgender surgeries.  Such is the stuff of 4 am socializing.  

6:00 am finally arrived; we collected my luggage and were off, an hour late for departure.  But hey--I had my brand-spanking new Globaly Entry Pass, right?  That should shave some time off.

No need to worry.  On arrival, the ticket gatekeeper advised me to take a later flight to NYC--in the grip of yet another snow/ice event.  I could then fly directly into JFK rather than have to transfer from LaGuardia.  Va bene.  

A change of terminals and the extra hour allowed time for second breakfast.  And then arriving in a frosty NY, hours ahead of the second flight, I had the luxury of plopping into an island of calm in an empty gate, sketching travelers, trying to keep busy, awake, and alert in the several-hour wait for my 5 other traveling companions. 

And then the reunion came, happily in the Sky Lounge, courtesy of our fearless leader Bill.  Our invasion was comprehensive: luggage, djembe, saxophone, guitar, carry-ons and cameras, drawing stares and a “Are you guys a band?” questions. 

We helped ourselves to designer nibbles, admired the views: the NY skyline, the icy waters surrounding Manhattan, and the Emirates double decker airbus, largest in the world, for which wider air strips must be built. 
 
For our artistic pleasure, some fantastic photography by Bard College students was on display.  Conversation now ranged from  ‘emplotment’ and ‘poetic awe,’ to wondering if those of us flying standby would get on First Class.  Phone chat with Bro Pete, a group photo, and social medializing filled our final hour before take-off, as we texted, emailed, or FB-ed final farewells to our families and friends in the free Wi-Fi zone. 

And then the walk to the gate, checking in to make sure we were indeed ‘pretty much guaranteed’ to get the First Class seating.  YES!!!  The 36-hr gauntlet run paid off.

Jessa and I are now comfortably ensconced under our goose down comforters, Campari in hand, munching Glazed Almonds with cranberries, honey and sea salt--living large after the Great Schlepp. 

Dinner begins with a glazed shrimp and roasted pineapple appetizer.  If only I had worn the fur coat given me, the irony would be complete. 

So it begins.  The dark side of travel, literally and figuratively, giving way to the light.  How very metaphorical for what we hope to experience in Italy.  Moving into a spiritually dark place, and striking some matches.  

Italy arrives in 6 hours;  Bobbio Pellice after a 3-hr. van ride.  I pull on the headphones, punch in the Paul Simon Retrospective, and raise the footrest.  Time to get me some rest. 

Andiamo!

First stop: New York City, ice storm permitting, tomorrow morning. 

Next: Malpensa Airport, Milan, Italy, for a van pick up to transport me and my team up the Pellice Valley, via Turin and Pinerolo.

Destination: the end of the road: Bobbio Pellice, 8 km. from the French border, which became my home away from home two years ago, as some of you will remember.

The Project: Incarnate 2014.  With 6 of our staff joining several staff on the ground, and 10 artists from 8 nations arriving within days, we will begin 3 months together--pursuing creativity, community, and Christ.  We'll be immersed in local culture, sipping our espressos at the foot of the Italian Alps, waking with the roosters.  And if that farmer across the street is still interested in giving us cheese-making lessons, he's on!

We'll be engaging with local artists, partnering with nearby churches, and exploring the area’s rich Waldensian history (the Pellice Valley is home to the Waldensians; you can read that thread by beginning here).  We will also take a week to explore the art and culture of Florence and its surroundings.

The luggage palooza is over, the visas procured, the funds....being procured still...and the myriad of details finalizing for my team of 6 to move over to Italy for 3 months.  As we closed this phase of the project, we celebrated with coffee and churros, and separated with a "see you in the morning."  We would rendez-vous at 9 am tomorrow to catch our flight.

And then things went sideways: the Delta pilot who had given me the buddy pass called with good news/bad news.  The good news was I would get on the flight to Milan, leaving from NY.  The bad news: I wouldn't get on the NY leg of the journey; the flight was oversold.  I'd have to change flights.  Dang. Gotta love stand by.

Thus began a manic phone marathon, concluding with: changing airports to catch a 7:45 am flight to LaGuardia, transfer to JFK, and meet up with everyone later in the day.  Then on to Milan--first class!  If nothing else goes sideways...

Okey dokey...

Baggage reclaimed from the team pile, driver bribed into getting up for a 5:00 am departure, final belongings stuffed into two carry-ons, dodging New York ice storms, Global Entry and buddy passes firmly in hand, I am off for four months in Europe.  

Glamorous as that sounds, sometimes it takes nerves of steel...

Csodalatos!

I returned from Torre Pellice to find a note on my door: "There is a surprise for you in the refrigerator!"  I expect a little leftover pizza, or maybe a hunk of local cheese.  I find cheese all right...in the form of this state-of-the-art cheesecake, Hungarian/Italian style, made by Livia.  Across the top, is my favorite Hungarian word, "Csodalatos," written in chocolate across a strawberry top.  Oh my...for those of you who have been following along my journey, you will know the significance of that word in my life....

After a long conversation with Marco about the impact of this school, I decide that I have procrastinated long enough.  I ride the elevator one last time to Room 321, finish packing, and take the garbage out.  Bedtime arrives at around 10, as I stuff the last of the laundry in the suitcase, and set the alarm for 3 am.  This part of the journey is over.  

Last Day in Bobbio

Last day in Bobbio.  The sun is shining and the building is fairly quiet.  But the elevator is starting to hum up and down; the heroes are emerging.  I lie in bed calculating; yes, I have managed a full 8 hours sleep for the first time in who knows how long.

Spotty showers and heat problems continue, but this morning the showers are hot, and the heat is on--although we probably won't need it in another hour.   Our peek-a-boo spring is sending some warm rays over the snow-covered mountains, which I check daily as part of my morning ritual.  No new snow, just a rising mist, signaling mild temps.

Rendez-vous at 9: we will have a final cappuccino at Silvano's before three head out at 10.  I join everyone in the lobby--including Marco our cook--and off we go, silent or joking, denying the angst of another round of goodbyes.

As we approach the main square, a baby donkey stumbles out from behind a building, skitters to a halt and stares at us.  "Oooohhh...." some of us gasp, while others whip out their cameras.  Marco rolls his eyes and shoos us on, but we have to stop again: mama donkey, papa donkey and a whole family of donkeys follow baby out, drawing chuckles from both us and the townspeople.  

Silvano greets us, almost in tears.  More photos.  We bring our cappuccino and pastries out to the deck, while he snaps pictures of us.  The moment goes by too quickly, the body antsy with leaving, the mind racing between all that is left to do, and all that has been done, and next things.  Last minute gifts come to mind; the pasticerria is open--we can pick up some there, and still make the 10:00 am shuttle.

Once that group is tearfully waved off, I head for Torre Pellice, to browse the market (which I've only managed once in my time here), have my last gelato, and visit with Matt & Rose.  Also on the agenda: a look at the murals painted at the Salvation Army by some of our visual artists.

The market is bustling.  I bump into Silvano again--"What, you are stalking us?!"--and Lauren's family.  Francesca walks by with friends.  And then I am at the coffee shop to meet Matt & Rose.  Matt takes me to see the murals, while Rose finishes shopping for lunch (pasta in a butter/sage sauce), served on their terrace.  We meet Lanette for gelato; more goodbyes, then Lanette and I walk around town a bit, over to the bus stop.  I have to get home and finish packing.   

  

I leave Lanette at the bus stop, only to find Francesca on the bus!  We are both exhausted from goodbyes, and have more to go this afternoon, when the next crew of heroes leave. Five of us will be left tonight at Forterocca.