I was searching sites of interesting things to do in the southwest, for my cousins who will be visiting from Britain this summer. I thought I would clue them in on some of America's greatest assets- our roadside wonders. There is nothing like a trip on route 66 to make you appreciate how big and beautiful this country is. Here's the song, with some great footage:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9OsmSoO8b0&feature=related
and here is the link to one of my favorite sights along Route 66:
www.meteorcrater.com/
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Coffee in Paradise
It’s push comes to shove time, many of us are having to decide what we really need to shop for and what we can to without. In an attempt to stave off financial ruin, I have whittled my grocery list way down. I used to think I spent a lot on groceries, but it turns out my spending is average for the size of my family. I’m convinced my family is not really average and that I can bring my grocery bill down. It’s just one of the ways I’m choosing to economize in these interesting times.
I can’t find it in myself to give up my whole bean coffee, roasted to perfection by some corporate megalomaniac, I’m sure, but all the same I adore it. It’s worth waking up for. I can’t go with out my morning companion, and cheaper imitations just won’t do. They are to acidic, to light, to green, to pale, to mass produced, canned and vacuum sealed. They have no real personality; they just masquerade as having great depth. Their charm is gone the moment you get a whiff of their scent, like a guy wearing cheap cologne on a first date.
So in an attempt to economize, I have taken to actually measuring my beans to make each perfect cup o’ joe. I’m measuring the water too, so no left over, unused, unwanted, cold growing, stale cups of coffee get washed down the kitchen sink.
Into the grinder I carefully placed one and one half tablespoons of beans per cup o’joe. I ground the beans fine and dumped them into the French press coffee pot ( the only way to go if you really love the taste of coffee- no paper filter to soak up the delicate oils infused with essence of coffee tree, bloom and growth ).
One measured cup of steaming hot water for each cup of coffee followed.
I don’t know about you but I was fascinated to find that my coffee “cup” holds about two cups of coffee. I measured my china from the 30’s and 40’s and guess what? A cup held a cup. I wondered when we became such gluttons. Or were there copious cups all along, they just were not included with a set of delicate china? Did big mugs become fashionable in the 50’s? I had to know, it’s just me so I went on-line (don’t you love the internet?) and found this:
Archaeologists found mugs carved from bones dating to the Stone Age. The first coffee shop appeared in 1475 in Constantinople. The first coffee mugs were made out of wood during that time. In 1748, Britain banned coffee and all merchandise associated with it, including mugs. This led to a shortage of mugs, and the black market prices for mugs rose. DAMN! I sure am glad that I do not live in Britain in 1748!
Fascinating- but let us get back to the story-
I wrapped the coffee pot in kitchen towels to keep the heat in and let it set the required 4 minutes. Wa-la I mused as I poured the perfect cup of coffee. Steam rose to delight my nose as I lifted the mug and took a first sip.
Instantaneously it seemed that I had entered a worm hole and was projected back in time to a warm September afternoon. The sky was cloudless. Shade dappled the table I sat at, with tiny flutters of shadow in the warm breeze. The sun, just past mid point in the sky reflected a billion diamond like wave caps off the distant ocean, laid out before me with no end in sight. From my seat at the top of the island, I could see coast line curve for many miles before it wandered around the island, the ocean surrounding it like a square dancers skirt in full twirl. The dust had settled on the dirt road, the last car passed half an hour ago and the only sounds were the call of birds I could not identify in the distance, as they meandered through the coffee plantation, and the low hum of the coffee roaster in the plantation’s thatched roof “factory and retail shop” down the walk to my right. The flagstone patio was empty; presumably the tourists were off pursuing more aquatic interests in the heat of the day.
The cup of coffee in front of me was hot, and made the air seem cool, a respite from the humid warmth of the big island air. The coffee was dark and rich, tasting like once ancient volcanic lava now weatherized to a soft black nutrient rich soil, and sweet dreams of paradise and sea turtles and palm trees and orchid leis.
A moment later I was back in the kitchen, - Wow! That is one good cup of coffee. I'm making it just like that from now on. The unexpected mini vacation-in-my-mind just the icing on the cake of a great economical cup 'o joe.
I can’t find it in myself to give up my whole bean coffee, roasted to perfection by some corporate megalomaniac, I’m sure, but all the same I adore it. It’s worth waking up for. I can’t go with out my morning companion, and cheaper imitations just won’t do. They are to acidic, to light, to green, to pale, to mass produced, canned and vacuum sealed. They have no real personality; they just masquerade as having great depth. Their charm is gone the moment you get a whiff of their scent, like a guy wearing cheap cologne on a first date.
So in an attempt to economize, I have taken to actually measuring my beans to make each perfect cup o’ joe. I’m measuring the water too, so no left over, unused, unwanted, cold growing, stale cups of coffee get washed down the kitchen sink.
Into the grinder I carefully placed one and one half tablespoons of beans per cup o’joe. I ground the beans fine and dumped them into the French press coffee pot ( the only way to go if you really love the taste of coffee- no paper filter to soak up the delicate oils infused with essence of coffee tree, bloom and growth ).
One measured cup of steaming hot water for each cup of coffee followed.
I don’t know about you but I was fascinated to find that my coffee “cup” holds about two cups of coffee. I measured my china from the 30’s and 40’s and guess what? A cup held a cup. I wondered when we became such gluttons. Or were there copious cups all along, they just were not included with a set of delicate china? Did big mugs become fashionable in the 50’s? I had to know, it’s just me so I went on-line (don’t you love the internet?) and found this:
Archaeologists found mugs carved from bones dating to the Stone Age. The first coffee shop appeared in 1475 in Constantinople. The first coffee mugs were made out of wood during that time. In 1748, Britain banned coffee and all merchandise associated with it, including mugs. This led to a shortage of mugs, and the black market prices for mugs rose. DAMN! I sure am glad that I do not live in Britain in 1748!
Fascinating- but let us get back to the story-
I wrapped the coffee pot in kitchen towels to keep the heat in and let it set the required 4 minutes. Wa-la I mused as I poured the perfect cup of coffee. Steam rose to delight my nose as I lifted the mug and took a first sip.
Instantaneously it seemed that I had entered a worm hole and was projected back in time to a warm September afternoon. The sky was cloudless. Shade dappled the table I sat at, with tiny flutters of shadow in the warm breeze. The sun, just past mid point in the sky reflected a billion diamond like wave caps off the distant ocean, laid out before me with no end in sight. From my seat at the top of the island, I could see coast line curve for many miles before it wandered around the island, the ocean surrounding it like a square dancers skirt in full twirl. The dust had settled on the dirt road, the last car passed half an hour ago and the only sounds were the call of birds I could not identify in the distance, as they meandered through the coffee plantation, and the low hum of the coffee roaster in the plantation’s thatched roof “factory and retail shop” down the walk to my right. The flagstone patio was empty; presumably the tourists were off pursuing more aquatic interests in the heat of the day.
The cup of coffee in front of me was hot, and made the air seem cool, a respite from the humid warmth of the big island air. The coffee was dark and rich, tasting like once ancient volcanic lava now weatherized to a soft black nutrient rich soil, and sweet dreams of paradise and sea turtles and palm trees and orchid leis.
A moment later I was back in the kitchen, - Wow! That is one good cup of coffee. I'm making it just like that from now on. The unexpected mini vacation-in-my-mind just the icing on the cake of a great economical cup 'o joe.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Tickle Tickle
I lay my head back against the lava rock and stared up at the sky. The humidity in the air dulled the blue a bit, but it still was the color you would expect from a tropical sky, blue enough to swim in. A few small clouds floated by and I followed their movement as they brushed up against the tops of rugged mountains flanked by a heavy cloak of their own clouds, much denser and almost a silver gray. The Mountains bore the dense tropical foliage you would expect in a remote corner of paradise.
Between myself and the mountains lay acres of uninhabited rough land covered with lava slides. One would think nothing grew on this lunar inspired landscape, but upon closer examination it is revealed that something is growing. Apparently the lava is fertile soil for a plant with roots like talons that can dig into the hard lava ground and become footing for a single stalk which proudly carries one perfect orchid bloom. The entire landscape is dotted with these tough little orchids, like a bag of cotton balls spilled out over a black counter top.
Closer to my resting place, palm trees grew in profusion. The soil here was not the solid lava rock, but, because the location was just a coconuts throw from the magnificently powerful waves of hundreds of miles of open ocean, the ground was covered with a fine black sand, pulverized lava rock, which apparently is the perfect growing medium for coconut palms. The trees were grouped along the coast in twos and threes, like sentries on watch for invaders off the water. As I lay there I tried to imagine how long it took for the waves to turn orchard supporting lava rocks into palm growing sand.
As I contemplated the immeasurable time it would take to turn rocks to sand I became aware of a tickle at my toes. It came and went like the rhythm of the waves I could hear behind me, crashing against the shelf of lava between my resting spot and the ocean. It was a small tickle, first around big toe, then at my ankle. Like a tiny feather brushing by me on the wind.
I lifted my hand from the cool water of my resting place and wiped the sweat from my face. I was up to my neck in a tidal pool, full of the ocean left by the last high tide. My spot was the size of a large claw footed bathtub and sand lined the bottom to create a comfortable cushion between my behind and the lava rocks. The water was warmer than that which pounded against the rock ledge, warmed by the morning sun to the temperature of the air around me. Warm as it was, it still cooled me, washing away the sweat from my hike to the remote beach.
The tickle came again, around my small toe now and along the outer edge of my foot. I opened one eye and cast about in the water, wondering where the feather had come from. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of movement. Darting around my foot, a little yellow streak in the shadows. A wiggle of my toes and the yellow streak darted back and forth. Toes still, like a lily pad on a pond brought the yellow streak back to my foot, tickle tickle.
I looked closer, this time both eyes searching and I found the yellow streak surrounded by black, a tiny arrow streaking around in my tropical tub. I was not the only traveler seeking respite from the high sun in the cool of this tidal pool. A tiny fish, no more than two inches long shared my bath. My movement had brought the tiny fish to a standstill, fins in slow rippling motion, holding my little companion in the shadow of a tiny overhang on the edge of our lava rock tub.
I said a little prayer for the tiny fish, that it be lifted from this tide pool with the first high tide of the night. That it sail on the waves back to the ocean, into the cool deep of its home. I lay my head back on the lava rock and closed my eyes relaxing back into the waves, the salt water, the humid air, the lava. I could hear the palm fronds in the breeze. Stillness came. Tickle tickle.
Between myself and the mountains lay acres of uninhabited rough land covered with lava slides. One would think nothing grew on this lunar inspired landscape, but upon closer examination it is revealed that something is growing. Apparently the lava is fertile soil for a plant with roots like talons that can dig into the hard lava ground and become footing for a single stalk which proudly carries one perfect orchid bloom. The entire landscape is dotted with these tough little orchids, like a bag of cotton balls spilled out over a black counter top.
Closer to my resting place, palm trees grew in profusion. The soil here was not the solid lava rock, but, because the location was just a coconuts throw from the magnificently powerful waves of hundreds of miles of open ocean, the ground was covered with a fine black sand, pulverized lava rock, which apparently is the perfect growing medium for coconut palms. The trees were grouped along the coast in twos and threes, like sentries on watch for invaders off the water. As I lay there I tried to imagine how long it took for the waves to turn orchard supporting lava rocks into palm growing sand.
As I contemplated the immeasurable time it would take to turn rocks to sand I became aware of a tickle at my toes. It came and went like the rhythm of the waves I could hear behind me, crashing against the shelf of lava between my resting spot and the ocean. It was a small tickle, first around big toe, then at my ankle. Like a tiny feather brushing by me on the wind.
I lifted my hand from the cool water of my resting place and wiped the sweat from my face. I was up to my neck in a tidal pool, full of the ocean left by the last high tide. My spot was the size of a large claw footed bathtub and sand lined the bottom to create a comfortable cushion between my behind and the lava rocks. The water was warmer than that which pounded against the rock ledge, warmed by the morning sun to the temperature of the air around me. Warm as it was, it still cooled me, washing away the sweat from my hike to the remote beach.
The tickle came again, around my small toe now and along the outer edge of my foot. I opened one eye and cast about in the water, wondering where the feather had come from. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of movement. Darting around my foot, a little yellow streak in the shadows. A wiggle of my toes and the yellow streak darted back and forth. Toes still, like a lily pad on a pond brought the yellow streak back to my foot, tickle tickle.
I looked closer, this time both eyes searching and I found the yellow streak surrounded by black, a tiny arrow streaking around in my tropical tub. I was not the only traveler seeking respite from the high sun in the cool of this tidal pool. A tiny fish, no more than two inches long shared my bath. My movement had brought the tiny fish to a standstill, fins in slow rippling motion, holding my little companion in the shadow of a tiny overhang on the edge of our lava rock tub.
I said a little prayer for the tiny fish, that it be lifted from this tide pool with the first high tide of the night. That it sail on the waves back to the ocean, into the cool deep of its home. I lay my head back on the lava rock and closed my eyes relaxing back into the waves, the salt water, the humid air, the lava. I could hear the palm fronds in the breeze. Stillness came. Tickle tickle.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Contest
I have to tell you I just have not had time to clatter away at the keys this week. My sister, bless her little heart, fell off her bike and broke her ankle a week ago and I'm spending as much time as I can keeping her company because she is not feeling to well and can't get around much.
We have started a Uno championship tournament and it's not looking good for yours truly. My sister is the luckiest card player in the known universe. I've takin' to calling her sharkie. I think as soon as her leg is healed and she can walk, I'm packing us both off for a trip to Vegas. I'm sure she would strip every bit of gold off that glittering city of sin. She would need no help from me, I would just go along to help her tote her moneybags through the airport when she returns.
Our games usually start pretty friendly, but end up with me flinging curses around while she does the happy dance again.
You have to admire her style, it's not easy to do the happy dance with a 14 pound cast covering 8 pounds of screws and metal plates hanging around your ankle.
This weekend ( I'm writing this on Wednesday and using the new blogger feature to post into the future, you will see it Saturday! Cool!) we plan on playing another 3227 rounds of Uno, as well as watching a couple of long, dramatic, engaging films. My sister gets sucked right into a good drama, so I figure to take her mind off her wheelchair deformed butt by screening a few of my favorite dramatic movies that she has never viewed. I picked "Out of Africa" and "Legends of the Fall". Both are sweeping sagas with lots of drama, a few tears, some adventure and a couple cute guys. I also picked up "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", in case we need some comic relief after watching Brad Pitt morph into a crazed pirate. (please, Hollywood, we don't ever want to see Brad with a beard again!)
Meanwhile, I wanted to give you something fun to do for a few days 'till I can get back to posting more often. I have this wonderful photo of- I can't tell you where- and I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a contest?
So here is the photo:
Now, who can tell me what and where this is? I will give you a hint- it's not some isolated outpost in the middle of no where.
The first comment posted with the correct answer will get...a....um...lots of praise?
Your name in lights? Officially recognized? A round of applause?
Keep in mind I have to moderate the comments and post them so it might be a few days before you see your name in lights. Thanks for playing! This is gonna be fun! Talk soon, Meandering
We have started a Uno championship tournament and it's not looking good for yours truly. My sister is the luckiest card player in the known universe. I've takin' to calling her sharkie. I think as soon as her leg is healed and she can walk, I'm packing us both off for a trip to Vegas. I'm sure she would strip every bit of gold off that glittering city of sin. She would need no help from me, I would just go along to help her tote her moneybags through the airport when she returns.
Our games usually start pretty friendly, but end up with me flinging curses around while she does the happy dance again.
You have to admire her style, it's not easy to do the happy dance with a 14 pound cast covering 8 pounds of screws and metal plates hanging around your ankle.
This weekend ( I'm writing this on Wednesday and using the new blogger feature to post into the future, you will see it Saturday! Cool!) we plan on playing another 3227 rounds of Uno, as well as watching a couple of long, dramatic, engaging films. My sister gets sucked right into a good drama, so I figure to take her mind off her wheelchair deformed butt by screening a few of my favorite dramatic movies that she has never viewed. I picked "Out of Africa" and "Legends of the Fall". Both are sweeping sagas with lots of drama, a few tears, some adventure and a couple cute guys. I also picked up "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", in case we need some comic relief after watching Brad Pitt morph into a crazed pirate. (please, Hollywood, we don't ever want to see Brad with a beard again!)
Meanwhile, I wanted to give you something fun to do for a few days 'till I can get back to posting more often. I have this wonderful photo of- I can't tell you where- and I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a contest?
So here is the photo:
Now, who can tell me what and where this is? I will give you a hint- it's not some isolated outpost in the middle of no where.
The first comment posted with the correct answer will get...a....um...lots of praise?
Your name in lights? Officially recognized? A round of applause?
Keep in mind I have to moderate the comments and post them so it might be a few days before you see your name in lights. Thanks for playing! This is gonna be fun! Talk soon, Meandering
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
The t-shirt would be a little lame, right? I mean, the back would say this:
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
“Blessing the US!”
Washington, DC
New York, NY
Not much of a tour, only two stops, but I guess that is what made it so special. I was thrilled to have gotten a ticket to a historic religious event like this. And I’m not even Catholic. As I told you in an earlier post, I was riding shotgun for my devout catholic friend who wanted a companion for the long trip. I owed her, and I’ll admit, in this instance I was glad I owed her and happy to pay up.
I could give you a blow by blow of the whole event, the drive to New York, the kindness of the Church group who allowed us to enter their parish lottery for tickets and then took us into their hearts and onto their bus. The drive down the Hudson, with the steely grey skies and a cold wind blowing us along.
My discomfort with seeing New York City again, I know that many people consider it a tourist destination, a thrilling fun place to visit and apparently a lot of people consider it a great place to live and work, but I have to admit I don’t care for NYC. I hadn’t been there in about 15 years and I could have spent the rest of my life with out going again. I don’t know, it’s just to grey, to dirty, to cement and steel, to crowded, to noisy and yes, I know about central park but besides that, I don’t see enough nature to keep a June bug alive. It’s just too manmade for me. I don’t like that caged in feeling I get when there are buildings towering all around me. I want to see the sky above, the horizon in the distance and the earth under my feet, so NYC and me, we just don’t fit.
I could go on and on about the amazing choreography of the support staff who parked 800 buses and got 57,000 people through security in the blink of an eye. I was having trouble telling the FBI guys in their conservative suits from the Catholic guys dressed for Mass with the Pope. The NYC cops were short. Yes, I said short. I’ve never seen so many short cops in my life. Maybe it’s a process of evolution; these homeboys growing up in crowded city conditions are naturally starting to grow smaller.
They were all very nice, just small. I was especially happy with the one who promised not to remove us from the event if we crashed the men’s room because honestly, the ladies room line was around the stadium. I saw one of the shorty cops in our section of the stadium, who had never taken his eyes off the crowd during the whole event, pull his crucifix out of his shirt and cross himself as the Pope concluded Mass. I suspect he was thrilled to be making overtime protecting the head of his Church, I just wish he could have participated in the Mass as well.
I could also go on and on about the number of people, the amazing diversity of ages and nationality, the large group of novice priests in baseball caps (so cute!), the occasional Nun in habit surrounded by little girls with starry eyes asking questions, ( that’s cute too!). The Monks in robes, the Knights of Columbus in full regalia (Stunning!), all the Bishops and Cardinals in tall hats and flowing robes, the elderly dressed in their Sunday best, the families of faithful, the crowds of security people, the reporters and cameras and all of our NYC hosts, the staff at the stadium.
I could go on about the pre- Pope show with Harry Connick Jr. which was a real treat and by then the cold winds were letting up and the clouds were beginning to slide away so the whole event was becoming much more comfortable. My hands were thawing out.
Finally the time for mass arrived and the bells called the faithful to service. The ritual of the Catholic Mass is a beautiful thing to see and even more so when attended by a horde of Bishops and Cardinals and 57,000 people. The Pope made his way around the stadium in the “pope-mobile” and the teenager behind me told his grandma he wanted to get a truck just like that to tour around town in.
When the Pope finally stepped onto the stage and the cameras focused on him, his image filled the big screens and I got a warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it, I just did. Like I was looking at my best friends favorite Grandpa. I raised my white scarf ( handed to me at the gate courtesy of the church) and waved like crazy, welcoming the Pope. It didn’t take long for the crowd to become still, after all, I imagine a large number of people in the crowd had gone to Catholic schools, had been disciplined by the Nuns and knew when it was time to settle down.
The Mass started and I kept half an eye on my devout Catholic friend because I knew that the mass progressed in a predictable fashion and there were times to stand and times to sit and times to bow your head. I was taking my cues from my friend and wondering if God was keeping score, how many missed masses could I make up by attending one mass with the Pope? I figured conservatively that if I were catholic, I would have missed 2600 masses so far in my life. Could I trade, say, half of those in by attending this one?
I was contemplating this question, observing the crowd at their mass when suddenly it came to the part in the mass where the priest calls out and the congregation answers back and 57,000 voices rose together like a flock of doves above the stadium and as one voice answered the call of their faith. I was stunned with the beauty of it. It was enormous.
It was like the entire stadium full of people became one being and the rise and fall of the mass was the heartbeat and breath of this giant. The call of the Priest became the foghorn and the mass the lighthouse in the fog. The huge crowd moved as one being, eyes closed, just listening and responding as it was guided home. Every move of the mass was echoed by 57,000 beings moving as one being sewn together from 57,000 threads, stand up, sit down, bow head. It was the same, always, in every church everywhere and everyone moved with certainty. The consistency a solid rock foundation, they were held comfortably in the arms of the ritual they knew without doubt.
I stood aside as 57,000 people were given the sacrament by hundreds of priests. I looked around and saw 57,000 people in blissful contemplation of the most holy of their rituals. The “vibe” was almost visible and I think, just maybe, that the stadium seen from outside would have had a sheen to it. As the mass ended I took up my white scarf again, and with everyone else bid Pope Benedict XVI goodbye.
It was incredible to see, I mean, who would have thought 57,000 people anywhere, anytime, for any reason, could move in perfect synchronicity? But it did happen, I saw it. I heard it. I felt a sudden renewal in my faith in faith.
I think for most people, faith is like a red line on a thermometer, moving up and down in the seasons of their life. If we look at faith as the thread that sews the garment of our life together, we realize the consistency of the stitches to be what makes the garment stronger. As we learn to sew with faith and our stitches become more uniform, no longer tiny and tight in some places, long and loose in others, but consistently even, always in faith, sewn with care, the garment of our life becomes stronger. No longer is our garment easily torn apart by the hands of fate.
For me, that is the message of the Mass, always the same, everywhere, through time, never changing, consistently calling to the faithful to remain so.
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
“Blessing the US!”
Washington, DC
New York, NY
Not much of a tour, only two stops, but I guess that is what made it so special. I was thrilled to have gotten a ticket to a historic religious event like this. And I’m not even Catholic. As I told you in an earlier post, I was riding shotgun for my devout catholic friend who wanted a companion for the long trip. I owed her, and I’ll admit, in this instance I was glad I owed her and happy to pay up.
I could give you a blow by blow of the whole event, the drive to New York, the kindness of the Church group who allowed us to enter their parish lottery for tickets and then took us into their hearts and onto their bus. The drive down the Hudson, with the steely grey skies and a cold wind blowing us along.
My discomfort with seeing New York City again, I know that many people consider it a tourist destination, a thrilling fun place to visit and apparently a lot of people consider it a great place to live and work, but I have to admit I don’t care for NYC. I hadn’t been there in about 15 years and I could have spent the rest of my life with out going again. I don’t know, it’s just to grey, to dirty, to cement and steel, to crowded, to noisy and yes, I know about central park but besides that, I don’t see enough nature to keep a June bug alive. It’s just too manmade for me. I don’t like that caged in feeling I get when there are buildings towering all around me. I want to see the sky above, the horizon in the distance and the earth under my feet, so NYC and me, we just don’t fit.
I could go on and on about the amazing choreography of the support staff who parked 800 buses and got 57,000 people through security in the blink of an eye. I was having trouble telling the FBI guys in their conservative suits from the Catholic guys dressed for Mass with the Pope. The NYC cops were short. Yes, I said short. I’ve never seen so many short cops in my life. Maybe it’s a process of evolution; these homeboys growing up in crowded city conditions are naturally starting to grow smaller.
They were all very nice, just small. I was especially happy with the one who promised not to remove us from the event if we crashed the men’s room because honestly, the ladies room line was around the stadium. I saw one of the shorty cops in our section of the stadium, who had never taken his eyes off the crowd during the whole event, pull his crucifix out of his shirt and cross himself as the Pope concluded Mass. I suspect he was thrilled to be making overtime protecting the head of his Church, I just wish he could have participated in the Mass as well.
I could also go on and on about the number of people, the amazing diversity of ages and nationality, the large group of novice priests in baseball caps (so cute!), the occasional Nun in habit surrounded by little girls with starry eyes asking questions, ( that’s cute too!). The Monks in robes, the Knights of Columbus in full regalia (Stunning!), all the Bishops and Cardinals in tall hats and flowing robes, the elderly dressed in their Sunday best, the families of faithful, the crowds of security people, the reporters and cameras and all of our NYC hosts, the staff at the stadium.
I could go on about the pre- Pope show with Harry Connick Jr. which was a real treat and by then the cold winds were letting up and the clouds were beginning to slide away so the whole event was becoming much more comfortable. My hands were thawing out.
Finally the time for mass arrived and the bells called the faithful to service. The ritual of the Catholic Mass is a beautiful thing to see and even more so when attended by a horde of Bishops and Cardinals and 57,000 people. The Pope made his way around the stadium in the “pope-mobile” and the teenager behind me told his grandma he wanted to get a truck just like that to tour around town in.
When the Pope finally stepped onto the stage and the cameras focused on him, his image filled the big screens and I got a warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it, I just did. Like I was looking at my best friends favorite Grandpa. I raised my white scarf ( handed to me at the gate courtesy of the church) and waved like crazy, welcoming the Pope. It didn’t take long for the crowd to become still, after all, I imagine a large number of people in the crowd had gone to Catholic schools, had been disciplined by the Nuns and knew when it was time to settle down.
The Mass started and I kept half an eye on my devout Catholic friend because I knew that the mass progressed in a predictable fashion and there were times to stand and times to sit and times to bow your head. I was taking my cues from my friend and wondering if God was keeping score, how many missed masses could I make up by attending one mass with the Pope? I figured conservatively that if I were catholic, I would have missed 2600 masses so far in my life. Could I trade, say, half of those in by attending this one?
I was contemplating this question, observing the crowd at their mass when suddenly it came to the part in the mass where the priest calls out and the congregation answers back and 57,000 voices rose together like a flock of doves above the stadium and as one voice answered the call of their faith. I was stunned with the beauty of it. It was enormous.
It was like the entire stadium full of people became one being and the rise and fall of the mass was the heartbeat and breath of this giant. The call of the Priest became the foghorn and the mass the lighthouse in the fog. The huge crowd moved as one being, eyes closed, just listening and responding as it was guided home. Every move of the mass was echoed by 57,000 beings moving as one being sewn together from 57,000 threads, stand up, sit down, bow head. It was the same, always, in every church everywhere and everyone moved with certainty. The consistency a solid rock foundation, they were held comfortably in the arms of the ritual they knew without doubt.
I stood aside as 57,000 people were given the sacrament by hundreds of priests. I looked around and saw 57,000 people in blissful contemplation of the most holy of their rituals. The “vibe” was almost visible and I think, just maybe, that the stadium seen from outside would have had a sheen to it. As the mass ended I took up my white scarf again, and with everyone else bid Pope Benedict XVI goodbye.
It was incredible to see, I mean, who would have thought 57,000 people anywhere, anytime, for any reason, could move in perfect synchronicity? But it did happen, I saw it. I heard it. I felt a sudden renewal in my faith in faith.
I think for most people, faith is like a red line on a thermometer, moving up and down in the seasons of their life. If we look at faith as the thread that sews the garment of our life together, we realize the consistency of the stitches to be what makes the garment stronger. As we learn to sew with faith and our stitches become more uniform, no longer tiny and tight in some places, long and loose in others, but consistently even, always in faith, sewn with care, the garment of our life becomes stronger. No longer is our garment easily torn apart by the hands of fate.
For me, that is the message of the Mass, always the same, everywhere, through time, never changing, consistently calling to the faithful to remain so.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Mass at Yankee Stadium with Pope Benedict XVI
I'm still percolating on my article about meandering to NYC to see the Pope. It was really amazing, I can tell you that. Check back soon for the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth.
Three Days of Peace and Music
while I was meandering to NYC to see the Pope, I figured why not take a side trip and make another pilgrimage to another inspirational spot? The site of Woodstock is now a performing arts center with lots of parking, restrooms, and a visitors center. It's still a beautiful natural amphitheater surrounded by farmland and woods, and I swear it still carries "the vibe" of August 1969 when 3 days of peace and music birthed a new nation.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Off To See The Pope
In some blessed event apparently reigned over by numerous saints, I ended up with a ticket to see His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI in NYC this weekend.
Really, it was like winning the lotto. My devote catholic friend, who went to see His Holiness The Dalia Lama with me and made me swear to be her road trip buddy if The Pope ever came to the US, managed to get our names into a lottery for tickets in a parish just outside of the city.
Now here's where the blessed event reigned over by numerous saints comes in - somehow, out of all those hundreds of names, both our names were pulled! We both received letters saying our tickets were being held for us in the parking lot of a mall north of NYC where we would board the bus with a few hundred other devout catholics to drive into NYC to see the POPE! Then, heaven rain down on us, we found out Harry Connick Junior is among the warm up entertainment for His Holiness!
Now I don't know about you, but I was not about to turn my back on this nudge from the universe, even though I'm not Catholic. I mean, it's a miracle I got a ticket, I think I better go. Besides, I did promise my devout catholic friend some back up for just such an event, and I just Love Harry Connick Junior.
So I'm off to see the Pope and I will let ya know how it goes.
Really, it was like winning the lotto. My devote catholic friend, who went to see His Holiness The Dalia Lama with me and made me swear to be her road trip buddy if The Pope ever came to the US, managed to get our names into a lottery for tickets in a parish just outside of the city.
Now here's where the blessed event reigned over by numerous saints comes in - somehow, out of all those hundreds of names, both our names were pulled! We both received letters saying our tickets were being held for us in the parking lot of a mall north of NYC where we would board the bus with a few hundred other devout catholics to drive into NYC to see the POPE! Then, heaven rain down on us, we found out Harry Connick Junior is among the warm up entertainment for His Holiness!
Now I don't know about you, but I was not about to turn my back on this nudge from the universe, even though I'm not Catholic. I mean, it's a miracle I got a ticket, I think I better go. Besides, I did promise my devout catholic friend some back up for just such an event, and I just Love Harry Connick Junior.
So I'm off to see the Pope and I will let ya know how it goes.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Jimmy Buffett, Margaritas and Beaches
OK, Y'all know I was thinking of beaches last week ( if you don't, go back and read TGIT? ) and the funny thing was, that very evening my friend called me and warned me that she was gonna drop by on her way home from work. Then she started talking about listening to Jimmy Buffett at work and how she was thinking about the beach and margaritas.
Talk about two people being on the same wave length!
Maybe we were having some kinda psychic connection or something, or maybe it's true that great minds think alike. Anyhow, she showed up at my house after work and had a couple of adorable margarita glasses in her hand- you know, the kind with the big cactus stem? Too Cute!
Anyway, I just happen to have a bottle of tequila, triple sec, some key lime juice, margarita salt and ice! Isn't that a strange concidence! Is this some amazing psychic phenomenon? Is it a case of the second sight? Some kinda leak of information from a parallel universe?
Is time just like a big old stack of pancakes that we can sometimes glimpse through and see the future? I don't know, but after a couple of margaritas we had all kinda theories.
Anyway, this post is for my friend and for everyone out there who is having a beach of a day. Come on back anytime ya feel like seeing the beach, and enjoy my photos of some of the beaches I've visited.
Big Island, Hawaii
Kona Coast Big Island, Hawaii
Long Island, New York
Oahu, Hawaii
Galveston, Texas
Cancun, Mexico
Key West, Florida
Isla Mujeras, Mexico
Oahu, Hawaii
Talk about two people being on the same wave length!
Maybe we were having some kinda psychic connection or something, or maybe it's true that great minds think alike. Anyhow, she showed up at my house after work and had a couple of adorable margarita glasses in her hand- you know, the kind with the big cactus stem? Too Cute!
Anyway, I just happen to have a bottle of tequila, triple sec, some key lime juice, margarita salt and ice! Isn't that a strange concidence! Is this some amazing psychic phenomenon? Is it a case of the second sight? Some kinda leak of information from a parallel universe?
Is time just like a big old stack of pancakes that we can sometimes glimpse through and see the future? I don't know, but after a couple of margaritas we had all kinda theories.
Anyway, this post is for my friend and for everyone out there who is having a beach of a day. Come on back anytime ya feel like seeing the beach, and enjoy my photos of some of the beaches I've visited.
Big Island, Hawaii
Kona Coast Big Island, Hawaii
Long Island, New York
Oahu, Hawaii
Galveston, Texas
Cancun, Mexico
Key West, Florida
Isla Mujeras, Mexico
Oahu, HawaiiPensacola, Florida
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