Tag Archives: Tour du Mont Blanc

On Pilgrimage: Bringing Back the Boon

08 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by in Alpine Pilgrimage

≈ 43 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

How do we keep sacred memories alive? How to make the journey part of our lives once we are back in the daily grind? – Phil Cousineau

We had worn bright, nearly neon, orange shirts during the course of our pilgrimage. The back of the shirts bore the image of a mountain goat and, in Latin, the words: Persequi Essentia Hircum, which translates roughly to Pursue Goatness. After reading a story about the Tour du Mont-Blanc (TMB) in The Wall Street Journal, the beloved Swede had designed and ordered these for each member on this year’s pilgrimage team .The writer, self-described as no fitness enthusiast, suggested that estimated trail times listed in TMB hiking guides had to have been based on those recorded by Olympic-trained mountain goats.

In the company of my fellow pilgrims I had completed my journey, having walked in a large circle around Mount Blanc and returned to the place I had begun. Including my pre-trip hikes with the Swede, and given the particular variants and sections of trail I had hiked, I had traveled roughly ninety miles by foot.  I had been given opportunity to witness staggering beauty, ponder God’s word, and taste, touch, and hear of his goodness. I had made new friends and developed something akin to quad muscles. I had laughed, and I had cried.

But what, if anything, had I learned?

Our leaders had planned a celebratory dinner for us on the last evening together before we were to depart and go our separate ways. Before the dinner, we gathered one last time to consider what gift, what treasure, each had found during the journey.

Stan, our meteorologist friend, spoke of his delight in observing the weather in that alpine region. Even the no-good, cloudy, foggy, misty, rainy days, (okay, those might not have been his exact words) the kind which had unnerved me the day prior, provided the nourishment the ground needed to produce the abundant flowering beauty we had enjoyed.

The very thing which had frustrated me, it turns out, had also been the source of my blessing.

I’m not sure I expected to learn anything new during the course of this trip. I’ve been a student of Scripture all my life. I know what I know. Sometimes, however, it seems I need to learn the same lessons over and over again:

  • All of life is pilgrimage
  • And it ain’t no ride on a pink duck
  • But I dwell always in God’s presence
  • And each step I take is a gift; each step forward is a victory
  • Fellow pilgrims add joy to the journey
  • There really is a monster, one bent on keeping me from the deepest longing of my heart
  •  I’ve been given a scarlet thread I can cling to, one which will lead me home
  • Those things which frustrate me most are very likely the source of abundant blessing
  • And whatever measure of goatness I achieved was actually given, not earned, according to the pleasure of the One who gave it.

Since returning home from this experience, I’ve been reading books about Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). ADD is a not-so-merry traveler which has decided to hitchhike its way along in the journey of several people I care about deeply. Kate Kelly and Peggy Ramundo, both of whom have ADD, co-authored a book in which they describe their condition as feeling, at times, as though one foot was nailed to the floor. They felt as though they were walking around in circles, attempting to learn the same life lessons over and over again. Yet, they continued:

What can seem like movement without progress may actually be just gradual progress. . . . Sure, we’ve been coming around to a very familiar situation again, but haven’t we moved up a level, maybe ever so slightly? What looks like “returning full circle” if we only notice the length and width of our path, becomes a spiral that keeps moving upward with each cycle when we see its height. Like ascending a spiral staircase, we may find that we have been going upward at the same time we were winding around the center.

I’d walked in a huge circle, tested theological constructs I carry around in my head, and exposed my weaknesses in mind, body, and soul. This experience on pilgrimage reminded me of my need to stop drink deeply and often while on ascent, from the stream of restoring grace.

I returned to JFK, my suitcase filled with souvenirs and no small amount of Swiss chocolate. Almost immediately, crowds, noise, and exhaustion threatened to undo the deep soul rest I’d experienced in the mountains. So I decided to write these little stories.  I wrote them for me, to help me to remember. Some of you have joined me in the journey, reading along with me through these posts.  I am grateful for your kind words along the way.

These words are my boon, the gift I found in the journey.

Wordle created from text of Psalm 84 and words collected along the way

. . . the pilgrim feels a different call and is changed by the journey. The deepest of those changes is the need to share the gold, the wisdom, the boon of the journey. . . . The story that we bring back from our journeys is the boon. It is the gift of grace that was passed to us in the heart of our journey. – Phil Cousineau

This is the final post in my pilgrimage series. Click here to read from the beginning.

Spaces are available for next year’s Alpine Pilgrimage, hosted by the Coalition for Christian Outreach. For more information, click here. If this middle-aged, gray-haired grandma-to-be can do it, so can you.

Sources cited:

Cousineau, Phil. The Art of Pilgrimage: A Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred (p. 217, 222). Kindle Edition.

Kelly, Kate and Peggy Ramundo. You Mean I’m Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?! New York: Scribner, 2006, p. 419.

On Pilgrimage: Arrival

02 Thursday Aug 2012

Posted by in Alpine Pilgrimage, Communities

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

The essential task is to feel the thrill of completing your pilgrimage. If we remember that the word thrill originally referred to the vibrations the arrow made when it hits the target, then the pleasure is compounded. There is joy in having arrived, moment by moment. – Phil Cousineau

Dressed from head to toe in Gore Tex rain gear, we began the final full day on pilgrimage with a descent into the Trient Valley.  I wasn’t looking forward to hiking in the rain, but I had dragged my gear all the way across the ocean and along with me throughout every step of the journey. I figured there was no point in lugging gear around that I wasn’t planning to use. Besides, I’d seen a description of the day’s hike, both the distance and elevation loss and gain, and figured I could handle it.

A welcome cool mist fell as we made our descent into the valley. Although downhill hiking can be less physically taxing than is climbing, wet weather caused roots and rocks on the trail to become slippery. Having no desire to fall and break anything on the last leg of my trip, I paid careful attention to each step I placed.

But I was doing okay.

Church in village of Trient

We walked through the small village of Trient and found the trail which would lead us up and over Col de Balme, and return us to France. I was relieved, thinking this would be my last uphill climb. As we began our ascent, steady rain began to fall.

There is an art to layering one’s clothing when hiking, and I’m never quite sure I get it right. I knew that I would get soaked without rain gear, yet I would get hot and sweaty while climbing if I wore too many layers.  Our meteorologist friend and fellow hiker informed us that, given wind and weather conditions at higher elevations, we should be prepared for wind chill temperatures hovering around the twenty degree mark.  I managed my layers as best as I knew how, stopping several times to add or remove clothing items as needed.

And I was still doing okay.

Our progress up the hill was interrupted by remnants of logging activity which had taken place along the trail. Several times we had to crawl under and through downed pine trees on our hands and knees, guaranteeing we would be a muddy mess by the end of the hike. I felt a little like a character in a movie slinking my way through a laser-wire security system; except I was twisting my way through tree branches on the side of a steep slope with a day pack attached to my back.

The trail wasn’t pleasant, and I wasn’t having fun, but I was still hanging in there.

We reached the col and I thought, “Well. That wasn’t so bad. I made it. The hard part is over.” The remainder of the hike would literally be all downhill from that point. The rain tapered off, and we even caught glimpses of the sun peeking through clouds, so we decided to break for lunch. We enjoyed a pleasant picnic in an alpine meadow during a reprieve from the rain. The break in weather didn’t last long, however, so we packed up to resume our final leg of the hike.

We hiked through cloud and fog and mist and, though we wandered within one of the most spectacular mountain ranges on the planet, we were able to see very little. I couldn’t imagine how anyone hiking with me could, in any way, shape, or form consider what we were doing fun. I began walking faster, just wanting to get to the end of the hike. One of my fellow hikers commented about the strength of my stride, and I thought, “You have no idea. This is me in my horse-just-wants-to-get-back-to the-barn mode.”

I was done. I just wanted it to be over.

As we turned a corner on the trail and found ourselves hiking into strong wind, our leaders decided to change the course of our hike. Rather than descending on an exposed ridge we would take another variant, one which would require hiking up and over another col.

And I lost it.

Right there, on the Tour du Mont-Blanc, in front of my fellow hikers, God, and the mountain goats, I yelled at the beloved Swede. I wanted to know how much further we had to hike, how much higher I had to climb; and I wanted to know right then. I yelled at the man who purchased this trip for me, provided me all the gear I needed, and who patiently helped me prepare.

My theology tells me I have an enemy of my soul who is bent on keeping me from the longing of my heart, communion with the One who made me. That day, on the Tour du Mont-Blanc, the monster in the maze got the better of me.

I was angry. I was angry because even after all my training, planning, and preparation; even despite the stunning beauty I’d witnessed, the spectacular meals I’d enjoyed, and the delightful company with whom I’d shared this experience, I still hadn’t been able to dig down deep and embrace this hiking thing.

There was nothing about that day’s hike which I enjoyed. And I found myself getting angry at my fellow hikers because they were enjoying it. And I was angry at myself for being angry.

The trail variant led us across the French border, out of the fog and to a gondola platform where we were able to hitch a ride to meet the rest of our group in the town of Argentiere. After both a shower and a nap, I apologized to my fellow hikers for exposing them to my ugly. I asked the Swede for his forgiveness, which he graciously gave.

On the final day of our trip, we were given the option of participating in a half-day hike which climbed a ladder trail in the Chamonix Valley. I passed. The Swede and I had actually done that section of trail during one of our pre-trip prep hikes, except we had descended the ladders. I agreed to stay behind and drive one of the equipment vans. I had arrived at my destination. I had hiked the Tour du Mont-Blanc to the limit of my abilities.

And the Swede, the dear man I had yelled at in the mountains, graciously rewarded me with the gift of a massage.

Because grace has nothing to do with getting what I deserve. And grace is the scarlet cord, that clew in the labyrinth which I cling to for dear life.

For the LORD is a sun and a shield, the LORD bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless. LORD Almighty, blessed is the one who trusts in you. Psalm 84:11, 12 (ESV)

Next, the final chapter: Bringing Back the Boon

Click here for all posts in this series.

Source cited: Phil Cousineau. The Art of Pilgrimage: A Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred (p. 203). Kindle Edition.

Joining Laura @ The Wellspring in her weekly Playdates Series:

On Pilgrimage: Labyrinth

31 Tuesday Jul 2012

Posted by in Alpine Pilgrimage, Communities

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

We need to see the monster hidden in the dark recesses of the world’s labyrinthine history; we must remind ourselves there are clews to help us find our way back out again. – Phil Cousineau

Several years ago, while sitting next to my friend Ethel at a women’s conference, I heard a speaker describe her experience participating in a silent retreat. I knew I wouldn’t be able make eye contact with my friend, imagining what would likely happen if we were to try something like that together. We’d probably get kicked out for giggling and generally not being able to behave ourselves. Or we’d need to sneak off to a nearby Starbucks so we could unleash all the ridiculous pent-up words we had running through our heads.

I never claimed to be a model of Christian maturity.

I’m going to be honest here. When I first heard of the concept of walking a labyrinth as a form of spiritual practice, I responded in very much the same way. I may not have giggled, but I’m sure I rolled my eyes. Labyrinth walking sounded to me like some weird kind of mystical nonsense, nigh unto sorcery perhaps. In the church where I grew up, we didn’t go in for a whole lot of symbolic spiritual hijinks. We memorized verses. Had sword drills. Attended Vacation Bible School.

I tried walking a labyrinth once, one located on the grounds of a facility where I was participating in a weekend retreat. I tried hard to think spiritual thoughts, feeling like I was squeezing my brain cells as tight as I could. The result was very much like what I remember from teenage slumber parties, when my friends and I all swore faithfully we weren’t pushing the gadget on the Ouija board.

I got nothing.

The classic tale of the labyrinth comes from the realm of Greek mythology, in the account of Theseus and the Minotaur. Each year, in exchange for the promise of leaving his country in peace, King Aegeus of Athens sent seven boys and seven girls as tribute to King Minos of Crete. Minos sent the youths into a labyrinth and toward certain death from the Minotaur, the monster which dwelt in the maze.

One year Theseus, the son of Aegeus, stepped up as a manly Athenian man and offered to take the place of one of the youths offered to the monster. Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, was so taken by Theseus and his brave manly man-ness that she provided him with an enchanted ball of golden thread—a clew—which he could unwind as he navigated his way through the maze. By following the clew, Theseus was able to find his way out of the labyrinth and return to safety. The modern word clue derives from the one which describes the thread which Theseus followed.

The idea of labyrinth suggests a journey marked by unexpected twists and turns. Somewhere, lurking within life’s maze, is a monster bent on keeping travelers from reaching the desire of their hearts.

In her Spiritual Disciplines Handbook, Adele Ahlberg Calhoun describes the practice of labyrinth walking as one of following a circular path prayerfully and attentively. The discipline, she says, is an exercise in becoming quiet, slowing down, and paying attention to God’s voice. The practice offers the participant opportunity to consider obstacles in his relationship with God as well as the grace he gives to overcome them.

On the morning we discussed the practice of labyrinth walking, our company of pilgrims again separated into two groups, each choosing a different variant of the Tour du Mont-Blanc.  Several brave manly men opted for the strenuous route via the Fenetre D’Arpette.

This path crossed a snow-covered boulder field before reaching the highest point on the trail, leading hikers to a spectacular view of the Trient glacier.

Any prior illusions I’d held about being able to keep up with the big boys on the trip had, by this time, been shattered; not that I was feeling the need, any longer, to do so. I was content to join the group taking the gentler Bovine Trail and was rewarded accordingly.


Even on this less challenging trail, however, our hike began with a steady climb. In the words of our group leader, the Bovine trail “ain’t no ride on a pink duck;” an expression he coined after seeing a child riding playground spring animal shaped like a duck, which was pink.

Our leader chose one of the women to set the pace for our group, one who had struggled earlier with the physical demands of the trip. We all celebrated with her when she led us to our destination within the estimated time frame posted on the trail head marker. She’d conquered her Minotaur.

Our two groups reunited in Forclaz, Switzerland, where we would spend one more night before returning to France. There, in the safety and relative comfort of a rustic traveler’s hostel, we shared dinner, photos, and stories of our separate adventures. Each traveler seemed to have chosen a path well suited to what he or she needed from the day. We had each wound our way through mountain valleys and passes, in a way which suited our strengths and abilities.

The hostel’s sleeping quarters consisted of bunk rooms; each of which held roughly ten weary hikers, snorers and non-snorers alike. After a full night of listening to my fellow hikers and waiting for morning to arrive, I donned my rain gear in preparation for the return to France.

And I discovered my own monster waited for me within the mountain maze.

Next: Arrival

Click here for more posts in this series.

Sharing with Jen and the SDG Sisterhood:

Sources cited:

Calhoun, Adele Ahlberg. Spiritual Disciplines Handbook: Practices That Transform Us. Downers Grove, IL: Intervarsity Press, 2005.

Cousineau, Phil. The Art of Pilgrimage: A Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred (pp. 134-135). Kindle Edition.

On Pilgrimage: Departure

26 Thursday Jul 2012

Posted by in Alpine Pilgrimage, Communities

≈ 29 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Imagine the moment of departure as the crossing of a threshold. The anxiety you may feel is the reverse of the thrill of anticipation. Something new is about to happen; something unexpected but transformative. – Phil Cousineau

He began his list while in the car on our way home. After purchasing our spots on the Alpine Pilgrimage, my husband shifted immediately into planning mode. The beloved Swede began forming a mental list of all the equipment he thought we might need. He asked me how many pairs of hiking pants I owned and questioned the condition of my boots. He wondered whether I’d be comfortable using my daughter’s day pack or if I needed one of my own. By the time we arrived home, my husband had already begun mapping out the steps we needed to take to prepare for our journey.

It was January. The trip would not take place until June.

I had preparations of my own to make, chief of which was getting rid of the extra pounds I didn’t want to have to carry up, down, over, and through alpine passes. Thankfully, I had time to prepare. And, perhaps more thankfully, fear of extreme misery and/or death proved to be a powerful motivator.

Departing on a journey can be both exciting and terrifying. Planning and preparation helps. And I happen to be married to a man for whom planning is a kind of love language.

In his description of pilgrims embarking on the Camino de Santiago—the way to the legendary remains of Saint James, Phil Cousineau wrote about rituals of preparation undertaken by many. In medieval times, the road to Santiago was very dangerous; those setting out on pilgrimage could not be certain of safe return. Preparation for the journey, therefore, included the following:

The departing pilgrims were celebrated with a Mass in which they took confession and communion, then the rites of the blessing of their walking staffs, satchels, and drinking gourds. Psalms were sung to “infuse courage into the hearts” of the pilgrims, then they put on their long cloaks and hats, recited the prayers of the Pilgrim’s Itinerarium, and set out with their fellow marchers down the long road.

Phil Cousineau. The Art of Pilgrimage: A Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred (pp. 63-64). Kindle Edition.

We departed from the Refuge Des Mottets by hiking up and over the Col de la Seigne, a gentle scenic climb which brought us to the Italian border. We paused now and then, turning to look back toward where we’d been.  Within a few short hours we stepped across the border from France into Italy. Many of us stopped to pose for a picture, standing with one foot in each country.

We enjoyed a rest day in the town of Courmayeur, soaking in the views of Mount Blanc from the Italian side,

and refreshing ourselves with an abundance of local food and drink.

The next morning our group prepared to leave the land of espresso and gelato to hike across the border, entering into Switzerland. We gathered in a circle, as had become our ritual, and our leader asked us to reflect on the idea of departure. In order to enter a new place, he said, we had to leave something behind.

Departing Italy

Arriving at Swiss Border

Punctuated by cycles of Sabbath and seasons of rest, most of life involves movement; a continual moving away from one thing and toward another. I talked with my fellow pilgrims, around tables and throughout the course of the trip, about those things in life we were departing from and moving toward: high school to college, active parenting to the empty nest. Some were departing from a satisfying career toward retirement or, in the face of economic uncertainty, into the unknown. Others were moving away from the role of adult child into that of caretaker for aging parents.

Departure calls me away from what is known and familiar and asks me to step into the unknown. I don’t always feel well-prepared, and I’m convinced there are dangers, toils, and snares along the way. At times I feel caught between two countries, not knowing how to move forward yet realizing there’s no going back. And sometimes I’m tempted to weep, whine, and wail like the Israelites before me about the fish, cucumber, leeks, melons, and garlic left behind in ye merry old slave camps of Egypt.

The courage for departure comes only in trusting that what I’m moving toward is better than what I’ve left behind. And it helps, I’ve found, having companions to infuse courage into my soul along the way.

As they pass through the Valley of Baka (weeping), they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion. Psalm 84:6, 7 NIV

Next: Labyrinth (Now won’t that be fun? Or weird. It really could go either way)

All posts in this series can be found on the Pilgrimage Page.

Joining KD Sullivan @ Journey Towards Epiphany for her TOYS (Take Off Your Shoes) series, because I walked this pilgrimage on holy ground:

On Pilgrimage: Calling

20 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by in Alpine Pilgrimage

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

The call to the sacred journey your secret heart longs for won’t come by expectation, will not arrive in a logical way. – Phil Cousineau

“You’ve got to see this,” said Andi, a fellow pilgrim who has both an artist’s eye and a camera with all sorts of fancy lenses she knows how to use.

I followed, point-and-shoot camera phone in hand, wondering what I was about to discover on the other side of the Refuge Des Mottets.

Refuge Des Mottets, France

The refuge, a converted dairy farm, is nestled among a number of other farm buildings on either side of a dirt road which passes through the small village of La Ville des Glaciers. Those who live in the village go about daily life much as they have for centuries, I imagine, as hikers travel the road following the Tour du Mont Blanc. One enterprising farmer evidently recognized there was money to be made by offering hot showers, meals, and lodging to hikers passing through his land.

Those who wander into the village are greeted by the music of cow and goat bells clanging and tinkling in thin mountain air. And as I followed Andi, stepping through the opening between the refuge bunkhouse and shower buildings, I discovered an alpine meadow awash in wooly sheep.  We watched as two shepherds and their dogs led their flock up and into the hillside for their evening meal.

I grew up in the church. I’ve heard all the biblical references to shepherds and sheep and understand the metaphors. I get what’s going on. Sheep are too dumb to know what’s good for them. They need shepherds to lead them to safe places to graze, or else they will either starve or pitch themselves tail-over-wooly-ears into deep ravines.

But it is one thing to understand these concepts in my head, and quite another to witness the artistry of movement between shepherd, dog, and sheep.

For one thing, despite what every Christmas pageant may have led you to believe, real live shepherds aren’t cherubic children who work in bathrobes and wear towels on their heads. The two I watched were weather-worn, hard-working men wearing the clothing of hard-working men. The shepherds assumed positions of watch; one stationed at the very crest of the hill, leaning on his staff and looking out over the flock. The other had climbed to a bend on the trail where he stopped to work on repairing a gate or a section of fence–something I couldn’t quite make out.

But the dogs. Each sat poised, as if frozen in place, muscles taught, ready to spring into action at the slightest signal. I could almost hear their internal sheep dog dialog:

I’m ready. Send me. Just say the word. Or don’t. Give me a gesture, the slightest hand movement, and I’m off. See that sheep, that one there? You want me to go after that one? Do you? Please? Send me–I’m you’re dog. Please send me!

In that I was in France and am neither fluent in French nor in dog, I can’t be absolutely certain those were the exact words swirling around in their brains. But I’m reasonably sure that’s what those dogs were thinking.

And all it took was a single word. A gesture. The muscles which had been holding them in place, released those dogs to do the very thing they were put on this earth to do. They ran, they chased; they flew toward the sheep, nipping, barking, and sheep-dogging for all they were worth. They got those sheep just where the shepherds wanted them.

###

We began the next day’s hike by considering the idea of calling. What was it we had seen, heard, felt, or sensed which had moved us to take this journey? How had God called each of us to go on pilgrimage?

Calling, to me, sounds like something which is sacred and transcendent; a blinding light, road to Damascus kind of thing. Or, I thought, a calling should be something one discerns after an extended period of reflection and prayer. A calling, it seemed, should be clear and direct, and pointing me toward something important and big.

I had simply gone hiking the Alps. I’d wanted to travel to Europe with my husband, see some cool stuff, eat good food, meet interesting people, and maybe find something I could write about. And bring home a suitcase full of chocolate from Switzerland, of course.

My motives were far more self-absorbed than transcendent.

But if God could call a man in the throes of murderous rage, turning him around on the road to Damascus, he could certainly get the attention of a self-absorbed middle-aged wannabe traveler like me.

The sheep hear his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice. John 10:3, 4 ESV.

The sheep I had watched the previous afternoon were hungry. They wanted to eat. The shepherd guided and directed them, moving them by means of a single word or the slightest gesture. He moved them away from what they thought they wanted to what was better and good. Sometimes he sent the dogs after them.

God knows me, and he knows how to get my attention. He doesn’t always use grand gestures, signs, and wonders. Often he works through my own desires, quirks, and self-interests. He tells me I’ll know his voice when I hear it. Sometimes, though, he’s had to send the dogs after me. The shepherd who called me has promised to keep going after me, getting me where he wants me. He’s going to feed me, and he’s going to bring me home.

Perhaps my time in the mountains was a calling; God inviting me to come away with him to drink more deeply of his goodness, dwell in his presence, and bear witness to the splendor of his works. And maybe that’s a calling which is important and big after all.

This is the fifth in a series of posts about my experience on pilgrimage in the Alps. To read others in the series, click here: The Pilgrimage Posts

Source cited: Phil Cousineau. The Art of Pilgrimage: A Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred (p. 39). Kindle Edition.

Sharing with Laura @ The Wellspring:

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox

Join other followers