EPISODE 409: LET'S OPEN UP A RESTAURANT

POP CULTURE SPIRIT WOW

Let’s start here.

Yes, that’s a young Jesse Martin. You’re welcome.

(Fun fact: that portrayal of passengers in a New York City subway car is either the most ridiculous portrayal ever or the most accurate, depending on the group you find yourself with. And there is no in-between.)

Having always loved this song and also knowing that Mr. Martin is to be heeded whenever possible, I write you from none other than the proverbial Santa Fe. And before writing this newsletter I actually sat in a Starbucks and played this video without headphones. I could feel the room looking at me (and also perhaps rolling its eyes, I have a feeling I am not the first non-Fesian (Feyian? Fanesian?) to do this).

It’s early in the day to receive a newsletter I know, but I am on my way three hours north of here to do a story on a Benedictine monastery called Christ in the Desert, and apparently they take every part of their name very seriously and they have neither cell service nor wifi.

I’m fine, it’s for three and a half days, I’ll be totally fine.

I actually have driven out here from Los Angeles. Fun lessons learned so far: it is much colder in the Southwest than Southern California; I do not miss blizzards; and when you’re driving along a country road at night in a part of the country you do not know and you suddenly start skidding on ice you did not see, it can take an awfully long to regain your trust that you are going to get where you’re going.

On my way I stopped at the Grand Canyon. Two of my favorite days of rain, snow, hail and fog so thick I know understand why they call it a “wall of fog”. Seriously, to look out on the Canyon and see literally nothing was… unexpected.

Luckily the next day was better. More on that when I don’t have an unknown length of time coming up on an unpaved road. (The retreat center actually posts a daily update on the state of the road; it is not inspiring a tremendous amount of confidence in either me or my little blue Corolla.)

Before I go confront fears I did not know I had, one story: on the way here I drove the highway between Albuquerque, City of Many U’s, and Santa Fe. Which is a road that is familiar to me, actually. In the spring of 1993, in fact, as part of a five week Jesuit pilgrimage I set out to walk along the highway from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. Just me, a walking stick and a couple changes of clothes in a school backpack.

What’s that, walking between two cities does not seem like the most pilgrimage-y of pilgrimage tasks? And also, isn’t that a long way without anything in between?

Well, yes in fact it is, about 60 miles with—in 1992—not even a gas station just off the road at which a strange idealistic man child might be able to fill up a water bottle or replace the two sandwiches that he had though would sustain him. Not that I knew any of that.

I had actually spent the previous week in a Jesuit parish in Albuquerque, helping out and also “reuniting” (after two weeks) with two of my other classmates, who were also in the southwest. It was ridiculous, really, a wonderful vacation perhaps, but not really in the spirit of the thing. We were given $30, a one way bus ticket to somewhere in the US and asked to help where we could and trust that God would take care of us. I had started in Vegas – I have heard all of the jokes and still find all of them funny – had some really intense experiences, and eventually ended up here.

But after a week it all seemed a bit much. And when my peers said they were going to catch a bus to Santa Fe and then hike to some pilgrimage site outside Santa Fe, I thought it was time to make my own exit. Not without trying to one up them, of course; they were going to ride the steel dog to Santa Fe? Well then, I would walk. In my mind I saw me catching up to them eventually, playing it all off nonchalant, the glow of my superior holiness requiring no further comment.

I also did think this could be a good time for me to connect with Jesus. It would just be me and him (and the fuel exhaust), walking along beside the gorgeous Sandias.

The first hour or so, people kept stopping and asking me if I needed a ride. Which is frankly so much more than I would have done. Again, I had a huge walking stick. But each time I’d say, literally, “No no, I’m on a pilgrimage, but thank you.” A few tried to break through my insanity, but to no avail.

Then, after about three hours of what was now a very hot and humid day, my water nearly exhausted, my sandwiches eaten like, hours ago, not an exit in sight, and also no freaking sign of Jesus – a big lesson learned was that Jesus is not like a genie, he does not appear on command (let alone grant wishes!) (#!%!), and also before deciding that an experience might be a good spiritual experience one should really consider what the experience involves. If you don’t enjoy hiking, the sun or roadside highway travel in general, to think that because you have a positive motivation for doing it now that it will in fact be spiritually rewarding is just silly. Just really really silly.

Of course, by the time I realized that the whole Hike With Jesus was maybe a terrible idea, the word had gotten out about me in the collective unconscious of New Mexico freeway drivers, and no one would pick me up. Finally, about 6 hours and 16 miles into what was going to be a 50ish mile walk, rain starting to fall, someone pulled over.

The adventures continued from there – I tried to sleep under a bridge, only to find in the dirt and on the walls huge banana slugs that made the idea of closing my eyes impossible; I somehow convinced the Franciscans who ran the cathedral to take me in, and was then furious when they acted like I wasn’t there at dinner. (Seriously, Younger Me, what did you expect them to do with you?) Then the next day I snuck away in a snit, only to be sent back there by some very kind cloistered nuns who knew there was no other easy place for me to go in town (there was a Jesuit attached to a university; when they called him he indicated he would not even meet up with me – which is a fabulously classic Jesuit response, and even in the moment I kind of loved it). The Franciscans meanwhile had no idea that I had left – as rather than saying thank you like a normal person I had just left a note (see: snit). The next day I called the Jesuits in Albuquerque wondering if they might be able to help me. When the pastor picked me up he shook his head. “I knew that was a terrible idea.”

So I’m driving along that same freeway this afternoon. And I wonder about that 20something me, imagine him somewhere at this moment in the slightly different dimension or timezone or timey wimey timespace conundrum that is May, 1993. (I currently really love the idea that May 1993 and August 1969 and Lembastia 3130 (Happy Stablastia!) and all the dates and times are all happening right now.) And at first I wondered what he might think of the older me, but pretty soon I found myself instead just taking stock of him. Who was that guy? He was totally devoid of common sense, obviously. And he had some pretty significant pride going on (as well as a pretty nice fall to go with it).

But alongside all that the thing that stood out was how hard he was trying – to do this pilgrimage thing right, to be a good Jesuit, to connect with God. I mean, it was a disaster, a total disaster. But what a sweet kid, you know? You wish you could just tell him it’s all fine, you’re fine – not perfect, but just fine, and you don’t need to worry about anything. It’s all going to work out fine.

++

It’s nice how stories about ourselves can veer from self-deprecation to self-congratulation, isn’t it? If you did not know it already - and you should -- you are dealing with a monster here.

No, but seriously, usually stories about Younger Self Meeting Older Self are all about facing how far you’ve fallen from your dreams. What a failure you are, usually with a final act of making some choices to be a better person once again.

But what if were to keep our gaze instead on our younger selves: What do we see when you look back on those people? What were they like? What was important to them? And watching them, what does it stir up? What do we wish?

I think I feel somewhere between an older sibling and a parent to that guy, laughing at him and wishing him well.

++ LINKS ++

Okay, so, three hour trip in front of me, racing the sunset. I better go.

For your life this week, how about some actual stories of people helping each other in Hollywood. Or this thread of people sharing the nicest thing they’ve ever witnessed. (Check out that first one from @tweetchizone in particular. Amazing.)

There’s also this feel good story about a Girl Scout Troop for homeless girls. (It also scares me, because we’re at a point where this seems like it could be the new normal, rather than a temporary solution to a problem that has no business existing in the US in 2019.)

(Also, does the fact I wanted to write Girl Scout Troupe rather than Troop tell you nothing or everything about me? I vote the latter.)

For the dog lovers, may I give you this?

And finally, SPEAK, E.T!

Say a prayer for Jesuits with no common sense driving at night on dirt roads. And know I’ll be sending prayers for each of you, too.

You’re a beautiful person and your younger self was, too. See you next week.

PS Did you see Captain Marvel? This is the best story I read on it. Lots to talk about there!