November 13, 2017 / wanderinglightning / 0 Comments
Bright and early as the sun was just rising, Gorma stepped carefully through a wooden gate in a fence and onto the smooth dirt of the path. She and her walking stick Saint Thomas hiked along in rhythm – step, stick-step…step, stick-step – when she thought she heard the sound of a cra-a-ack. A crack in wood. Gorma stopped to look, and sure enough, Saint Thomas had a long crack. It did not look new, which was a relief; neither, though, did Saint Thomas. Gorma could not be sure.
Just then, she heard the sing…sing…sing… of tiny bells behind her. Gorma closed her eyes, smiled just a bit, and breathed in…out…, easing her worry. She opened her eyes and looked again at the crack. She began to frown.
Sing…sing…sing… the tiny bells rang. Once again, Gorma closed her eyes, smiled just a bit, and breathed in…out…. She opened her eyes, and around a gentle curve came a gentle man, smiling a wide smile. Two tiny bells hung from the pack over his shoulder, and as he stepped forward, they came together with a clear and chiming sing…. Gorma bowed, hands clasped in front of her heart. “I thank you for the singing of your bells on this clear morning,” Gorma said. “You have eased my worried heart.”
“Ah, Gorma, Gorma, have no worries! What seems to be the matter?”
Gorma sat down on the grass next to the path. “It is Saint Thomas. He has a crack, and I do not know if he can make the journey to Santiago and beyond, as we had hoped.” Gorma looked sadly at Saint Thomas, whom she had laid gently across her lap.
“I am Miguel. I am a woodworker, come from Madrid. Let me see to this matter.” So Gorma handed Saint Thomas to Miguel, who gently touched and stroked the walking stick, until Gorma would have sworn she heard it purr like a contented cat. Gorma looked with her clever eyes at Miguel, trying to see who he was.
“This is a good wood. It is a good walking stick. I think Saint Thomas might make the journey, if you will bind his wound and hold it together. The love in our hands can heal many wounds, even if they are old and seem to have penetrated to the heart. I have cord for you, here.” And reaching into a pocket of his pack, Miguel found orange cord the color of marigolds, and pumpkins in fall, and the harvest moon. He cut a length and gave it to Gorma, and while she tied it round and round Saint Thomas, she asked MIguel about his work.
“I find the lost wood, the old, discarded. This I take to my small workshop. I can carve any wood into life – yes, truly! – but only if it is a creation of joy and delight. Small and sweet, light and lively. These are my creations.”
“So wonderful!” Gorma exclaimed. “If you made a toy, such a toy it would be!”
“Oh indeed, Gorma. My toys make children laugh with glee – and so I must join the laughter, too,” Miguel added with his wide, beautiful smile.
Gorma felt Saint Thomas stronger in her hands. “Look, Miguel – your cure is already working!” She smiled at Saint Thomas, and then at Miguel.
Miguel looked carefully at the walking stick. “You must hold the bond carefully as you walk together, Gorma. Remember, Saint Thomas will heal, but this must be allowed time.”
“Dear MIguel, how can I thank you?” Gorma beamed her friendly smile.
“It is no trouble,” Miguel smiled back.
“Oh please. Let me thank you. What can I give you for helping Saint Thomas?”
“Hmmm.” Miguel thought. “Well…well, there is one thing.”
“Yes?” Gorma pushed.
“Well…will you share with me the secret of your freedom in the world, Gorma?”
Gorma looked worried. “I don’t know, Miguel; what is freedom for one is a burden for another.”
“But Gorma, Gorma, I want to be free, as you are. It is a small thing to tell me.”
Gorma looked at Saint Thomas, and the smooth path, which never stays smooth, but grows rocky, or steep, or muddy as time and seasons choose. Choose. That was it. “You are choosing this Miguel, and I cannot take back what is given. Just know that if my freedom does not suit you, all you need do is let it go, and find your own. But I cannot do this for you. No one can give freedom to another; we can only free ourselves.”
Miguel nodded, and at that, Gorma sang a song there in the middle of the smooth path:
I’m young when I choose to be young,
I am old when I choose to be old;
my hair is the fire of the sun,
my skin it is freckled with gold;
my smile is a friend that is true
but my eyes flash lightning of old —
I walk where I want in the world,
and I never will do what I’m told!
At this, thunder rolled through a cloudless sky, and the smooth path became cobbled and stumbly, now forked in two directions. Miguel cast a worried eye at the sky, but then smiled sweetly at Gorma. “Oh Gorma, Gorma, thank you so much! I will never forget – ah, to be free! Goodbye, Gorma, goodbye!” And off he went to the right, singing Gorma’s song and occasionally tripping on the cobble stones. Gorma turned to the left, and she and Saint Thomas walked on.
Now, kind Miguel was so grateful, he wanted to make something special in order to keep Gorma’s words forever. So once home, he went straight to his workshop and found a beautiful piece of cherry wood. Such hard wood, but in his magical hands it took the carving knife, and before a week was done, Miguel had carved a tiny Gorma doll, so real in every way you might believe it was really Gorma! Satisfied, Miguel sat the Gorma doll on his workbench and repeated Gorma’s song to the doll. He patted the wooden doll on the head, then closed the workshop door and, inside his cozy house, had his supper and went to bed.
The next day, MIguel entered his workshop to find a huge mess! Wood shavings had been thrown everywhere. The Gorma doll stood upon his workbench, not a hair out of place. “What has happened here?” MIguel wondered, as he swept up his usually tidy workshop. “I must have left a window open, and a wind in the night blew the wood shavings. That must be it,” he thought, putting away his broom and shutting the door. But the window was latched tight, as it had been all night.
The following day, Miguel entered his workshop to find all his tools misplaced! The carving knives were on the anvil, the saw was in the middle of the floor, the planes and files hanging from the ceiling by strings. “What has happened now?” Miguel wondered, as he carefully returned all his tools to their places. “My brother must have borrowed them while I was away at the market. That must be it,” he thought, putting away his last chisel and shutting the door. But his brother was over the mountain in the next valley, visiting their mother, as he had been all day.
The third day, Miguel entered his workshop to find 500 Gorma dolls! They were everywhere! Gorma dolls on the workbench, Gorma dolls in the windowsills, Gorma dolls covering the floor in a mountain of Gorma dolls! “What – in the world – has happened?!” Miguel cried aloud. At the sound of his voice, the 500 Gorma dolls all ran and ran, around and around, bumping into each other and joining together as they did, crying, “What in the world? What in the world?” over and over in their tiny Gorma doll voices, until they had all joined into just the one Gorma doll Miguel had carved, standing on the workbench.
“Gorma doll, did you do all this? Did you make the mess and throw my tools about and fill my workshop with 500 of YOU?” Miguel asked, incredulous. Gorma doll was silent. “Gorma doll, you must not do such things. You were made out of respect, to remember Gorma’s words of freedom. Now behave, Gorma doll, behave.”
Gorma doll opened her tiny eyes, and lightning shone flickering. “I will behave. I will be VERY have!” And laughing like a cookoo bird, Gorma doll ran amok. “I will ‘have’ this hammer – ” and she took Miguel’s hammer – “and I will ‘have’ this metal bin – ” and she grabbed a bucket – “and I will ‘have’ MUSIC!” Then Gorma doll made a wild racket, banging the hammer onto the bucket like a flicker bird hammering a metal chimney cap in spring:
RAT-A-TATTA TAT, RAT-A-TAT, RAT-A-TATTA-TATTA
RAT-A-TATTA TAT, RAT-A – “Whoo-hoo!!”
“Gorma doll, stop!” MIguel shouted, frantically trying to grab back his hammer.
Gorma doll laughed hysterically. “‘I never will do what I’m told!'” She began throwing wooden stops and plugs at Miguel, the very bottle stops and jar plugs Miguel himself had made for his paint pots.
“Gorma – doll!” Miguel called desperately from behind a cabinet door he held open against the flying wood. “I carved you – OUCH! – as a creation of joy and delight – AAH! – to remind me of – OW! – Gorma’s words of freedom!”
Gorma doll hollered as she peppered Miguel with stops. “Freedom? Freedom! STOP! Trapped here on a workbench in a workshop?! STOP! This is no kind of freedom for me! STOP! Remember? ‘I walk where I want in the world’!”
“Well, it is the perfect kind of freedom for me, Gorma doll. I craft and I sing and I love what I do – this is my freedom. But I see it is not for you. So now, my tiny friend – adios!” Miguel opened the workshop door, and quick as lightning, Gorma doll ran off into the evening’s red skies of delight, singing:
I’m young when I choose to be young,
I am old when I choose to be old;
my hair is the fire of the sun,
my skin it is freckled with gold;
my smile is a friend that is true
but my eyes flash lightning of old —
I walk where I want in the world,
and I never will do what I’m told!
And several days down the lefthand trail, the real Gorma had walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, animal voices called and barked and twittered as the red skies turned to night, and one small voice sang and laughed, delightedly lost in the forest, free in the world.
Buen Camino, Miguel.
November 8, 2017 / wanderinglightning / 0 Comments
Gorma traveled down into a valley that was most pleasant. It was morning, and birds sang for the delight of a new day. Apples and pears hung full and sweet from the trees in the cool air, and the raspberries growing along the fences and stone walls were nearly ripe. A small stream trickled through the valley, winding between the stone farmhouses with their red tile roofs.
Gorma was watching the cows drinking the clear water and grazing the thick grass, their bells clanking under their sturdy necks, their tails swishing gently. “Yes, butterflies, it is time to walk,” she had just finished saying to the sweet flutterings dancing before her, when there, in a wide place on the path, stood a beautiful young woman.
Her smile was magnetic, her hair the color of living iron, and her body powerfully strong. She stood still as a statue, just a few feet from the rippling stream. Gorma stood beside her for a full minute, which is a very long time to wait. “Have these waters cast a spell on you?” Gorma finally asked, knowing that to name a spell begins to break it.
“Yes and no, Gorma; yes, and no.”
“Ah, so true. Tell me more,” replied Gorma.
The young woman was Francesca of the British Isles, and no stranger to little brooks and rivers, nor to the rain storms that refilled and refreshed them. But lately, things had taken a most difficult turn. “If I dare even to touch a drop of the water, a sudden storm arises out of nowhere, and I am struck by lightning! A little bird may splash its feathers in a puddle, and if one feather’s-worth of water touches me in any way – flash! The lightning strikes and I awake later, off in a meadow. The morning dew on the grasses along the path was trouble enough to pass safely, but this stream – oh Gorma, Gorma, what shall I do?”
Gorma nodded seriously. “And to top it off, you must be so thirsty.”
“So true! How will I live without water? But how can I live with it? Oh Gorma, Gorma, the lightning has driven me from my beautiful Britain forever, I fear.” The thought of it made Francesca’s lip tremble, but she dared not cry, not even one tear.
“The Country of the Heart cannot save you from the lightning, Francesca. The Heart is a wet and weeping place at times, and lightning pulses through at every moment, causing the beating of the rhythm of the seasons. So the lightning must not end, Francesca. If it were to stop completely, all life would end.”
Francesca’s lip trembled again, as she stood like a statue next to the little stream. “Oh Gorma, Gorma,” she whispered. “What am I to do?”
Gorma looked into Francesca’s eyes, and Francesca saw there the answer. “What must be done, must be done, and no help crying about it,” Gorma said with a wink. She smiled. “You cannot help that you are a lightning rod, Francesca. You are strong and alive, and so the lightning finds your mettle attractive – so attractive, it sometimes gives you more than it should.”
“Therefore,” Gorma continued, “the lightning must be shared, as all brilliant moments of curiosity and understanding are shared with us, from the Great Aha, the universe, which has no other name, yet many names. The lightning is in the skies – and within each of us.”
Then Francesca looked back into Gorma’s eyes, and seeing flashing there a familiar light, she reached out her hand to Gorma’s. In that moment, they shared a look of mischievous expectation, and respect. For it is the lightning-quick minds among us, those lightning rods endlessly asking for deeper meaning, who are gifted with the white light of flashing insight. Gorma knew that only the hand of another can ground the lightning rod back to earth, for that touch allows them to drink the waters of creativity without losing themselves into the storm. We must hold hands with the lightning.
Francesca stepped across the bubbling stream and strode up the path, confident and brimming with new ideas. And Gorma walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, a storm grew, and thunder and lightning rolled through the dark clouds. But Gorma was not afraid, and neither was Francesca; they were excited, even as they dreamed.
Buen Camino, Francesca.
November 5, 2017 / wanderinglightning / 0 Comments
Gorma’s camino led through thick pine forest across the tops of the blue mountains. Ferns covered all the ground, and as the drizzly rain fell through the trees, it dropped onto the ferns’ large leaves like tiny bells: ting, ting ting, ting ting. The air felt warm and close, like a hug, and Gorma became dozy.
Suddenly, she heard a deep sound, less a growl than a rumbling of the air, the sound we hear when we must confront our fate. Gorma stepped carefully, slowly as always, watching the ferns for any rustle-rustle, looking left, then right, then left again. Just as she looked backward over her shoulder, a bear stepped onto the path ahead of her, and this time it did growl, for Fate will often speak your name in a language you do not understand.
Gorma turned back around and stopped, facing the bear. “Why do you growl at me, Bear?” Gorma asked in that way she asks, for she was not afraid.
“Gorma, Gorma, you disturb my walking with your slow, heavy steps – stomp, stomp, stomp. It is un-bear-able! So – I will have to kill you and feed you to my cubs.”
“Ah, you have cubs? I understand perfectly,” replied Gorma, nodding her head.
The bear looked rather discomfited by this response and tried again. “You see, they are the most precious of cubs – magical cubs – because of their father, the Djin of the Desert. He has gifted them them with mystery. Yet, I fear their magic will become dulled and ordinary in the world, so I protect them, here in this deep forest in the Country of the Heart.” The bear faced Gorma with sure determination.
“Yes, of course,” was Gorma’s only reply. She smiled pleasantly at the bear.
“But Gorma, Gorma, don’t you understand? I cannot have you here, so close to us, disturbing my walk of protection around them. And you are so slow, Gorma – so, for this – do you not see? – I will have to kill you and feed you to my cubs.”
“Yes, Bear, but before you do kill me – and I have cubs of my own, with cubs of their own, so I do agree you must kill me – but tell me, what is your name?”
The bear cocked her head one way, then the other, left, then right, then left again. “It is Kati.”
“Ah, Kati Bear! So good to meet you. And how long have you called this forest home?” Gorma smiled with deep kindness right into Kati Bear’s eyes, so that Kati’s eyes grew cloudy, like a rain about to fall. For this is the power of the smile of a friend.
“Oh Gorma, Gorma, this is not our home! I march through this forest, around and around, circling my cubs because I am afraid they will lose their magic. I am Kati Bear of Germany, a strong German bear who is not afraid of anything – except this. The Djin must visit the desert each year, which restores his powers. And I…I hide here with our cubs.” Kati Bear looked down at the path beneath their feet.
“Yes, Kati Bear, I see the problem,” nodded Gorma kindly. “But why, if I may ask, is it my slow slow walking that will be the death of me?”
“It is – it is – it is because of the rain,” Kati Bear stammered.
“The rain?”
“Yes, Gorma. It takes so long for you to pass our hiding place, and I must stay so still in the rain, not a rustle-rustle of the ferns to give us away – so I cannot shake the water from my fur, and it becomes so very heavy.”
Then Gorma knew what she must do, for she understood this heaviness. “Yes, the blessing of the mother, La Mar, is not easily shaken off. Yet, now you have been blessed, so I can give you this.” And reaching into her pack (which was curiously the purple blue color of the water and the evening sky, the flowers in the meadow and the butterflies who traveled the Camino with her), Gorma pulled out a rain cloak made to cover her pack, which was just big enough to cover a bear.
“This is for you, Kati Bear. Use it until you no longer need it; then you can give it to another. Perhaps on your journey to join the Djin?”
For Gorma knew that Kati’s cubs could already dodge the raindrops with their joy, which is the source of the Djin’s magic, as anyone knows; happiness and tenderness are the flowers that bloom in the Great Desert, after all. And those just happened to be the names of Kati’s cubs.
We think our strength and vigilance will protect what is most precious, what we hide deep within the Country of the Heart. But if you befriend your fate, it is there you free your magic and your mystery.
So Kati Bear returned to her cubs, and Gorma walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, the drizzly gray lifted, and stars twinkled over the blue mountains.
Buen Camino, Kati.
October 23, 2017 / wanderinglightning / 0 Comments
Once, not so long ago, in a place far away over the ocean, Gorma took a long journey to find her joy, and what was in her heart among the hearts of people everywhere.
Gorma walked and walked for many days along the Camino of the Heart, and so it was good that in the first days she met a guardian angel – and all because of the trouble with her broken toe. It was the tiniest pinky toe, on her right foot, that caused all the problems.
As she hobbled up a great, green hill with her aching toe, she was sad and all alone. Suddenly, Hernani appeared at the top of the hill, above the sea. Hernani’s black hair curled wildly atop his head, and his bushy, black beard wrapped a kind smile. His warm, dark eyes in his warm, brown face knew Gorma in an instant.
“Gorma, Gorma, why do you walk so slow? Why are you ‘La Tortuga,’ little Gorma?”
She recognized him on sight as well, as often happens when we walk in the Land of the Heart. “Hernani Angel, my toe is broken and will not let me walk.”
Hernani smiled, and said, “Here is a friend to help you on your way.” And an old dry branch from an ironwood tree broke itself free and slid into Gorma’s hand.
“Hernani, friend – I do not use the walking sticks the trekkers tap, tip-tap, tip-tap. I use my feet, my good strong feet, to walk up any hill I want to climb.”
“It is true,” Hernani agreed. “But I see: your broken toe won’t let you walk.” And with that, he turned up the path and was gone by the next bend of the camino. Vanished!
Gorma set off with the walking stick, and it was true, it helped to carry the load, so Gorma was glad. She arrived at the albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply.
The next day, Gorma set off to walk again. The walking stick helped quite a lot, and Gorma named it Saint Thomas, in honor of her doubts, for she had to feel the pain and suffering herself to believe. Gorma walked many miles, but her broken toe would not stop aching with every step.
Suddenly, Hernani appeared from among the trees of the forest. “Gorma, Gorma, why do you walk so slow? Why are you ‘La Tortuga,’ little Gorma?”
“Hernani Angel, I lean on Saint Thomas when I have doubt, and need, but my broken toe, it will not let me walk.”
Hernani smiled and said, “Here is a gift from the land of Portugal, home of humble loving kindness on the shore. I will cradle your tiny toe in a bubble filled with the sea. This gift will help you on your way.”
“Hernani, friend – I do not know of the sea, the waves that curl and wrap the shore, laugh and roar. I use my feet, my good strong feet, to walk up any hill I want to climb.”
“It is true,” Hernani agreed. But I see: your broken toe won’t let you walk.” And with that, he turned the path and was gone by the next bend of the camino. Poof!
Gorma walked with the bubble of the sea surrounding her little broken toe, and it was true, she felt comfort from the sea, as is so often the case. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply.
The third day dawned cool and gray as the sea. Gorma walked along, leaning on Saint Thomas, and feeling the sea cradling her tiny toe. But by that afternoon, the sea had grown stormy, and so around her broken toe. It grew and grew until she thought her toe would become the sea itself.
Suddenly, Hernani appeared out of the mist on the mountainside. “Gorma, Gorma, why do you walk so slow? Why are you ‘La Tortuga,’ little Gorma?”
“Hernani Angel, the sea has swollen my toe into a tempest! The sea, it will never stop growing in the bubble around my broken toe! And so, I cannot walk on the sea.”
Hernani smiled and said, “You cannot stay in this bubble of the sea forever, little toe. You must walk the earth.” And with these words, he handed Gorma a little knife, just the size to match her tiny toe. And with that, he turned up the path and was gone by the next bend of the camino. Into the mist!
Gorma looked warily at the little knife until at last she sat down on mountain and repeated Hernani’s words: “You cannot stay in this bubble of the sea forever, little toe. You must walk the earth.” Then quick as you can say “Hernani,” she cut the bubble, just the bubble, and out poured the sea onto the path like a wave upon the shore. Gorma saw inside that the poor little toe, all pink and soft like a sweet new baby, could not yet walk the earth. So she gently cushioned it with gauze and wrapped it with bandages like a blanket. And leaning on Saint Thomas, she walked carefully so as not to wake the baby toe, and arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply.
The next day, Gorma set off with soft socks and more gauze wrapping the tiny toe like it was precious to her, which it was now. She walked carefully, letting Saint Thomas help her with the many, many steps of the path.
As it became evening, Hernani appeared on a wooden bench by an old stone wall, all mossy and comforting. “Gorma, Gorma, why do you walk so slow? Why are you ‘La Tortuga,’ little Gorma?”
“Hernani Angel, shhh, so softly speak. My baby toe is sleeping. It is healing,” Gorma smiled.
“It is true,” Hernani agreed. “We all must leave the soft bubble of the sea to walk upon this earth. This is how we heal when we are broken.” And with that, Hernani turned up the path and was gone by the next bend of the camino. Just like magic!
Just like love. For the love of true friends watches over us like a guardian angel, supports us with a strength like iron, surrounds us with loving kindness, and encourages us to be brave when we feel small and weak. So Gorma learned that love is healing.
Gorma walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, it rained and rained, cooling and cleansing the air.
Buen Camino, Hernani.