On being a planetary pilgrim ...

When I was a child my world included a night sky like no other. We lived in the mountains, in the heart of Puerto Rico. There were few homes, and electricity was rare in most homes. The term light pollution was yet to be invented. On clear nights it seemed I could see all the way back to the beginning of the world. From time to time I got to walk home from church, in the late evening, with my grandparents. Walking in the dark, with only a flashlight to guide our way, was magical. They lived on the other side of the River Plata, which meant crossing to the other side, under the river, through a tunnel. 


It was an exciting crossing - a bit frightening, dark, humid, not very pleasant. It was not unsafe, as long as you remained on the main tunnel. There were rails to keep us safe. But we could hear the dripping of the water, as some of the river escaped the dam. People often made the crossing on horseback, so one could hear the horses coming, in the dark.

Getting to the other side, we were rewarded with a view of the night sky. Stars in numbers well beyond my ability to count, winked at me, telling me "See? You made it! It was worth the trek and soon you will be at your grandmother's home. If you ask her, she may make you some hot chocolate." 


On nights when the moon was full, my grandfather would turn off his flashlight, and we walked home, all the way up the mountain by the pale, cool light of the moon. Just as the apprehension over having made the ominous crossing under the river was easing off, the uphill moonlit trek added the last bit of excitement.


"Are you afraid, Myrtita?" my grandmother Julia would ask. Before I could answer, my grandfather would reply with a severe, gruff voice: "How could any Rivera child be afraid in these mountains?" 


What my grandmother might not have noticed, however, was that my grandfather had taken hold of my hand, to reassure me! How could I be afraid in those mountains? If I close my eyes, I can see the dark hills, bathed in starlight, speckled with tiny flickers from lanterns and kerosene lamps in the neighbouring homes.


This has been a tough week. Waiting is not fun; it can be very disempowering. Reflecting on the stars and on how long they have been scattering their light over the earth has been a steady, ever-present help for me. Each morning I have been reminded of the young man who was running away from home  for his safety. He had to sleep in the dessert, a rock for his pillow. In the morning he realized: "Surely, God is in this place, and I did not know it."


I am learning to embrace this dark, early, waiting. Walking into it with the light of  the inmense love that surrounds me, I am finding out that there is light in this place, and I did not know it!


It is time I got going. I'll see you around, on the way to Santiago.