Last week my husband brought home a plastic bag full of yarn, which was unusual for him, and he was quite mysterious about it.
When I looked inside, it turned out to be a scarf knitted by our friend Nancy. The card called it an infinity scarf and said that I should wrap it twice around my neck for warmth and comfort on the St. James Trail. The scarf is blue and burgundy; it's made of a soft wool and it's very fancy with little fuzzy flowers. It is a knitted ring, with no ends. You slip it over your head, twist it, and then slip it over again.
I don't know what to say. I am overcome. When preparing for a trip like the one to Santiago, it's rare to hear people say simply that they support you or even to ask you questions, other that that initial, seemingly innocent question whose purpose is to set up the dialogue. "So," someone might say, "how far do you think you'll walk in a day?" "Oh," I reply, "maybe 15 miles or so." And here it comes: "Well, if I were going, this is..." how I would take care of my feet (good socks and lots of moleskin), what I would eat (nuts and dried fruit), how I would stay hydrated (2 full waterbottles at all times), the way I would spend my time (with a group of fellow travelers), when I would go (it's winter, you know).... Someone asked me today, "Do you have a back-up emergency number?" "What if you can't reach Fred? What will you do then? What if he can't reach you?" All good to think about, but, as it turned out, the discussion was really about her brand new global phone. Last time I saw this person, it was the ride to the airport. She wasn't offering me one; she just wanted to make sure I had thought about it.
And then there are the people who should be going, too. "I envy you," they declare, and then they begin to pack. They point out what you should be taking (a cell phone, maps, a compass, a good pair of hiking boots) and what you should not be taking ("You're not going to take a cell phone, are you?" "No, not a book! All you need is YOUR book to record your experiences at night when you're not around the campfire." "A pancho?! No, not a pancho! You have to have a jacket!" How do people think of these things? They come so well prepared. They don't just mention things; they arrive with a point in mind. They have thought it through and worked out all the details. Any one of them could win the state debate trophy.
Sometimes they pause to see if I'm getting it all. "So," they ask, "are you going to do it that way?" and if I say no, I think I'll be doing it this way, sometimes they just stand there and stare. Sometimes they grimace a little or lift an eyebrow, but rarely, do they ask a question and almost nobody ever says, as Nancy did, I'll be thinking about you on your pilgrimage and I wish you well.
So, this is a treat and I am savoring it gratefully. Nancy, I will wear your beautiful scarf with affection, I will draw warmth and comfort from it, and I will carry your good wishes, or they will carry me, I hope, all the way to Santiago.
Thank you.
When I looked inside, it turned out to be a scarf knitted by our friend Nancy. The card called it an infinity scarf and said that I should wrap it twice around my neck for warmth and comfort on the St. James Trail. The scarf is blue and burgundy; it's made of a soft wool and it's very fancy with little fuzzy flowers. It is a knitted ring, with no ends. You slip it over your head, twist it, and then slip it over again.
I don't know what to say. I am overcome. When preparing for a trip like the one to Santiago, it's rare to hear people say simply that they support you or even to ask you questions, other that that initial, seemingly innocent question whose purpose is to set up the dialogue. "So," someone might say, "how far do you think you'll walk in a day?" "Oh," I reply, "maybe 15 miles or so." And here it comes: "Well, if I were going, this is..." how I would take care of my feet (good socks and lots of moleskin), what I would eat (nuts and dried fruit), how I would stay hydrated (2 full waterbottles at all times), the way I would spend my time (with a group of fellow travelers), when I would go (it's winter, you know).... Someone asked me today, "Do you have a back-up emergency number?" "What if you can't reach Fred? What will you do then? What if he can't reach you?" All good to think about, but, as it turned out, the discussion was really about her brand new global phone. Last time I saw this person, it was the ride to the airport. She wasn't offering me one; she just wanted to make sure I had thought about it.
And then there are the people who should be going, too. "I envy you," they declare, and then they begin to pack. They point out what you should be taking (a cell phone, maps, a compass, a good pair of hiking boots) and what you should not be taking ("You're not going to take a cell phone, are you?" "No, not a book! All you need is YOUR book to record your experiences at night when you're not around the campfire." "A pancho?! No, not a pancho! You have to have a jacket!" How do people think of these things? They come so well prepared. They don't just mention things; they arrive with a point in mind. They have thought it through and worked out all the details. Any one of them could win the state debate trophy.
Sometimes they pause to see if I'm getting it all. "So," they ask, "are you going to do it that way?" and if I say no, I think I'll be doing it this way, sometimes they just stand there and stare. Sometimes they grimace a little or lift an eyebrow, but rarely, do they ask a question and almost nobody ever says, as Nancy did, I'll be thinking about you on your pilgrimage and I wish you well.
So, this is a treat and I am savoring it gratefully. Nancy, I will wear your beautiful scarf with affection, I will draw warmth and comfort from it, and I will carry your good wishes, or they will carry me, I hope, all the way to Santiago.
Thank you.
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