Pilgrimage

When we first decided to live on a boat I got it into my head to call our journey a “pilgrimage.” I like the word ‘pilgrimage.’ Unlike ‘vacation’ or ‘holiday,’ the word implies intention. A moving toward as opposed to escaping from. Those experienced in the tradition describe pilgrimage as “sacred travel” involving inward reflection as the expedition progresses. What I wanted was to provide myself with a training ground. A week or two, a month, a year, maybe more, to consider my life and to practice the art of attentiveness. I wanted to stop. To look and listen. Pilgrimage, I thought, would enable me to pursue this. Underway, the details of my life, once subverted due to noise, busyness and distraction, came into focus. My inner landscape broadened.  Issues I would rather not recall finally bubbled to the surface and demanded attention.  The changing scenery awakened my senses and taught me to be aware of my surroundings.  I tried to discern what was going on and what it all meant and how it might affect my daily life. I hoped I would return with some good habits.

And you can imagine why I like the word “pilgrimage”–  it sounds so pious. It smacks of monasticism and this is what initially drew me toward taking an extended journey with family in tow. I envisioned all sorts of ecstatic “a-ha” group moments, cemented with “high-fives,” and the gentle camaraderie of teens and parents co-existing in Cosby Show relational bliss. On the flip side now, five years on a boat and 14 countries later, I can tell you that it is often anything but. In fact, our trip was filled with:

Broken ankles, folks falling overboard, stubbed toes, bonked noggins, filled-up marinas, anchors that didn’t hold, hurt feelings, bumps in the night, engines that quit, broken radar, dents in the fiberglass, smoking generators, overheating Egyptian rental cars, dirty diesel, big storms, seasickness, farts in crowded hallowed places, missed trains, being lost, green stuff lodged in teeth, long hot dusty line-ups, blisters, and camel butt, just to name a few.

But all that came right alongside: sunsets in the middle of 900 miles of open water, dolphins, the Sistine Chapel, sleeping with Bedouins in the Sahara, crabbing, eating fresh wahoo, deserted island beaches, long walks in Jerusalem, touching a Sphinx, making friends at the Hagia Sophia, forgiveness, fog in Erice, wine fest in the Azores, quiet nights at anchor in Patmos, helping hands, meals shared among folks with whom there was no common language, the blessing of MarioKart, early morning coffee in the cockpit.

This is because, aside from the revolving newness of place, pilgrimage is really just a slice of life and it becomes what you make of it. It is never immaculate. Never without blemish. Maybe this is what makes pilgrimage so beautiful.  The good, the bad, and the ugly, the glory filled moments, are all served up on a hand painted blue tile platter in the back of some turban wearing carpet sellers hodge podge store in the middle of nowhere. I blink hard and wonder how I got to be there at all.  The shock of simply existing outside my regular niche smacks me wide awake. Even now that we are back in North America, it reminds me to see with fresh eyes those elements that I would otherwise deem as mundane. The trick is: can I remember and keep practicing the things that pilgrimage taught me? This is important because all of life is a meta-pilgrimage. One gigantic walkabout.