Travel Reflections
4/22/17 – Mothers Joy and First Steps
I’m at BWI waiting for a flight to Boston. My mind is on business and all the things that needs to
get done today. As I type an email, I notice a woman and child. She is about 30 years old, red
top, slender, plain face but magnetic smile and joyful emerald eyes. Her little one is taking his
first steps. In an instant busy heads look up from screens, and taught faces soften into smiles. A
transient, isolated mass becomes an instant human community awakened in the present moment.
It’s was so brief, but the beauty so powerful as to interrupt and trump everyone’s self importance.
As I sit on the plane waiting for takeoff, I make this journal entry and the beauty of the moment
hangs around me like a perfume.
4/22/17 – Joey’s Pizza
A little jewel in the south far away from New York is an authentic New York experience. Joeys
is only open four hours a day and no weekends. It’s in a run down industrial park with no other
restaurants within miles. The line wraps around the building. When I reached the counter there
was Joey, his wife and two adult children feeding the masses. I hesitated for about two seconds
not sure about the pepperoni or the plain and Joey shouts for all to hear, “Come on you’ve been in
line for hours and you don’t know what you want?” He didn’t wait for my response, just shouted
to his daughter “give em one of each”.
I sat down to wait for my slices and just watched the drama unfold. The daughter was doing
everything and it looked like she had eight arms like an octopus, throwing slices in ovens,
sprinkling oregano on other slices, serving up salad and pasta simultaneously. Sweat pouring
down her face, mascara smeared from the corner of her eyes. she had a ghoulish look about her
but she kept a forced smile pasted on permanently while calling everybody “hon”, hon just wait
Hun, Its coming hun. The mother stood by the cash register and punched keys, she seemed
detached, and had clearly given up control to her daughter. The son stood in the back staring
into his iPhone looking like a deadbeat, do nothing.
A family of six sitting next to me received their 24 inch cheese pie. Steam rising, cheese still in a
loose and watery state. I wondered if they would wait three or four minutes until it was perfect
for eating or just dive in and and burn the crap out of their mouth’s. It’s amazing to watch human
nature, of course they could not wait, they grabbed at slices, pulling them from the mother pie,
leaving the cheese behind, and holding up empty crust, and then feverishly trying to scoop the
hot heaps and ropes of mozzarella back on to the pie.
All the while Joey is behind the counter cracking jokes and putting on a bit of an act for the
whole restaurant. As small sampling of his one liners: “I’m supposed to be retired and look at me
sweating my ass off at 65″. “There must be a better way” “Ah Whadaya gona do”, “hey
everybody we have no waitresses but we still take tips here behind the counter”
Finally my two slices came and I could taste my my old town in NJ, and yes I burned my mouth
but somehow it was worth it.
7/10/17 – Paris Streets
Everyone is looking up, looking through lenses at towers and monuments. Snapping images,
getting a record. I was here. I saw it too! I saw it just like you. I am alive and here too.
But I’m tired of looking up, exhausted by grand symbols ,events, and crowds, so I look down,
and discover the gorgeous Paris streets. These warm, worn stones have supported millions feet
stepping through time. The same stones have supported the rich and the poor alike. Absorbing
history, holding in its heat by day and breathing it out at night.
The softer mortar has receded around the cobbled stones making them stand out, separated by
time. They are well worn, uneven under sole yet making a deep impression on the soul.
7/10/17 – Saturday in Paris
Alyson and I arrived on a Sunny Saturday morning. We held hands in the back seat of the taxi. I
was so happy to see her returning to a city she loves, and I just love to hear the sound of her
voice when she speaks in French.
We drop our bags at the hotel and set foot on the street. Jet lag comes in waves, and I feel like Im
on a boat rocking, the ground is spongy, not solid. My eyes are dry and burning slightly from the
cabin air and the tears from watching the inflight movies. I feel a slight tremble in my hands.
Our hotel room is only slightly larger than a double bed. The windows open wide with no
screens or bars, inviting in the street below. As we swoon in an out of sleep, trying to nap off our
jet lag, the sound of scooters, clinking of plates in the brasserie, and women’s heals on the cobble
stones fade in and out.
7/15/17 – The Streets of Milan on a Summer Night
Everyone and everything spills out into the street at night. Chairs, tables, glasses, bottles,
cigarettes, scooters, bikes, everything. Some side walks are blocked and you have to walk out
into the street among the moving cars and scooters to get past. The building walls are pealing,
chipped, and cracked. The tram tracks cut through the cobblestone streets and the above wires
weaving through the mix overhead. Sepia light, humid haze, mustard and terra-cotta walls, dirty
stone. Streets reflecting auto lights. Music from the bars drifting out into the open and mingling
with the beautiful language. A feramonal steam is rises off a rich stew of humanity.
7/16/17 – The Duomo, Milan
“The house of God”
St. Ambrose baptized St Augustine
4 doctors of the church sat in the chair here and preached here.
52 pillars, one for each week.
3400 statues, most of any church in the world.
4th largest church in the world by volume.
Artisans from France, Swiss, Germany came to work in marble.
Total project 600 years to Complete.
135 spires on the roof. Each with a stature of a martre on top.
Napoleon was coronated here in 1805
The relic of the holy Nail is housed above the suboreum
Candolia marble from N itay. Changes colors. In rain it turns the color of human skin.
Each spire is different. All the grill and Latrice work is different. Each stone flower unique. No
repetition.
The message of the Duomo:
God is in the details
Man reflects the glory of God in his creative energy. And nature reflects the same in its infinite
variety, detail, and singularity.
7/16/17 – Candolia Marble
Milky grey and white, opaque yet translucent, patches of pink, black spider veins and grey
strands and bands.
Hard edged, cornerstones, yet soft worn curves and carvings. Impervious yet porous.
Gorgeous open facing and changing hue and mood with the light of day. Rain soaked becoming
the color of human skin.
Absorbing, revealing and concealing the stains and stresses. The marble face of time.
7/18/17 – A Tuscan Farm House
The roof is made of rounded heavy orange clay tiles. They are lichen stained in patches of
green,grey and black. The shutters and doors are heavy oak with iron bars to reinforce. The stone
walls are 2 feet thick and rise up from the earth forming a kind of cave entrance into the hillside.
There are no screens. The bedroom window opens out to steep olive groves rolling down like
waves toward the flat yellow valley below. The wind surges and whistles through the hard scape
and the heavy shutters bang on the stone. The House and land merge together into one. I am
living in the earth, in stone, wood, clay and glass, made by man from the earth. The sun burns
above and bakes below, but these dense walls of stone and the broad limbs of the trees are
holding back it furry. A cooling breeze moves within the house, refreshing my spirit.
7/18/17 – The Feast of Corpus Christi
Food and Freedom The Father gives himself completely and intimately to us and yet does not
impose his way. He walks with us but does not chose our steps. He breaks bread with us, sustains
and accompanies us, but we often don’t recognize Him. He is the way and he is on the way with
us. We discover him in the breaking of the bread and he sets us free.
7/18/17 – The Town of Cortona
Wind swept, stone struck, ringed walls. Flat plain below with patch work of yellow fields. It’s the
feast of Corpus Christi and a Eucharistic procession flows through the ancient hill town. Plaster
is missing in patches revealing 800 year old stonework. Every glance is a Fantasy photo, a James
Bond movie setting. The sun is hot, my calves are burning on the steep inclines, but a cool wind
sweeps down through the cave-like alleys to bring refreshment. Shop keepers sit at their small
doorways, like hobbits. The cafe’s line their table and chairs out along the stone walls, and cover
them with cloth, silver, and class wear. Leather and craft shops brings their rack out in the
cobbled streets. Everything is fine, solid and lasting in this stone fantasy-town.
7/19/17 – St. Catherine of Sienna
We are in Sienna today. Too Hot and overrun by tourists for my liking. The grey toasty, eyeless
face of this incorruptible saint is a bit much for me to take in. Old carved up flesh seems more of
a ghoulish spectacle than a way to honor this woman or draw us into the beauty of her holiness.
I turn to my smart phone to pull up some of here famous sayings:
“You are rewarded not according to your work or your time but according to the measure of your love”.
“He will provide the way and the means, such as you could never have imagined. Leave it all to
Him, let go of yourself, lose yourself on the Cross, and you will find yourself entirely”.
“All the way to heaven is heaven, because Jesus said, I am the way”.
“God is closer to us than water is to a fish”.
7/23/17 – Santa Margarita of Cortona
Sitting up above Cortona is a well preserved 13th century church and adjacent convent. The
view of the Valley and lake below is breathtaking. Inside upon the alter is a full length glass
coffin with the darkened but still uncorrupted body of st Margret. This is the last day of our
family holiday in Cortona and I am taking my hour of prayer and solitude here. It is also the
solemnity of the sacred heart of Jesus. His words echoing in my mind: “I can do nothing on my
own”, “I only do what I see the Father doing”, “I and the Father are one”, “Not my will but yours
be done”. His heart was one of total surrender. Does my heart burn for the same things as
Christ? For the good of the other, the care of his children.
St. Margaret was swept up in the love of a local man she could not marry and so became his
mistress. She was a public sinner and an outcast of this town. But later she found her true Love,
and lived a life of service to the poor and the sick in imitation of Christ. The love that burns in
the sacred heart of Christ is the same self-emptying love that was alive in St. Margaret. Perhaps
her body was so completely given, submitted and surrendered to Christ and the service of others
that God chose to supernaturally preserve. A paradoxical sign that what is completely
surrendered and given away is what lasts for ever.
There is no life left in her body as I gaze upon the alter, just a sign. The “saints” give there body
away in love so completely in life that it remains a possession of the Church forever. “This is my
body given for you”
7/24/17 – The Tuscan Sun
Rising over the ridge at seven comes the Tuscan sun to wake up the sleepy olive trees. Can this
hard dry earth accept another day in the sun? The earth is hard and wears a thin grass coat of
burnt yellow and raw umber. The cypress trees stand tall and elegant like solders guarding the
estates of man. The moist air in the folds of the hillside is burning off in a milky haze. The clay
roofs begin to reflect light and reveal the farm houses that blend into the hillside. The air is cool
but the sun-rays are already warm on the skin. No clouds. It will be a long run for brother sun,
climbing a clear morning, hovering above a dusty afternoon and receding into a soft evening
glow.
7/25/17 – Stressa, Lago Magiore
We had a whole day to kill waiting for our night flight out of Malpenza so Peter, David and I
headed north to Lake Maggiore and a little town called Stressa. We renamed it “No-Stressa”
As we took the Exit off A22 we found ourselves winding down steep switchbacks with 180
degree curves barely wide enough for one car. Down below we caught a glimpse of the royal
blue lake through the morning mist. It’s impossible to describe the play of light on the northern
lakes of Italy. The colors seem altered like an old classic movie.
The harbor is full of 1950s style mahogany boats and the smell of their diesels mixes with the
fresh lake air. The water is crystal clear, and the boat wakes lap against the stone promenade.
After breakfast we hiked up mount Matalone. The glacier of Monta Rosa could see to the north,
and as we climbed in elevation we could see lakes Como and Garda to the east. We took and
alpine coaster ride and sat at the mountain top bar enjoying a cold German beer.
On our way down we passed a long line of bikers peddling up the mountain. Mostly older men,
very thin and fit and wearing tight cycle suits full of Italian advertisements.
In the afternoon we swam in the cool blue waters and laid out on the stone wall. Then we took a
stroll into town and sat for a Caprese salad and Bolognese pasta. The carefree timelessness our
our day together, and the magical beauty of this place will linger on inside us.
7/26/17 – Gallway, Ireland
It rained all day but the streets were still full of with locals and tourists. The Red and black pub
facades standing out among the store fronts on the narrow pedestrian street. Inside these classic
bars are stone floors, well worn stools and tables, and whisky bottles lining the walls, some
enshrined in glass cases. And then there is the Guinness glass with its iconic curved shape
holding that black malty liquid topped in a light brown foam. In the street there is the sound of
seagulls overhead and accents from all over the world. At night the music starts and the pubs are
packed full. Rose-faced drinkers come in out of the rain, with matted hair and coats dripping, to
settle in for a long night of revelry. The people are porous, and unguarded. Conversations strike
up effortlessly. The Irish have this way of making a quick verbal jab at you, a stab with a tease,
and then suddenly your caught up in a poetic, quick witted spar with a stranger who just became
friend. Who are these chubby and colorful brothers from a distant land, who sing and dance with
such ease, and with whom you can open your heart and then never see again. Tolken called them
Hobbits.
7/30/17 – Littlemore, Strangford
The Lockhart’s holiday home is named after John Henry Newman’s retreat house called
“Littlemore”.
The home is set on a hill and the view over the Loch is spectacular. The sun sets here in June at
10:30P and the light lingers on the horizon until 11:30P. The tidal waters reflecting the sky in
shades and patterns depending on the winds and water depth. Its a glorious painting redraw by
hour in endless combinations of light and color.
The brine smell of the sea blends with the sweet garden flowers. And depending on the wind
direction, the sheep and cows in the nearby fields add their scent. The Irish air is thin and fresh.
The sun is coy and reveals itself only in brief but brilliant patches.
The grass is a bright yellow-green, with fine needles and spongy underfoot. Unlike the coarse,
dark green grass our home in Tennessee .
We entertain friends and family all weekend. Pots of tea brewing, sweets laid out in bowls,
bottles of wine opened, laughter, old stories. The sound of the boys playing ping pong and
laughing. Card games at the table. The kitchen always warm from the heavy iron stove and yet
the bedrooms cool and quite.
Littlemore is a gift, reflecting the love and warmth of the Lockhart’s family. It has become a
place of reunion, refreshment and retreat for my family. I give thanks for the beauty of the sea,
the Irish air, family, friends, laughs, prayer and silence.
1/5/18 – Kansas
The last hour of winter light is resting on the Kansas prairie. The blowing grass is the color of
honey with a tinge of red. The trees are gray and empty, huddled in small clusters where the land
is broken. The silver sky hangs low and heavy except for a narrow blue opening on the Western
horizon. The fields roll endless as far as eye can see. The boys and I are on our way to Colorado
and we?ve been driving for over 12 hours. It?s 2 degrees outside and wind is buffeting the car in
gusts. I can?t imagine the early settlers trying to carve out a living here. How did they endure the
harsh weather of the open plain? Why did they sacrifice so much for freedom and a piece of land
to call their own?
The boys are plugged deep into their electronics and I can see their mini screens flickering
images against the window as we fly through this empty land at 90 miles per hour. It will take
eight hours to traverse Kansas, and while some would say a boring grind, there is also a rich
stillness and peace in the plains.
7/29/18 – Replace Expectation With Gratitude
Beware of expectation, for it can become a subtle, sinister thief of joy.
When you recognize it swelling from within, gently let the air out, and give thanks for all you
have right now in the power of the present.
7/28/19 – Sitting With Mom
My mother loves to sit in the shade of the grand oaks that line the river bank of her property. She
sits for hours while I come and go. These Oaks are so broad shouldered they can offer shade all
through the day.
The breeze moves in off the water and the oak leaves begin to sing. It is a gentle song full of
praise, moving up through limbs and down into the soul. And then it fades off as softly as it
came.
These Oaks are masters of time, endlessly patient, and accepting. They stand by like servants, as
we sit in their shade and listen to their song.
7/14/22 – Bangor to Newcastle
We left Bangor at 9AM.
Our first stop: The Grey Abby. Founded in 1149. Gothic arches, roofless ruins, sculptured
memorials to men who gave entire lives to prayer.
On the road down the Ards peninsula toward Portaferry The mud flats at low tide in the lough are
shimmering in the sun like glazing on pastry.
On the ferry to Strangford, the wind is whipping, eyes watering, the sound of gulls screeching,
and the metal clanging as the cars roll of the ramp.
A stop in the wee cake shop for tea and scone with butter, cream, and jam.
Then on our way to Kiloghlea just like Van?s song. We can see in the distance the humped backs
of the Mourns, black against silver sky and sliding into the sea.
Wising by the car window areHeather-clumped fields of grass, wind-gnarled
bushes, yellow-lichened rock shores and Stone-crumbled walls.
In Ardglass harbor sits two red-rusted tugs leaning over in the mud at low-tide. Around the point
are manicured greens with eighteen flags whipping in the wind.
We stop at Dundrum Bay to hike through Dunes and out to the strand. The Dunes are covered in
thick brown grasses and sit in clumps like a pride of wild cats.A ring of burnt logs lays on the
rough cobblestone strand. Dark clouds are making the sea turn black.
We return by pasture, passing brinded cows chewing patiently among the bluebells.
We reach Eniskinen House next to Tulleymore forrest, just under the Morn foothills. We hike the
enchanted path down to the river past ancient trees.
On the way back we stop at Scrabo Tower built on a steep hill and overlooking the entire Ards
peninsula. Strangford loch forms a vast shimmering water-plain below.
Back to Bangor, Onslow Gardens, where the air thin like the evening light. Thanks be to God for
long Irish days.
7/15/22 – Dunsevrick, North Coast of Ireland
The landscape here is by far the most beautiful in all my travels.
Steep rocky cliffs, broad sandy beaches, thick tufts of spongy green turf, wild flowers-blue,
yellow, violet. The streams are flowing from field, over rock paths and out to the sea. Sitting by
the cliff edge there is a grand silence cut only by sound of sea birds and the water lapping against
rock far below.
Natures beauty is so intense and vibrant it has the power to touch the soul and awaken it to
God’s presence.
This experience of beauty is enriched by connection with loved ones, family and dearest of
friends. Such beauty can?t be absorbed fully unless it is shared. I think that is because material
beauty is really just a pointer, an invitation into communion, and union.
7/15/22 – The Table of Friendship
Written for my Irish friends
Like streams on the Mourne slopes, we merge round rock and turf, and descend together into still
waters.
Like migratory birds we return to this table of friendship, to tell our stories, to remind ourselves
of who we are. We are hard-wired to feast in this field together.
Time stills itself at the table of friendship as we bless our abundance and lift the cup our life. We
chew and swallow the presence that inhabits the space between laughter, joy and sorrow.
The lime dressing soaks into our green leaves and beetroots, as spirit is drawn into matter. We
are tossed together, refreshed by a foretaste of the merging feast that is our destiny.
We have come to a table where sacrifice lifts a glass to gratitude and sorrow reaches out to grasp
the plate of joy.
We come to a table where our ego-shells resolve into porous membranes that we might pass
beyond mere language into real presence.
And for all this feasting, still, only a glimpse of that broad heart-land that we are learning to
make our homeland.