It was the proverbial first time we had flown with our son.
In a capitalistic society with brand-name water, I could spend thousands of dollars preparing for pilgrimag and never say a single prayer.
Pilgrimage is at times, quite simply, plain hard work, in which, uprooted from one’s normal rhythms and resources, one confronts one’s own physical, emotional, and spiritual vulnerabilities.
Cultural travelogues usually try to pick up a whiff of some hidden rustling in the midst of fragments. Here I see only subdued disjunctions; I smell only the dust from ground trampled by the world, as it barrels along under a sky of forgetfulness.
The bulls that killed St. Sernin seem to have won out, at least in publicity.
Faith involves long periods of trudging forward, punctuated by coincidences and the unexpected — and these sometimes build upon one another.