My apologies for the lack of posts. I have a spiritual desire to write, but sometimes not the mental focus to do so. However, I was able to put up all of the pictures I took on my pilgrimage through Spain. They are all available to see at A View of My World. When I figure out how to put multiple gallery links on the same page you will be able to find pictures of nearly all the trips I’ve made over the years. You can see the world from my point of view through the pictures I took.
Lately I have been fixated on writing poems. I completed one recently, but instead of that one I will present to you one I completed previously. Don’t be shocked; this isn’t the first poem I’ve shown you. There was one in the post about Journeys and Mystical Experiences. It was about ten strangers who guided me through a blizzard.
I’ve mentioned the hero’s journey in a previous post. At some point during good stories, the protagonist will go through difficult challenges in their quest. It is a descent into the underworld, or an abyss, where one struggles and then transforms into something greater. Someone like Jordan Peterson has much more to say about that. Anyways, this poem is about my descent into an abyss of sorts.
In this new poem I suffered from an attack on my soul that I could not fight against. I wrote my previous poem without first thinking about the structure. This time, I decided on a A B C B rhyming pattern with lines of 10 syllables each. In other words, a ballad arranged in quatrains. Here it is in all of its glory, whether or not it is worthy.
A Wind of Wrath
It was barren winter in Tuscany, When I journeyed thousands of miles from home. I climbed the slopes of Mount Amiata, On my way to Saint Peter’s Square in Rome. On a cold grey dawn in this far-off land, I woke to walk on a long winding path. When out of town, beyond any aid, I was beset by a wind full of wrath. For I had followed an old worn out road, Jagged and broken, to a naked hill. Without shelter I was cruelly exposed, To a fierce tempest with intent to kill. It blew suddenly and without mercy, From everywhere, with no place to hide, With threats to push me over the cliff’s edge, And set my corpse upon the countryside. Neither rain nor lightning fell from the sky, As the unseen force pushed on with its goal: To assail me with bursts of sharp cold air, Striking not just my body, but my soul. I stumbled forward on my hopeless way, Afraid of this invisible power. The air pierced me deeply through coat and skin, And I felt this would be my final hour. My limbs grew heavy and my face turned cold, But within my heart a hot fire was set. With a booming voice I yelled at the sky, “You should try harder, since I’m not dead yet!” As if to contemplate my bold challenge, The wind ceased its assault on me. But when it decided on an answer, It attacked with renewed ferocity. Suddenly I was struck across the face, By ghostly hands tipped with wicked cold nails. All I could feel was the endless barrage; All I could hear were the spirits’ shrieks and wails. Was this a test of faith from the heavens, Or torture from one who lives far below? I racked my mind for an explanation, While anticipating the final blow. I struggled forward against the tempest, Which blew for what seemed an eternity. Despite my courage I felt all was lost; I would not overcome adversity. To survive I focused all of my will To plodding along on the path ahead. It was with wonder when I discovered It was the wind, and not I, that was dead. I must not have taken notice at all At what time the wind stopped blowing my way. Did I pass a divinely ordained test, Or did a demon get bored of foul play? With no wind like sharp knives to stab my eyes, I could finally take in all the sights, Of endless brown hills painted with green fields, And of bare trees clamouring up the heights. My difficult struggle had left me spent, And I sat on a rock to recover. Yet I could not rest here for much longer, For there would be much more to discover. It was barren winter in Tuscany, When I journeyed thousands of miles from home. I climbed the slopes of Mount Amiata, On my way to Saint Peter’s Square in Rome.
A Spiritual Attack by the Unknown
I left the village of Gallina on a bleak, grey morning. This was yet another pilgrimage, and I was in central Italy on my way to Rome. I walked alone along a crumbling roadway on the slopes of Monte Amiata. Soon, a harsh and powerful wind struck. I had felt blasts of strong, cold wind before, but nothing like this. It blew constantly as it hit me deep inside, as if it was aiming for my soul.
Of course the physical wind was strong enough to push me closer to the unguarded cliff edges at the sides of the road. But that was nothing compared to the extremely uncomfortable feeling of the wind blowing right through me. Physically I could enduring the long walk and the strong cold wind. Mentally I could accept that this powerful and constant gust could come out of nowhere and hinder my progress. Emotionally I was not affected – at least, not at the beginning. It was spiritually that I was vulnerable. My soul was under attack spiritually, and I could not defend myself.
You may not believe in spirits or the soul. And it doesn’t matter. I didn’t know what to do against this wind that seemed to be both physical and spiritual. Even though I kept walking forward I could feel myself breaking down internally. I should mention that I was not in extreme pain; it was more like an unbearable feeling, maybe like holding in your pee for too long or maintaining an awkward yoga pose. When I felt I couldn’t take it anymore, I yelled at the sky to just kill me already. While the wind barely paused, I found myself in possession of newfound inner strength, though just enough to get through the wind and begin the climb up Monte Amiata.
Pushed to All of My Limits
This strength appeared because I had a focus for my problem. The strange and unbearable wind from nowhere had become a test of my resolve and my faith. It was a stark reminder that there are things out there we cannot fathom, or fully understand, or even influence. Even though I may have said things like, “I endured the wind”, it was I that was at the mercy of greater powers, and not they who were at the mercy of my endurance.
When the wind died I didn’t notice at first because I was pushing my body and soul to their limits moving forward. Only after climbing halfway up the mountainside did I find the world was quiet and calm. Immediately I felt more tired than I had ever been, and I sat on a rock to rest. I have done many stressful and taxing things before, but nothing that strained me in every way possible, that is physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
Most people have been through taxing ordeals in each of these ways, but some are more common than others. Physical and mental struggles are easy to understand. Emotional and spiritual ordeals are less common. That means we have less experience dealing with them, and fewer strategies to help us recover.
If we are sleepy then we sleep. This helps us physically and mentally. But how to recover from emotional trauma? Or a spiritual ordeal? More likely than not we would need help from outside of ourselves. That might be talking with a loved one, or with prayer to a holy figure for guidance. Help like that sometimes comes from unexpected places and in strange forms.
A Quick Aside
According to the book The Power of Full Engagement, we have four energy sources: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Managing how we utilize and rejuvenate each of those sources is a key factor in improving not only our performance, but our lives.
Climbing Out of the Spiritual Abyss
In the hero’s journey, transformation comes after surviving the underworld. I barely survived my ordeal. After I caught my breath sitting on the rock for a while, I continued my ascent both up the mountainside and out of the abyss. As I climbed along the slopes of the chestnut forest, my mind recovered from my spiritual encounter by focusing not on what had transpired, but on the beauty and grace of this place.
By 11 a.m. I arrived in the town of Abbazia San Salvatore, on the slopes of Monte Amiata. By chance I found a restaurant that just opened, and I had myself the best mushroom soup I’ve ever had for lunch. Also, the proprietor of the place was curious about me, and in surprisingly good English asked why I was here, how I got here, and where I was headed. The rest, the food, and the social interaction helped me recover physically, mentally, and emotionally.
That just left my depleted spirit. At noon, when the church bells rang twelve times to signal midday, I walked into the empty church and namesake of the town, Abbazia di San Salvatore. Already I felt my spirit rising, but when I walked down the steps into the ancient crypt of the church, I felt my spirit soar! The dark and cold chamber may have well be the same as it was a thousand years ago, and that, strange though it may be, comforted me. I breathed in the cold sharp air and felt renewed. And when I stepped outside into the light of the noontime sun escaping from the grey clouds, I was ready for more walking.
Same Journey, New Outlook
The sun was shining brightly as I left town at one hour after noon. As I descended the mountain the mysterious divine wind returned. It blew fast and hard, but this time it didn’t affect me spiritually. Though it was still strong enough to push me around, it had no effect on my soul. I felt no fear, or fatigue, or frustration. Though the wind raged outside an inner peace filled me that a bit of moving air could not disturb.
My walk for the day was nowhere near over. Though there were more dangers to come I had overcome one of the most troubling ordeals of my life. Enduring a spiritual attack is not something that happens often to me. Ironically climbing a mountain put me into a spiritual pit of suffering, while descending into a crypt raised my spirits. Since this did occur on a pilgrimage, I hope you will allow me this one religious comparison. The scene is comparable to (in form but not in magnitude) to the death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Though lifted up on a cross and tormented to death in humiliation, He rose from the dead in glory.
Those are my thoughts on yet another event from one of many lonely journeys. It one inspiring enough to compel me to write a poem. Though I have said this before and failed to deliver, I will say it again and try once again: I hope to follow up this post with accounts of each day of my pilgrimage in Spain, complete with pictures, maps, and explanations.
If you like what you read, let me know and hopefully your comments will encourage me to update faster! Stay healthy and safe!
