October

Snow fell for two hours, heavy at first, a cotton rain, then gentle, floating like leaves.

Out Sick

One of my favorite pictures of all time.

I finally succumbed to the cold. Don't wake me I plan on sleeping in . . .

Out in the Cold

I check to make sure my shirt is tucked in. Jeans with holes don’t make the grade. Wet skin dries out. Fast. The cold is dishonest. You feel fine for two blocks, and then the cracks show. My scarf isn’t covering the right side of my neck and after 10 blocks of walking in 28 degree cold it starts to hurt. Because it’s not getting warmer; the sun’s gone down and the temperature drops. Fast. Like fall in West Texas; 35 degree drops in November, a decrescendo to a bone-chilling absence of warmth, nothing on the surface to keep the heat close. I leave training with a wet head and five blocks later, my ears hurt. It’s 27 degrees outside and my warm blood doesn’t stand a chance against the breeze blowing across the Plateau.

I enjoy the time alone. The first days I would go through a ritual. Write down some spots, plot out a travel plan, and always draw a line back home. The ritual has given way to no plan, no destination, no route. I train in the mornings, shower, eat lunch, and then walk. I walk for miles and miles, ducking into cafes and restaurants, in the Latin Quarter, the Portuguese Square, Little Italy, Chinatown, Centre-Ville, the Port. I walk all day, crawling back home after 9. Without a watch, the day loses its architecture.

Last week my Insomnia crept up, I had nightmares and I couldn’t stay asleep. Still fighting off a mild cold (public transit + walking in crowds = bacteria and viruses). I’m not waking up to epic revelations. This is the small stuff, unnoticed omissions, phone calls I don’t return, visits I don’t make, lives I forget, people I neglect, friendships I don’t nurture. The love I don’t make known with words and deeds; St. Paul says, “Pour me out like a libation.”

How does one ascribe value to time spent alone? I remember a line from a book , The Chosen, an old Hassidic saying: Before finding company in others, you must learn to find company in yourself.

Common says something similar in a rhyme from Ghetto Heaven: Not even I can ignore being alone is hard … find heaven in yourself and God.

As much joy as I find being alone, there are times, when I see something familiar or funny, when I’m cold, when I’m hungry and want more company than a book, during the peace sharing at mass, when I feel the loneliness of this station.

I miss you all very much.

In case you've forgotten what I look like.

Mass & the Masses

It’s taken me a while to put these thoughts together. To best describe the experience of going to mass here, I needed to spend more time with this community. The church is not officially a parish; it’s technically a mission, and I thought immediately of El Paso. For years, Mission Catholique Latino-Américaine de Notre Dame de Guadalupe (makes me think of Sabado Gigante but French – “este segment patrocinado por Progressive Auto Insurance”) hop-scotched from parish to parish in Montreal, offering Spanish mass to the growing Spanish-speaking masses in basements. At the time, this little flock was led by a Spanish priest, known simply as Fr. Javier, who died about 5 years ago. About 10 years ago, the community found a new home in a closing French parish across from the Jacques Cartier Bridge.

A 15-minute walk from my apartment.

On the first Sunday, I walked in early to find a seat up front. Five hundred people stuffed the pews, dozens of accents reverberating on the walls; the noise level qualifying as a dull roar. Peruvian flutes started playing, order settled in, and the mass came to its feet as Fr. Fernando made his way through the crowds. The choir and musicians played guitars, flutes, an accordion, two violins, some bongo drums, and maracas. The dull roar escalated into an organized chant of “Bendito seas Señor” for the several minutes it took to get everyone settled into their seats.

The Peruvians bring music. Actually, they all bring music. The Mexicans are spoken of as being the most Catholic. The Caribbean crowd and any country with a strong African presence – the most charismatic. The Chileans and the Argentines bring modernity. Central America brings the orthodoxy. The Peruvians bring the liberation theology. The El Salvadorans bring scars of war and contempt for the CIA. The Venezuelans are suspicious of government. The Hondurans are extremely devoted to Mary. The Colombians are calm, laid back, easy to dialogue and great listeners.

We all speak Spanish. We all gather after mass in the basement “restaurant” which sells food to raise money for the mission’s ministries. They buy beds for newly arrived immigrants and refuge seekers. They provide counseling for those getting married. Scholarships for Catholic private schools. Food for the ecumenical food service. I eat Honduran tamales, pupusas, tacos, Chilean tamales, Peruvian tamales, Mexican enchiladas, and every Latin pastry known under God.

I didn’t expect this experience to be so foreign and familiar all at once.

The readings and the homily dealt with the sacrament of matrimony, and Fr. Fernando gave a homily to remember, speaking to the gathering in a familiar tone, with authority, pointing out some of the humorous stereotypes of Latino families, but always bringing us back to the reverence appropriate for mass, and always keeping us focused on the value of the sacrament at hand. A tall man from Honduras who loves to sing, Fr. Fernando asked me why I didn’t receive communion when I went up with my arms crossed and asked for a blessing. After my well-rehearsed 5-second answer, he smiled, gave me a blessing, and whispered in Spanish, “It will be a blessing for everyone in your life when you can share in this sacrament.”

That was almost two weeks ago, and I’ve been received into the mission community as a grandson, a son, a brother, and a fellow Catholic, despite my not being confirmed yet. For some of you reading this, I hope I don’t come across as some born-again King of the Hill character. It's much more than that. I’m helping build ministries here, met women who’ve dedicated 50-plus years to religious life with the Gray Sisters, participate in religious education courses with Fr. Yves, a Haitian priest who helps shelter Haitian refugees arriving here in Montreal. The mission is home to persons from every country in this hemisphere: Chile, Argentina, El Salvador (those people are everywhere), the U.S., the Caribbean. Many left families, many lost family and spouses to civil wars and army assaults on its own people. They left their homes and cultures thousands of miles away to escape death, famine, disease, unspeakable horrors they limit mostly to the confessional. Rapes at the hands of soldiers, relatives taken away in the middle of the night by the latest dictator, God only knows what else.

My news headline monsters were their real life terror. Pinochet, Armas, Batallion 316, El Mozote, the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero.

Why am I here? I’m here on vacation.

Fr. Percy Diaz, the associate pastor at the mission (the kids call him Padre Pepsi), is from Peru. Every year he takes a group to Lima to work in the slums, at a house for HIV positive children, at a home for abandoned elderly persons with terminal illnesses, at orphanages. He and Fr. Fernando belong to an order established by Saint Antonio Maria Claret, and they represent the founder’s legacy well. They work among the weakest, the most vulnerable, and as far as I’ve seen, they are joyful and full of love. I learn something new from them every day.

That’s how often I seek them and this community out – every day.

Snow

Yesterday, on Ste. Catherine Street, and then later on, at dusk, walking down Boudreaux, on the way to mass.

The Virtue of Being Small

Anonymity. I figured I'd have a lot of it here. But I didn't expect to have the reaction I did. Nobody cares what I'm wearing, what I'm thinking, that my socks don't match. In a city this size, riding the metro, everyone thinking their own things, on their way to their own destinations, being anonymous is a default state of being. I don't have to look for it - anonymity finds me. And for a few days, I felt lonely.

I live in the Plateau, north of St. Laurent street, the unofficial dividing line between English Montreal and the French neighborhoods. I began asking people if they spoke Spanish if I couldn't manage the conversation in French. I met Luz Piedad and her sister at the corner store; they're from Colombia. I met Jose from Portugal whose wife is Chilean, so he speaks Spanish. I met the old woman who works the patisserie outside the Sherbrooke station and thinks it's hilarious that in Mexico, palmiers are called "orejones" or big ears.

Part of me expected this time to be about me, and while it most certainly is, it doesn't begin with me. As silly as this may sound, I'm learning more about myself in the reflections seen in the people I meet.

And I'm learning that there is so much I don't know. The gym is a constant reminder of that. After being flipped over Ryan's (some kid from Pointe St. Charles, a pretty rough Irish neighborhood) hip and shoulder about 100 times on Monday, I kept thinking how weak I am, physically and mentally. It required so much effort to get up again only to get dropped again.

Then the boxing started and I found home. More than keep up, I excelled. My hands were faster than my opponents, my reflexes sharper, and in 30 minutes I made up with my hand speed and punching power for 60 minutes of not knowing how to avoid a take-down.

But in the end, that was the point. To learn something I didn't already know. And while I figure out how to avoid being swept, I know that if I'm fighting on my feet, I have a puncher's chance. Yet the yoga is by far the more revelatory exercise. Knowing how to balance yourself, to be able to move from a crouched position to a handstand - knowing how to control my body - that is worth so much more than the fighting. I can't expect to engage someone if I don't have a full understanding of my own capacity for movement.

I've been lacking a center all this time.

First Days

I’m not one to believe in omens, although the few times in my life that I’ve witnessed three owls take flight have been followed by significant events.

So the flu, the sickness in the Toronto airport, and the 48-hour fever didn’t make me glum. It only accelerated the pace of my first weekend here. And because I was sick, I was able to test the Canadian health care system (hard to rank my experience – Montreal is considered in-network for me – but the doctor and nurse were sympathetic to my pain, no waiting in the ER); I met an interesting Chinese medicine man who gave me some tea that, for about 90 minutes, made me feel so much better; and, I missed my mom, Austin, and all of you so much.

Sometimes I forget how to miss people. I can take things for granted, and I honestly find that the volunteering is a constant reminder of what I do have. Food, life, a home. Maybe it’s a little silly but I always thought Fight Club was about exactly that: appreciating what you have in the moment that you have it. Not to be mistaken with taking everything for what it’s worth every chance you get.

The French and Spanish expressions of the sentiment are sublime. “Tu me manques” or “Me haces falta/Te hecho de menos” convey exactly what is meant – you are missing. You are not here, in this spot, right now when I turned and needed you. And while I baked at 103 degrees, I thought of all those places you occupy, how they can grow, and how I tend to shrink when I’m not feeling well. I wonder, does that mean I should always grow when I do?

Mom was there to listen to my symptoms list, and Montreal TV offered Cartman and Homer, a la Quebecois. “Non, chiensi! Cet MON tarte de poulet!!!” Yes, that’s what came out of Cartman’s mouth when the kitty is wanting his chicken pot pie.

I’m running a day behind on posts, but I’ll be on track tomorrow with Monday’s and Tuesday’s. I hope you enjoy reading my thoughts (it’s all I have, I don’t really talk to many people on a day-to-day basis). I’m sharing the blog address with the few who I think would be remotely interested in Ma Vie Montreales.