In October I went to Camp Allen in Navasota. Three times.

To Marlin, Texas. Twice. Waco. Chambersville. Tyler. Lindale. Minneapolis and St. Paul. Many miles around the Houston area.

Including traveling home to St. Cuthbert to preach and celebrate Eucharist, the parish that sent me to seminary nearly thirty years ago.

I am a Missioner, after all.

I begin November on my way to Beech Grove, Indiana for an Oblate retreat at Our Lady of Grace Monastery. A week of prayer, worship, and holy reading. Surprises of joy and play.

I am nearing the year anniversary of my departure from St. Mary’s. This is a good week for my spirit and soul to catch up and rest.

This past week I voted for the first time since moving into town. I was struck by the many colors and shapes of people that joined me for early voting. I was reminded by how much I am loving living in a city where everyday I experience the amazing greatness of the image of God.

Traveling. Again.

Because I am spending more time in a smaller circumference on this vacation, rather than travels hither and yon, I am having time to read.

I started my third book yesterday (!) while waiting for my friend to finish her massage.

On this trip I’ve read:

And now I’m a few chapters into

I love that I can check out ebooks from the library and download them to my iPad. It’s a light weight way to carry a library of possibilities when I travel.

I’m also having more time during quiet mornings to read the myriad of devotions I receive via email and apps each day. All via iPhone.

A daily email, though not one that would be classified as a devotional, almost always gives me deep spiritual pondering. Its from Seth Godin, and this morning’s gave me pause:

Politics is organized sparring about power, without much regard for efficacy or right or wrong.

Governance is the serious business of taking responsibility for leadership.

When we have a chance to speak up for governance we strike a blow against politics.

Dedication, resilience, and concerted effort have saved us before and they can save us again. Except once again, it’s up to us to speak up and do something about it.

These words had me write a letter to myself in my head. I am one of those leaders after all.

If our country was indeed founded in the belief of the unalienable right of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,

Do the decisions I make forward life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Not only for me. But most particularly for others?

Am I, a woman of great privilege, willing to give up some of my privilege for others? Or at least share? Or at least work to break down the walls and open the doors that keep those privileges selfishly close?

And it’s so easy for me to see how someone with many guns might harm other’s life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness, what choices do I make that harm someone else’s right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

What about me?

(From the Harwood Museum: Judy Chicago: The Birth Project)

When my best friend and I were deciding in July whether or not we could make our trip back to Iceland and the Faroes, part of what we did was imagine all the steps (metaphorically and literally) we’d have to take. We finally allowed reality to meet romance, and we realized that although it was possible for us to go the Faroe Islands, they would be enjoyed more father down her healing road.

And that’s how we came to decide to do a “pilot” trip instead. New Mexico was an easy flight from Georgia and Texas, and we had a wonderful and familiar place to stay.

And that’s how we came to learn about priority travel–the way we can travel when one person has less mobility than she’d like.

There’s priority parking.

Priority chairs on wheels a friend can push when walking a museum is not possible.

Priority gardens out the back door when the circumference of miles usually journeyed becomes feet.

Priority hiking of 70 steps out the front door to see our neighbors, the llamas.

Priority body care including hair cuts, facials, and today, massages.

A day short of a week into our trip, we still have half a tank of gas, most of that used driving from the Albuquerque airport to Taos.

Priority travel has been about listening. Slowing. Asking for assistance. Receiving help. Nearly unceasing prayer. And lots of laughter.

From Agnes Martin’s gallery at the High Museum:

Friendship. Perfect Day.

Today I had the gift of starting the day early (time zone difference!) doing FaceTime Live prayers. Usually I’m rushing into the office for prayers. Today I walked out to the casa garden to pray.

It’s a gift to gather with friends across the miles and hold those we love in prayer. Today the bells rang from a church down the street as we began our prayers.

Yesterday, on the way home from an outing, we passed by one of those tiny Roman Catholic churches that are so frequent in New Mexico. Another find only a few blocks from the casa. We stopped, hoping to go inside to pray. Sadly, as is so often the custom, the door was locked.

Sunday on the way to worship at St. James, a man in a tie dyed shirt had approached us as we were getting in our car. He asked us if this was where the overflow parking was for the Hanuman ashram.

Well. No it wasn’t, but it got us curious. After church, we googled “ashram near me,” and discovered there was a Hindu temple one block away. All the years we’ve come here, and I never knew.

We decided to make a stop at the ashram after the pause at the chapel of San Antonio de Padua. I was a bit uncomfortable going into such a strange place. How would people respond to us? What were the rules?

We drove through the gates and parked. It was quiet and peaceful. Yes, taking a breath. It’s more or like monasteries I’ve visited so very often. Of course I can go in.

Remembering to take off my shoes, we walked in. A woman was kneeling before Hanuman-ji chanting a prayer in a language I do not know accompanied by an instrument I did not recognize.

It is a holy place. After our own prayers, we went outside to watch a peahen and a peacock. Other members of the community joined us to watch delightedly with us. One was wafting incense before her. We were greeted with smiles.

As we left, a man was entering to pray. He removed his shoes, rang a bell hanging above the entrance, knelt to touch the threshold, and then reached to touch the transom.

I was thoughtful of the outward spiritual practices that are clearly stated as unequivocal.

Washing before entering the sacred space. Shoes off. Body postures. A meal offered everyday at noon to which all are welcome.

As I walked the path around the temple, two sticks had fallen on the path. In the position of a cross.

What holy, sacred thing is Christ speaking to me here?