An unlikely prayer

I live in probably the most ideal part of Alicante. I have two big grocery stores each less than three blocks away from me with a handful of convenience markets and produce shops in between. There is a coffee shop literally in the bottom of my building, and actually 3 bakeries on my block--both a good and dangerous thing. I'm close enough to the main shopping strip to walk to and indulge in when I want, but it's not too close to where I'm in a constant state of buyer's remorse for the €20 bubblegum pink sundress and €12 brown corduroy pants and whatever else I bought that while on sale, I definitely didn't need and certainly purchased for the hell of it. That's all pretty materialistic, but when I've lived in Clemson, SC for the past two years, having more than just bar food, fast food, and Papa John's for eating out options and actual places to shop for clothing apart from Goodwill and Walmart in the town I live in, I feel like a kid in a candy store. I started class this past Tuesday and have been taking the train everyday to the University of Alicante. I'm finally having my city girl moment! Also can we talk about the public transportation here? Incredible. My professors are all angels, and I feel so dang lucky that I get to do this whole thing. I call them angels because they are, too, so patient and kind and helpful with our, sort of insufferable, Spanglish. God bless them and help us. Please. I've been awestruck pretty much since I arrived 1) because it is ridiculously beautiful here and 2) because I'm in Europe for the first time in my life. I still don't actually think I'm in Europe somehow, but I'm working on convincing myself that my transatlantic flight and full day of airports and turbulence did, in fact, take me to a different continent. Something which helps me feel grounded and both connected to myself and the world, particularly while adjusting to being on a new continent, is paying close to attention to nature. While Alicante is a city of sorts, there are beautiful mountains right in my backyard, and the Mediterranean Sea is actually right there--less than 10 blocks from my front door. Like, is this real life? I haven't decided, but pinching myself and rubbing my eyes every now and then seems to help. While it's easy to see the beauty constantly surrounding me, my study abroad group has gone on a couple excursions over the past few days which have really made my jaw drop. On Thursday afternoon, we hiked up to the top of the Santa Bárbara Castle in Alicante, which I actually have a view of from my apartment balcony (I know, right?!). It was a guided tour with a sweet Spanish woman giving us the history of its construction as we made our trek to the top. We were at the summit for the sunset, and it was truly breathtaking. I'll have it engraved in my brain forever, I think.

I want to take everyone I know on this hike, so they, too, can shutter in awe and wonder as the sun creeps behind the mountains and the city in the distance which both also fade perfectly into the sea. Yesterday, our group ventured to Sierra Helada Natural Park (Parque Natural Sierra Helada) in L'Alfàs del Pi, Alicante about a 40 minute bus ride north of the city center. We took a 3 and a quarter mile walk along a paved path in a mountainous hillside right on the Mediterranean. We were also there in time for the sunset which, again, seemed too good to be true and looked more like a painting than anything. I have never seen water more blue. Large bodies of water have this knack of making me feel incredibly insignificant in comparison to their size and beauty and strength but also somehow so seen and known and free because I, too, am a creation and object of the same universe with my own unique size and beauty and strength? I think that's why attentiveness to the natural world, as a whole, is so good and grounding and freeing for me.

One of my favorite writers of all time is a poet named Mary Oliver (SURPRISE). The three year anniversary of her death was on Monday, so I've been taking some extra time to reflect upon her words which have simultaneously changed and saved my life. Her writing is beautiful, but she is my favorite because of her posture toward life and the world, in addition to her words. I most recently returned to her book Thirst and took photos of my favorite poems from it to carry with me while abroad since I couldn't fit it in my checked bag which actually ended up being over 10 pounds over the weight limit and a $100 charge to my credit card... sorry mom! One in particular, is called "Praying" and goes a little something like this: It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. I don't know what your ideas are or aren't about God, and I don't always know what mine are either, but I can get behind this. What if a prayer is just a moment of awe, an attentiveness to all that is or one small detail? A second of admiration for the peak of a mountain being swallowed by the clouds or a prolonged amazement for the song of the bird which greets you each morning. You don't even have to think of it as a prayer, and perhaps, it's better if you don't--"a silence in which / another voice may speak." It's like letting yourself be drenched in the glory of the beauty which exists, and if you so believe, reminding yourself that you are an object of the same creator/universe, somehow, someway, and there's an elemental beauty and value and design and purpose inherent in all of us simply for breathing the same air as everything and everyone else, inhabiting the same earth. Not one of our actions or existences is in isolation. I'm less interested in the how and the way of the creation and more interested in the opportunity for unity and compassion and liberation that this idea brings us. For me, wonder feels a lot like thanksgiving, and thanksgiving feels like the best prayer. So it seems like I have accidentally been praying ever since stepping foot in Spain. I mean, how could I not? I'm currently reading a book by Madeleine L'Engle, author of the famous fiction novel A Wrinkle in Time, called And it was Good: Reflections on Beginnings. She is revisiting Biblical creation literature, woven with witty commentary, lighthearted anecdotes, and digestable understandings of what all the stories might mean for us. In a chapter titled "Protecting God", concerned with the value in holding our understandings of God and truth with an open hand and an open mind, she writes, "Later on I thought how marvellous it is to have a friend, also in her sixties, with whom I can be so foolish and so gloriously happy, full of wonder at the marvel of being. And this sense of wonder is also prayer. It is this awareness of the marvellousness of creation which helps to keep dissatisfaction away; rejoicing in and being wholly satisfied with being God's co-creators is a prayer of protection." "Full of wonder at the marvel of being". That seems like a lovely way to live. And I think I'd like to try, even for just a few seconds a day. I hope this is not coming across as an argument for what a prayer is. I'm hoping this is more of an invitation to open yourself up to awe and wonder, wherever you are, at whatever suits your fancy, and you might just find yourself in the midst of a prayer. And you might just realize your own marvellousness and generative, creative capacity, too. Here's to the places we'll go, the people we'll meet, and the prayers waiting to be had--the moments of awe and wonder as we feast our eyes on the beauty of all that is. For now, I'll be here, praying my way through Spain. Thank you for coming along for the journey. All my love, Cate