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Special Issue of the Adelaide Literary Magazine. Best essays by the Winner, 6 Shortlist Nominees, and 40 Finalists of the Third Annual Adelaide Literary Award Competition 2019, selected by Stevan V. Nikolic, editor-in-chief.

THE WINNER: Joanna Kadish
SHORTLIST WINNER NOMINEES: Ruth Deming, Hank Kalet, Noelle Wall, Michael R. Morris, Jeffrey Loeb, Megan Madramootoo
FINALISTS: Gabriel Sage, Jamie Gogocha, Jeffrey Kass, Aysel Basci, Sloane Keay Davidson, Allen Long, David Berner, Juliana Nicewarner, John Bonanni, Steve Sherwood, Christopher Major, Robin Fasano, Claudia Geagan, Peter Crowley, Clay Anderson, Megan Sandberg, Wally Swist, Royce Adams, Raymond Tatten, John Ballantine Jr., John Bliss, Cynthia Close, Deirdre Fagan, Elise Radina, Patrick Hahn, Daniel Bailey, Terry Engel, Peter Warzel, Larry Hamilton, Susan M Davis, Larry Weill, Jason James, Xavier Clayton, Elizabeth Kilcoyne, T. Harvard, Suzanne Maggio-Hucek, Marianne Song, Brianna Heisey, Valerie Angel, Janel Brubaker.

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Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2020-04-07 19:46:36

Adelaide Literary Award Anthology 2019 - ESSAYS

Special Issue of the Adelaide Literary Magazine. Best essays by the Winner, 6 Shortlist Nominees, and 40 Finalists of the Third Annual Adelaide Literary Award Competition 2019, selected by Stevan V. Nikolic, editor-in-chief.

THE WINNER: Joanna Kadish
SHORTLIST WINNER NOMINEES: Ruth Deming, Hank Kalet, Noelle Wall, Michael R. Morris, Jeffrey Loeb, Megan Madramootoo
FINALISTS: Gabriel Sage, Jamie Gogocha, Jeffrey Kass, Aysel Basci, Sloane Keay Davidson, Allen Long, David Berner, Juliana Nicewarner, John Bonanni, Steve Sherwood, Christopher Major, Robin Fasano, Claudia Geagan, Peter Crowley, Clay Anderson, Megan Sandberg, Wally Swist, Royce Adams, Raymond Tatten, John Ballantine Jr., John Bliss, Cynthia Close, Deirdre Fagan, Elise Radina, Patrick Hahn, Daniel Bailey, Terry Engel, Peter Warzel, Larry Hamilton, Susan M Davis, Larry Weill, Jason James, Xavier Clayton, Elizabeth Kilcoyne, T. Harvard, Suzanne Maggio-Hucek, Marianne Song, Brianna Heisey, Valerie Angel, Janel Brubaker.

Keywords: poetry,literary collections,contest

ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

that dream of Dad with me that I cried waking up to. The
case we were on, Dad and I, in the dream it was mine. And
in the dream I realized, whatever it was we were doing, I just
wanted it over.

That was a son following the path his father never meant
him taking. A son was chasing his worth, comparing to his fa-
ther continually. And a son now wanted that over. And then he
awoke. He found he’d become a good son. He’d become a good
husband and good father. What he wrestled for years about, re-
played in a dream at 5:24 in the morning. He wouldn’t need to
relive his father‘s life. Not to keep proving himself strong, not
by comparison and not to the ones important to him.

This dream I woke from comes to mind, now, on my way
to having coffee and hot cocoa with my daughter. We pass
by cops on a car stop, which prompts her asking ponderous
questions. The dream, finally, leaves me clear answers. The
job is hard, in ways I can only try in describing. And maybe
strangely, yes, sometimes I miss it. I ask her in return, when
we get home, to read what took so long to write, what I wrote
here, just now.

She does. She reads and knows I think often of Dad, her
grandfather she’s never met, and that my biggest want in my
life was to be just like him. She knows too what odd, long
hours in the worst of other people’s lives I lived through to try
emulating him. She reads on still, about mistakes, on following
too close in copying someone else’s steps. She sees, I hope, I’m
trying harder to tell her what Dad tried hard in telling me:
Find YOUR way. Even if it’s apart from me. Even if that feels
off course, as you’re taking yourself far from where I’ve gone.

Jason James is an award-winning essayist and journalist,
focussing on experiential nonfiction. He previously served as
a police officer and a DEA Special Agent.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

For his writing, Jason was named a Shortlist Winner
Nominee by Adelaide Magazine in 2017 for the essay “SAT
Saturday” about teen depression and the suicide death of a
San Diego high school student. In 2018, his essay “Chester-
field Road” about family adversity and pride was selected for
inclusion in an anthology of best essays.

In off-hours, Jason studies Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Muay
Thai. He lives with his family in Southern California.

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Awaken Your Inner Phoenix

by Xavier Clayton

Harnessing The Power of The Five World Mantras

THE PHOENIX SEQUENCE

We human beings are both divine transmitters and cosmic re-
ceptors. What switches our thoughts from transmitter to re-
ceptor is the way we use our thoughts. One of the highest ways
we can use our thoughts is with a mantra. But, who empow-
ered these words? In Truth – mankind itself empowered them.
Each one is impregnated with the love, joy and aspirations of
billions of people over the last four thousand years.

Used together, the five world mantras create a spiritual
chain reaction within ourselves when we see how they inter-
relate with each other. In one sequence, their root meanings
awaken a tremendous amount of Light and inner power. The
sequence that this book is devoted to starts from Tao... then
goes to Allah… on into Amen… then onto Om…then to
AUM and then back to Tao.

Tao – Allah – Amen – Om – AUM
Tao – Allah – Amen – Om – AUM...
This is The Phoenix Sequence.

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LIKE A PIANO

These 5 mantras are like aspects to music played on a grand piano:
TAO is comparable to the system of strings and hammers

inside the grand piano because of its description of God as
“The Mother of The Ten Thousand Things”, “The Divine Vir-
tues” and “The First and The Last”.

ALLAH is comparable to the BODY of the piano with
its poetic form because of its description of God as “The Be-
ginningless and Endless”, “The Eternal and Everlasting”, “The
Unique”… but, most of all, because of it being a phonetic
palindrome.

AMEN is comparable to the keys of the piano because
Amen is the bridge between Universal Consciousness and
Physical Matter. It is the portal through which all matter passes.
In The Bible, John 1:1 and Genesis 1:1 describe “The Word”,
or first creation of God. That word is Amen – The bridge be-
tween two dimensions. Likewise, the keys to a piano are the
bridge between the piano itself and music.

OM is comparable to a song or musical composition be-
cause of its description of God’s existence as a Universal Vibra-
tion. Just as a song fills a theater, Divine Consciousness fills the
Universe… However, this is a piano that never stops “playing”.
It is a song that will continue until the end of Time.

And lastly, AUM is comparable to the feelings and emo-
tions that are triggered when we hear a beautiful song. Simi-
larly, the meaning of this mantra is a reminder to us of God on
our 3 levels of existence; The conscious level, the subconscious
level and the super-conscious level.

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

The Phoenix Poem
To awaken The Phoenix,
We first start with Tao.
With no end or beginning
Our thoughts focus on The Now.
With The Ten Thousand Things

And Virtues Divine,
The Tao spreads my wings.
The Mother expands my mind.

We then think of Allah.
The mirror aspect it’s having.

Beyond The Eternal
And The Everlasting.

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The palindrome of Allah
Becomes a phonetic key.
With both it and Tao
We feel our Pure Potentiality.
From this Source emerged
The First Cosmic Sound.
To bridge two dimensions,
Amen is what is found.

Amen is the portal
All Life passes through.
The womb of The Mother
Where Death merged and Life grew.
The Phoenix then takes
Our thoughts into Om.
Where Amen, Tao and Allah
Have all found a home.

Within every atom
Spins an electron inside.
Whether man, plant or galaxy,
It is Om that has lived or died.

We go further still
To levels beyond what we see.
To the subconscious and superconscious
That’s what AUM reminds me.
AUM is even in my dreams.
It inspires me then and now.
The Phoenix takes me through all 5 mantras
To where I begin again with Tao.

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

TAO

To awaken The Phoenix,
We first start with Tao.
With no end or beginning
Our thoughts focus on The Now.

With The Ten Thousand Things
And Virtues Divine,

The Tao spreads my wings.
The Mother expands my mind.

The purpose of these passages is to give the reader a simulta-
neous feeling of limitlessness, potentiality and eternity. It is
also to remind us of the maternal aspects of God.

In general, “The Tao Te Ching” describes Universal Con-
sciousness in three different ways.

First, it describes it as The Mother of The Ten
Thousand things.

Secondly, as an Eternal Field without a beginning
or an end.

And lastly, as The Five Divine Virtues – which are
Justice, Truth, Love, Kindness and Wisdom.

The fact that Lao Tzu, the author of “The Tao Te Ching”,
uses the metaphor of a “Mother” to describe God is quite in-
sightful. No matter what faith, gender or religion we are, we
all have a mother – so this makes his description instantly
relatable that it taps deep into our memory. Added to that, a
mother herself strives to have certain maternal aspects when
caring for her child. In “The Two Paths to God”, I explore this

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

maternal aspect of Universal Consciousness more deeply and
even list more than 50 maternal qualities that can be consid-
ered “Divine”; aspects such as “Unconditional Love”, “Omni-
presence”, “Generosity”, etc. Taoism helps us look at God in
this way to where what we can say is that everything a mother
wants to be for her child, God is for us.

As you read “The Tao Te Ching”, the latter part of the
book changes theme. It discusses our Five Divine Virtues. We
humans have a large amount of principles, a small number
of morals and a handful of virtues. Our highest virtues are
Divine. They are Justice, Truth, Love, Kindness and Wisdom.
They are the highest within us because they resonate with The
12 Universal Laws.

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

ALLAH

We then think of Allah.
The mirror aspect it’s having.

Beyond The Eternal
And The Everlasting.

The palindrome of Allah
Becomes a phonetic key.
With both it and Tao
We feel our Pure Potentiality.

The purpose of these two passages are to add a mirror-like
aspect to our contemplations of Divine Consciousness. Of all
the Five World Mantras, “Allah” is the only palindrome. It is a
phonetic palindrome that can be said backwards and forwards.
Palindromes have been used for centuries to augment a ritu-
al’s spiritual potency. Allah adds mysticism, power and a dual,
mirror-like dimension to The Phoenix Sequence.

Both the “The Tao Te Ching” and “The Holy Koran”
describe this beginningless and endless aspect of Universal
Consciousness. The Holy Koran calls it “unique”, as it is not
anything that is made of matter or is it something that is ma-
terialized. Allah is beyond even thought itself. It exists in a
realm before any-”thing” comes into this existence. It takes our
thoughts to the Eternal Field of Pure Potentiality.

Again…Saying the word “Allah” awakens Divinity. At this
deep, transcendent dimension of the Universe – and of who
we are, the beginning becomes the end and the end becomes
the beginning. All Life becomes One. Having a palindrome in
The Phoenix Sequence helps remind us of the mystery of God.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

Again.. We feel Allah’s palindrome effect most when we repeat
it very slowly and reflectively.

In my book “The Two Paths to God”, I show some of the
ways Islam and Taoism are interconnected. For instance, both
use The Moon to calculate their festivals. They both use a lunar
calendar. They both describe God as without a beginning and
without an end. And they both help remind us of God as The
Eternal Field. Although they vary in numerous other ways (For
instance, in regards to God as being full of wrath, their views
on Divination and their views on homosexuality), the lunar
aspect, the palindrome, the Divine Virtues, The Mother and
The Eternal Field help our thoughts encompass The Infinite
Pure Potentiality within and around us.

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

AMEN

From this Source emerged
The First Cosmic Sound.
To bridge two dimensions,
Amen is what is found.

Amen is the portal
All Life passes through.
The womb of The Mother
Where Death merged and Life grew.

The purpose of these passages is to remind us of The First Cre-
ation of God. The first thing to emerge from The Field of Pure
Potentiality was a Sound-Vibration, full of dynamic intelli-
gence, limitless abundance and Pure, Universal thought. To
encapsulate all of those elements into one simple term, our
ancient mystics called that first, primordial sound a Word. All
words, we either say or write, have the same elements of in-
formation, thought and energy. From that First Sound sprang
forth the multi-dimensional Universe we live in. There is One
cosmic vibration from whence all matter emerged from The
Universal Mind. Physical matter merges back with The Uni-
versal Mind through that same One primordial vibration. The
Mantra Amen symbolizes this first Sound-Vibration in the
form of a word. It is the bridge between Universal Intelligence
and Physical Matter. It is “The Word” described in The Holy
Bible and its use was exemplified in the Life of The Master
Christ.

“The Two Paths to God” helps us to see how much of
Christianity is symbolic. The icons, paintings, relics, orna-
ments and parables are an intricate part of this method as a

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

path to Enlightenment. Symbolism is powerful because once
we are told what the symbol represents, it itself becomes our
teacher. The symbol itself reminds us of what we can do to
develop our highest virtues of peace, joy, truth and love.

Many of the world’s 2 billion Christians repeat “Amen”
with the meaning of “The End” in their thoughts. Others de-
fine it as “So be it”, “Verily” and “Truly”. However, none of
these definitions are transcendent, universal or alchemic. Some
will define Amen as meaning “The Holy Ghost” or “The Holy
Spirit”. Then the question is... “How do you define “The Holy
Spirit”? If you define the Holy Spirit as something like the ghost
of a dead relative... then that will also probably not be transcen-
dent or alchemic. But, if The Holy Spirit is in fact The First
Creation to emerge from The Eternal Field. If The Holy Spirit
is The Primordial Sound that brought forth The Multitude of
This Universe.. then that definition of Amen as meaning The
Holy Spirit is transcendent, universal and alchemic.

Reading John 1:1 and Genesis 1:1 in The Holy Bible, we
find that the most subtle and dynamic symbol of all is the word
“Amen”. John 1:1 says that “God became THE WORD… and
then The Word became The Universe”. In Taoism, when we
speak of a “Mother”, it implies many deeper meanings at-
tached to that thought. Likewise, in Christianity, when we
speak of a “Word”, it implies many deeper meanings attached
to that thought. Many mystics teach and write with terms that
are simple, effective and thought-provoking. John 1:1 implies
how “The Word” was both the first creation of God and… is
also the bridge, or link, between God and The Universe. This
passage doesn’t say “God became The Universe” – it clearly
mentions a middle step – The Word.

Furthermore, when we read in Genesis 1:1, “God said
Let there be Light”. That too implies that even before the

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

creation of Light there was a Word – A creative dimension full
of thought, information, cosmic energy and incessant, Uni-
versal Abundance.

To find someone who used this mantra so lovingly and
profusely, you need look no further than The Master Jesus
Christ himself. He demonstrates, through his use of it in his
prayers and rituals, that “Amen” is The Word – The bridge
between Universal Consciousness and Physical Matter. His
understanding of that word he used so profusely is what we
need to explore, as we learn new ways in how we can put it
into our prayers, our meditations... and even into our lives.
For The Master Christ, outside of God Himself, it is his most
prominent tool of dynamic power and healing. The tool that
was a clear and intricate part of his miracles. But, even more
important than Him… We prove it to ourselves when we sing
it and feel the energy within and around us instantly change.
We feel ourselves instantly connect to something higher. We
begin to see that Amen is not the end of something – Rather,
it is the beginning of something.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

OM

The Phoenix then takes
Our thoughts into Om.
Where Amen, Tao and Allah
Have all found a home.

Within every atom
Spins an electron inside.
Whether man, plant or galaxy,
It is Om that has lived or died.

These passages help remind us of The Universal Consciousness
that is in constant flux. In our manifested Universe, everything is
made up of molecules and atoms. An atom is an electron spinning
around a nucleus at the speed of light. It is in constant motion…
and generates a continual vibration throughout the Universe. At
one level of our being, we are in constant motion… and thusly,
we are in constant change. Change, itself, is a Universal Constant.
Om does exist in all matter… but not all matter is the same. A
carbon molecule is different than a hydrogen molecule – both
in size and activity. A sand pebble is different than a full-grown
elephant – in both size and activity. However, the beauty of these
differences is that it reminds us of that Pure Potentiality that came
from that first Sound. The numerous variety within and around
us – all in constant flux – all coming from that primordial creation
is a beautiful thing to behold. We can use this inescapable fact of
limitless variety to empower our thoughts and actions.

When The Bible says “God became The Word.. and then
The Word became The Universe”, three levels of existence are
described: God, The Word and The Universe. Tao and Allah
(relate to God’s Pure Potentiality), Amen (relates to The Word)

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

and Om (relates to The Universe). Om resonates with the un-
limited fragmented states we see, feel, hear, smell and taste.

There are people who declare that a sand pebble and a full-
grown elephant are the same. There are those who claim that
everything is the same and that everything resonates with sound
of Om. That is true – However, the problem with that definition
is that that idea of Om is stagnant. It doesn’t activate anything. It
just focuses our thoughts on One motionless, universal vibration.

Yet…There is second a more vibrant, active and more
infinitely abundant way to ponder the limitlessness of Om.
With The Phoenix Sequence, our thoughts start deep within
The Field of Pure Potentiality with Tao and Allah… then
on into the First Vibration to emerge from that Field with
Amen… then throughout the limitless manifestations brought
forth from that primordial sound with Om… to where it re-
minds us of God’s existence on our conscious, subconscious
and superconscious levels before beginning again with Tao. In
this procession of thoughts, Om falls between the primordial
sound of Amen and The three dimensional sound of AUM.
At this place, our thoughts are forced into flux and motion.
With this broader definition of Om, our thoughts with it are
no longer stagnant – They are dynamic. They are in flux… and
they synchronize with the constant flux of The Universe itself.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

AUM

We go further still
To levels beyond what we see.
To the subconscious and superconscious
That’s what AUM reminds me.

AUM is even in my dreams.
It inspires me then and now.

AUM takes our thoughts beyond the five senses. It is a mantra
made of 3 syllables, where each letter takes our thoughts to
deeper and deeper states of our own being. As we slowly
repeat this mantra, we are reminded of God’s existence on
the conscious level, the subconscious level and the super-
conscious level. Underneath this material-conscious plane,
our thoughts begin to play in the field of inspiration, mind
expansion and the transmutation of our sexual energy into
Divine Energy.

In “The Two Paths to God”, we explore AUM in Rabbanic
terms. We analyze this mantra from the angle of its Hebrew let-
ters: “A” (which is Shin in The Hebrew alphabet), “U” (which
is Aleph in The Hebrew alphabet) and “M” (which is Mem
in this same ancient alphabet). These letters symbolize water,
sexual energy, transformation and fire. AUM combines these
aspects into one mantra that helps turn our sexual energy into
Divine Energy. This is even more pronounced when we study
the order of these letters A-U-M and see how their placement
is also of importance. The sequence of these Hebrew letters is
also researched in my book.

The AUM Trinity is also with The Star of David. It is
shown with one triangle pointing up (representing Man

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

ascending to God) and one triangle pointing down (repre-
senting God descending to Man). An equilateral triangle is
the strongest shape, and The Star of David has two in one
form.

One of the major differences between Om, Amen and
AUM are the number of syllables each mantra contains. Om
has one, Amen two and AUM three. Having three Solar Man-
tras helps in our spiritual focus and mental clarity. The many
specified Gods and Goddesses found in Hinduism is a good
example of how by focusing on one aspect of Divinity can
be very beneficial to the mind and to our spiritual practices.
We transcend because we concentrate on the full effect of this
aspect. As for Amen, Om and AUM, they are three intercon-
nected tools that generate a flow of motion and the birth of
creation within our thoughts. The series of “Amen-Om-AUM”
found in The Phoenix Sequence sparks an inner chain reaction.
This series can be thought of as one tool with three parts to
it. For instance, a hammer is a good example of a 3-in-1 tool
in physical form. A hammer contains the hammerhead, the
“V” and the tongs. One part of the hammer is to pound nails.
Another part is to pull those nails out. And the third part can
be used to pull bark off of a tree. Once we are aware of the
three options available with this tool, it is just our intention
as to what we want to do with it that changes the tool and its
effectiveness.

When we take our thoughts to just the AUM aspect of
this tool, again… one of its unique powers is that it reminds
us of our three levels of existence. At the conscious level,
many of us can see how Divine Consciousness has become
the countless life-forms found in our Universe. In our dreams,
our subconscious feels that the experiences we see playing out
while we sleep are REAL – These too have come from Divine

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

Consciousness. And throughout our everyday lives, we get
numerous ideas, inspirations and hunches through The su-
per-consciousness telling us – “Do this”, “Say this”, “Go down
this road today”… where is that ‘little voice’ coming from?

The Phoenix Sequence does not end with AUM. AUM
takes our thoughts back into the realm of The Five Divine
Virtues. It helps our thoughts become more and more subtle
until they merge with The Quintessence of who we are.

REPEAT
The Phoenix takes me through all 5 mantras
To where I begin again with Tao.

These last lines remind us of how powerful a mantra can be
when it is used in cyclic repetition. The Earth is in a cycle.
The Moon is in a cycle. Time is in a cycle and our Zodiac is

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

in a cycle. A woman’s awareness of her cycle gives her deep
and unique insights to things she uses in a variety of ways.
The Phoenix Sequence helps women to develop these insights
further. Men can use The Phoenix Sequence to focus on a
cycle that will awaken joy and transcendence within their own
being. With it, men also become more aware of the cycles in
our Universe. When we use this sequence to focus on the 5
World Mantras, our thoughts expand. Our third eye develops
further. We trigger Light within and around us. When we first
learn to awaken abundance within ourselves, we are then able
to activate it in our lives.

The end of the Poem connects AUM with Tao. Besides The
Phoenix, there is another mythical animal that symbolizes al-
chemic transformation – “The Ouroboros”. It is shown as a snake
biting its own tail. It represents the power of cyclic repetition.
So… When we repeat “The Phoenix Sequence” consecutively,
we are – in fact – performing TWO powerful acts of alchemy.
We can take that practice even further by using a number that is
divinely connected to our Earth, our spirituality, our religions
and even to our cosmos. That number is The Number 12.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

AN EXERCISE

The Phoenix Sequence contains the mantras found in our re-
ligions. It not only shows us places where there is common
ground, but to also where there is higher ground.

First exercise:
For 12 minutes in the morning and 12 minutes in the

evening, we meditate on these mantras in this order. As we do
so, we repeat the word out loud:

Tao... Allah... Amen... Om... AUM
While we meditate, we pause for a few moments between
each word to let our imagination “see” and “feel” the root
meaning of each word.
We repeat this sequence continuously until 12 minutes
have elapsed. If possible, practice this at noon or midnight,
when the influence of our 12-hour day changes to the influ-
ence of our 12 hour night – or vice versa.

WORLD PEACE

There are four possibilities to World Peace. All four are related
to the field of mathematics.

The first possibility is through The Path of Division. That
is the path our world is on now. Where we live side-by-side,
tolerating each other. The right – The left. The black – The
white. The rich – The poor. The Christian – The Muslim – The
Jew – The Hindu. This result is 10 divided by 10 to equal 1. A
very slow path forward.

The second possibility is through The Path of Addition.
It is where one religion dominates the others or where we all

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ESSAYS ANTHOLOGY

choose to follow one faith. But, then the question is… Which
Faith? Zen Buddhism? Do we all become Lutherans? Or does
everyone convert to Hassidic Judaism? Although it is a faster
way to World Peace, it is not likely that the world would convert
to one Faith. However, it is an option where 10 plus 10 is 20.

Just as unlikely is to imagine that the world would give up
Faith altogether. Atheists and Iconoclast propose that that is
the answer to World Peace and the way to end the destruction
Religious Wars have caused. But, awareness of Divinity in our
Universe triggers Light. Spiritualists see not only the beauty in
a flower… but also the wonder in it. The moon, the stars and a
sunset also awaken wonder and awe in a spiritualist no matter
the spiritual path they are following. However unlikely, giving
up religion is a mathematical possibility to World Peace, where
10 minus 10 is zero.

This book proposes the most abundant possibility towards
World Peace – The Path of Multiplication, where 10 times 10
is 100. It is when we unbiasedly combine our scientific and
spiritual knowledge for the good of mankind. It is where we
use tools and techniques effectively and synergistically. It is
where we make steps towards a united and abundant world.
The above exercises bring together empowered knowledge from
two or more different sources. As we have read in this book,
The Phoenix Sequence incorporates five of them.

We are entering “The Age of Light”. An Age where the
fields of Science and Spirituality merge. Where the knowledge
we have gained from both of these fields is used for Good and
with an open mind. “The Age of Religion” brought us a vast
number of techniques that have helped develop our individual
and sectarian evolution. The limitations of these techniques
became evident when they were tried globally. But now… As
we begin “The Age of Light”, we can use newer techniques and
more for the collective evolution of humanity.

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Adelaide Literary Award 2019

Xavier Clayton - Born into a Baptist family in Seattle, a friend
unexpectedly sent Xavier “The Tao Te Ching” in 1991. From
there, his decades-long interest in the World’s Religions began.
His successful music career allowed him to travel to many spir-
itual centers world-wide. On these journeys, he would take
notes on the prayer techniques he discovered. His personal
experiences involve Orthodox Catholicism, Islam, Judaism,
Hinduism, Siddha Shiva Yoga and Buddhism. However, by
combining his 20-year scientific background with these var-
ious prayer methods is how he began writing “The Six Steps
of Scientific Prayer”. Xavier speaks 3 languages and lives in
Marseille, France.

370

Martha Walsh, a Model
Professional of Her Time

by Elizabeth Kilcoyne

My mother, Martha Walsh, grew up on a farm in Fincherville,
Georgia, where she lived with her southern Baptist parents and
four older siblings. The farm required hard work and full en-
gagement for the family to eat and survive. It was a place of
action. If you didn’t know how to do something, you found
out. Everyone was expected to do their part. This attitude is the
foundation of Martha’s common sense, and her “can do” spirit.

After graduating from high school, the Nurses Cadet Corp
recruited Martha to work in Memphis, TN, during WWII. At
a United Service Organization (USO) dance, she met and fell
in love with my father, John Kilcoyne, a sailor from Worcester,
MA. Mom was nineteen when the war ended. My father and
his betrothed took a train from Memphis to Massachusetts to
see his hometown and “meet the family.” It was a whole new
world: different religions, different cultures, different manners.
Mom was Southern Baptist and Dad’s family was Irish Cath-
olic. My paternal grandmother had grown up in Ireland and
emigrated to America as a young woman, but that didn’t seem
to help her accept my mother. Wanting desperately to fit in

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with her new family and a culture Martha didn’t yet under-
stand, she agreed to change her name from Martha to Mary
and became a Catholic. I have used Martha’s given name in
this story because she eventually took her life back.

By 1955, Martha was 29, and she and John built a home
in Sterling, MA, with their four young children, Sean, Ste-
phen, Elizabeth, and Martha Jr. Mom felt at home in this
small farming town and jumped right in, meeting new people
and embracing the Roman Catholic Church. Since leaving
her loving family in Georgia, Martha desperately wanted to be
part of another family. In the church community, she found
warm personal attachments and a sense of belonging. Martha
chaired the Veggies and Jam Team of the annual Apple Fiesta
for St. Richard’s Parish. Every fall, our home smelled of stewed
tomatoes and sweet grapes. Stacks of canning jars and paraffin
wax filled the kitchen. When the big event arrived, the women
dressed in early 20th-century dresses and hats. The men decked
out in a more rugged version, as they were driving buggies and
cooking chickens on an open fire pit.

Martha became an officer in the Catholic Women’s Guild
and the Children’s Fund Players. When her photo appeared
in the Worcester Telegram and Gazette wearing a beige suit and
green flowered hat, Martha wrote to a friend, “I finally hit
High Society.” Church involvement was Martha and John’s
social outlet, which suited them well.

But Martha desired more from the Church teachings. She
wanted her children to learn about Jesus, not just memorize
the answers in a catechism. Martha wanted their religious
foundation to be based on stories from the Bible. Religion
was the strength in her life. So, she began teaching Bible stories
in catechism classes, which was the beginning of her influence
on church teachings.

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By 1963, Martha had begun her first paid professional
job as a bank teller in Worcester. The family had outgrown
the Sterling house; three of us were teenagers and looking for
more opportunities for high school and social life. Talk of
moving back to Worcester occurred daily. One evening after
work, when Martha dropped off medicine to a coworker, she
spotted a house for sale. It had a garage for Steve, separate
bedrooms for me and my sister Martha Jr., and the perfect
location for Sean’s exploring. The house cost $11,000. Mom
left a $100 check with the realtor and asked him not cash it
until Friday. Two months later, the house was ours. On moving
day, I left home from a house in the country and returned on
a city bus to Worcester. Still not sure how that worked, I had
never been on a city bus before and had to transfer in down-
town Worcester. Mom was always confident her children could
work out any situation. I was thirteen, and it was the first day
of a new school. I want to say I was scared, but the emotional
memory has faded.

One thing mom didn’t anticipate with the move back to
Worcester was the return to the northern family dynamic. Her
mother-in-law had not warmed much in the past eight years,
and now they shared the same city. There was no expectation
that we get together as a family with Grandma Kilcoyne. My
dad took care of visiting with his mother, an arrangement that
caused a family schism that lasted for years.

Mom missed her mother deeply, so Grandma Henderson
took a bus from Saint Louis, her new home, to Worcester,
Massachusetts, to support her daughter. She stayed for six
months. Mom was so content while her mother was there. It
didn’t matter that her name had changed. Grandma called ev-
erybody Baby. Grandma would go anywhere and do anything
with us. We loved it. As a teenager, it seemed odd to me that

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we were closest to the grandmother, who lived over a thousand
miles away.

Martha quickly involved herself in the local Church near
our new home. She was appointed the director of the Catholic
Christian Doctrine (CCD) program because the priest shared
her concerns about teaching religion only through memoriza-
tion of the catechism. In a 1966 interview with the Catholic
Free Press, Martha said, “By the time we’re teaching high school
students, the Church can expect the greatest response. These
are the years in which knowledge turns into personal involve-
ment.” She organized trips to visit the elderly and mentally
ill patients in Worcester State Hospital as a way to teach the
corporal works of mercy (i.e., feed the hungry, visit the sick,
shelter the homeless). Martha believed that knowledge began
with interest and questioning. She encouraged teachers to start
each class with a rousing question like, “Is there someone in
your life who needs your support?” This approach provided
students the opportunity to express themselves and become
comfortable talking. She organized visits to convents and sem-
inaries to teach religious vocations. Twelfth-grade students par-
ticipated in planning meetings and other adult activities to lay
the foundation for their future leadership roles in the Church.
Through these teachings, mom grew in her faith and contri-
bution to the church.

Martha’s curriculum ideas for youth religious programs at-
tracted the attention of Bishop Bernard Flanagan of Worcester.
He was an ardent supporter of the ecumenical movement,
which promoted greater cooperation and understanding
among Christians, both Catholic and Protestant. This concept
came out of the Second Vatican Council (Vatican II) in Rome
in the mid-’60s, as did the requirement to celebrate Mass in
a country’s native language. The priests would physically face

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the people in the future to include them in the service. The
Church was modernizing its message, and it wanted the world
to know.

In 1968, Martha was appointed by the bishop as a leader
in the new Vatican II Council. To open the council, Bishop
Flanagan celebrated Mass in our home, the first time he cele-
brated Mass in a private residence, and it was in English! The
dining room sparkled with candles and the chandelier. A velvet
painting of the last supper hung on the wall, and a fancy white
cloth covered the Formica table. We were a lower-middle-class
family but always held our heads high and found a way to
look sharp. Mom continuously searched for the best deals. She
found quality used furniture, which she restored for the house,
sometimes spray painting it gold. Crystal chandeliers are not
that hard on the family budget when you purchase the floor
model or when a crystal or two are missing.

The bishop said that before Vatican II, the Church struc-
ture was an inverted pyramid with the Pope on top and the
people on the bottom. “Now we think of it as a horizontal line,
with each member having something to contribute.” Martha’s
career in the Church was an example of this new thinking. She
welcomed the opportunity and attention.

The following year, Martha coordinated training for the
local Ecumenical Social Action Council. The council included
members from the Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish commu-
nities. According to Martha: “Our middle class unconsciously
holds racist attitudes which can be understood and acknowl-
edged through education and discussion.” Martha was soon
asked to be the chairwoman of the Social Action Council.

The church brought out the best in mom. It gave her
purpose. Her leadership was recognized when the bishop sent
her to Rome in 1970 to participate in a “Future in Education”

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conference. Her employer, the local bank, would not give
Martha time off for this trip, so the bishop offered her a job
developing a new homemaker program for Catholic Charities.
Martha’s task was to implement a pilot for the first Home-
maker-Home Health Aide program for Worcester County.
She partnered with the Girls Trade High School in Worcester
to develop a homemaker training program that focused on
human growth and development, nutrition, safety, and other
supports for families in crisis.

Martha’s business card read: Home Care Services, Inc.,
A DIVISION OF MAID-FOR-A-DAY INT’L., INC. Mom
saved every piece of paper from her career, which helps to
convey her story because, in her most productive years, I was
in college and then off developing my own career.

By 1972, there were 45 certified homemakers, and
Martha was the director. That same year, Martha became the
first Roman Catholic woman in Massachusetts to join Church
Women United (CWU). She described it in the Catholic Free
Press as a “national movement” of 28 million Orthodox, Prot-
estant, and Catholic women. They worked together to enable
women to make their full contribution to society. The organi-
zation had been founded in 1941 while the world was at war.
Its focus was unity in diversity and working toward a peaceful
and just world, specifically for women and children.

While Martha’s children were protesting the Vietnam War
and fighting for women’s rights, she was quietly working on
social justice issues for women around the world. Recently, I
suggested to her that she was a feminist. She responded with
attitude, “What’s that?”

Growing up in a lower-middle-class family, purchasing
anything beyond basic needs was rare. But Martha was now in-
volved in some high-level meetings and needed a good suit. She

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found a heavy wool “walking suit” on sale in Filene’s Basement. A
walking suit is a three-quarter-length coat with a matching skirt.
Martha’s was one shade darker than kelly green with a brown
faux fur collar and three large green buttons down the front. She
looked fabulous in it and wore it everywhere. Even changing the
accessories, it was still green. It didn’t bother her. She felt like a
queen in that suit. Martha always had a flair about her.

During these busy church years, Martha took her first
college course and was still working full-time for Home Care
Services. At home, she was dealing with a failing marriage.
Her husband had been unfaithful, and she was at loose ends,
not knowing what to do next. That was taken care of by Dad
leaving. Divorce was still a severe offense in the Catholic
Church, subject to ex-communication unless the marriage was
annulled. It never occurred to me that annulment was an op-
tion after thirty years of marriage and four children, but Mom
had connections and received one quietly.

When Catholic Charities decided that Home Care Ser-
vices was socially and economically viable, they appointed a
permanent director with a bachelor’s degree. It wasn’t Martha.
As she said, “I had no letters after my name, just a willingness
to do the job!” Martha didn’t burn bridges, though; she moved
forward. She accepted the position of Head of Homemakers
and Recruitment at a new non-profit agency in Worcester. By
this time, she was well known in the field. She had also finished
her associate degree requirements in liberal arts at Quinsiga-
mond Community College. On a sunny afternoon in 1973,
Martha sat on a football field in her cap and gown, listening
to Isaac Asimov discuss “Escape into Reality.” He was the com-
mencement speaker. The next week she signed up to transfer
her credits to the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. We
were so proud of her.

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Martha graduated from Quinsigamond summa cum laude
but was not eligible for the Alpha Nu Omega Honor Society
because she was an evening division student. Martha said to
the dean of students, “Are you telling me that I don’t qualify
for the honor society because I attended classes at night in-
stead of during the day? During the day I work.” She went
on politely but firmly to inform the dean that she would take
this unfair practice to the state Department of Education, and
Washington DC if necessary. Dean Farrell wrote to the director
of the Alpha Nu Omega Honor Society, saying, “Certainly,
during this period of advancement, liberation, and equality, we
should not be so discriminatory as to allow only Day Division
students the right of earning membership.” Martha and other
qualifying evening division students received a letter soon after
congratulating them on their academic achievement and mem-
bership in the Alpha Nu Omega Honor Society.

Working full-time and attending school, Martha took ad-
vantage of every opportunity to complete her degree. The Col-
lege-Level Examination Program (CLEP) was a great help to
her. This program granted students college credits for previous
coursework and life experience. Martha pushed the envelope
on this one. She spent many nights and weekends sitting at
our kitchen table, teaching herself biology, Spanish, history,
English, math, and other subjects. She received her bachelor’s
degree in 1974.

The UMass Continuing Education (CE) News wrote a
front-page article titled “Non-Traditionalism Pays Off in De-
grees,” featuring Martha and other CE students. The News
wrote about Martha, “As a social worker, she saw what the
problems were; as a teacher, she hopes to help inner-city chil-
dren, plagued with institutional racism, gain skills that will
prevent later problems.” There is also a mention of her hoping

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to join the UMass cheerleaders, further evidence of her opti-
mism and “can do” spirit.

Martha loved student teaching at the Belmont Commu-
nity School in Worcester. She hoped to continue after gradua-
tion, but at 47, she was competing with many younger gradu-
ates and didn’t land a full-time teaching position.

Once again, Martha moved forward; she took the
state civil service social worker exam. With her high score,
she landed a job at the Department of Revenue, collecting
past-due child support from absent parents. She spent much
of her time in court processing claims against mostly fathers
who were not supporting their children. One court day, a man
was protesting a traffic violation when Martha recognized him.
She signaled to the judge that he was “one of hers.” The man
never had a chance; the judge impounded his motorcycle and
bank accounts and put him in jail.

The Child Support Enforcement Unit was making prog-
ress, but not enough; the judges had too many criminal cases
on the docket to handle child support cases. By 1984, Martha
was the head of the Unit and vowed to increase collections for
the children, but she needed more access to judges. Impressed
by her commitment, the deputy commissioner got a judge
dedicated to the Unit. The support payments started rolling
in. Then-Governor Michael Dukakis signed a proclamation
recognizing the Unit’s collections of $50 million during 1986.

During these years, Martha married Robert Walsh. Bob
worked at Draper Labs in Cambridge and they commuted to
work together every day. In 1987 they retired and flew off to
Florida to enjoy the “good life” of golf and social engagements.

When Bob died suddenly, Martha searched for ways to
keep engaged. She spent time at church, in her garden and
with her many friends. She needed more. A new venture was

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brewing. She met a family who owned a snow cone cart; the
brand name was “SnoIce SoNice.” Martha was 70 years old.
She decided to buy it; that was the easy part. The cart needed
to be trailered behind her car to the prime locations to sell
the cones. She purchased a “lady’s trailer hitch,” requiring no
lifting and proceeded on her way. Martha had a great time
selling snow cones at festivals and the local baseball park.
During a visit to Florida, my daughter and I joined her selling
snow cones. A young boy was standing in front of the cart.
Mom asked if he wanted a cone. He had no money. She told
him about a new flavor she was testing and asked if the boy
would taste it for her. He loved it!

During bike week in Daytona Beach, she dressed in her
sequined blouse and decided to add a little “extra kick” to
the snow cones. The bikers were lining up to try this delicacy
and get their photo with the queen herself. Martha always
dressed smartly, whether she was working in the garden, going
to church, or selling snow cones to bikers.

Her energy and enthusiasm for life never seemed to wane.
When her grandchildren were in high school, she took them
on a trip anywhere they dreamed of going. She wanted them
to see the world. Their dreams included China, London, Paris,
Italy, and a cruise ship in the Caribbean.

Being a farm girl stayed with Martha through the years.
She had fabulous vegetable and flower gardens when her chil-
dren were young, using the same techniques that worked in
Georgia. When she was 75, she moved to a house with the
classic Florida “sandpit” as the back yard, and a seven-foot
prickly pear cactus as the centerpiece. Martha took the chal-
lenge; she composted all her food and plant material and
mixed it with the sand and strips of newspaper. While waiting
for the dirt to materialize, she built a fish pond, places to sit

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in the shade, and a patio to entertain guests. A few years later,
Martha was living off her garden. The best-growing fruits and
vegetables were watermelon, broccoli, onions, and green pep-
pers. To the uninitiated, it was a primitive operation, but she
got joy and purpose from this land.

At the time of this writing, Martha is ninety-three. She is
back up north with her family and has returned to her roots as
a Baptist. Martha always said, “It doesn’t matter what church
you attend, as long as Jesus is present!”

December 2019

Elizabeth Kilcoyne grew up in Massachusetts. She holds a
bachelor’s in Mathematics and a Master’s in Public Administra-
tion. Her first work, Getting to Oxford is an intergenerational
story about walking the Thames Path in England, and was
published in Green Briar Review in 2019.

Her heroine’s journey, “A Stone in My Pocket,” was selected
favorite nonfiction essay of 2019 published by L’Éphémère Re-
view. You can contact Elizabeth through her website Elizabeth-
Kilcoyne.Net.

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Terra Incognita

by T. Harvard

Live always at the “edge of mystery”—
the boundary of the unknown.
—J. Robert Oppenheimer

I was lost once, in life, deeply and profoundly. I latched onto
a Socratic philosophical question that I read somewhere some
time long ago, “How will you go about finding that thing the
nature of which is totally unknown to you?”

The poet Rilke advises us to live the questions, and it was
a question that I very much needed to live.

I wondered how to venture into the space of getting closer
to who I might truly be and what I might truly need. It would
be unknown territory—terra incognita. Like Emily Dickinson,
I was out with lanterns looking for myself.

Rebecca Solnit advises, “Leave the door open for the un-
known, the door into the dark. That’s where the most im-
portant things are from.”

Thing is, when one is lost and sad and in need of help,
these emotions are devastatingly difficult to navigate when
trying to find a way to feel well. There was a heaviness. I was
weighed down by the load of depression. I felt earthbound

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and merely human, in the heart of a lurking moodiness, in the
midst of gray skies—spacious heavens stuffed with darkening
clouds.

One afternoon, I stepped into a forest in Finland. Im-
mediately, there in the middle of the woods, it felt like there
was a collective of trees eager to greet me tenderly. Looking up,
streams of light found their way through the lace-like leaves of
evergreens, as if to say, “I see you.”

The woods were stunningly quiet and lush, save for occa-
sional birdsongs and bunnies scampering through. The silence
and solitude was ever-present and quite magical. It’s the norm
for no one to be around. With only five million Finns in the
whole country, there is lots of space where you won’t find anyone.

There is an art to being comfortable in the unknown.
Being at the center of the unpopulated and unfamiliar isn’t
cause for fear in Finland’s forests. It’s an invitation to be at ease
with being alone with oneself.

The snow falls light like floating feathers in the tranquility
betwixt trees and shrub, trails and barely treaded paths. Within
the collection of trees in this gathering there is an invitation
to touch and hold on to any tree one wishes, while steadying
oneself in tricky and unfamiliar territory. I moved gingerly,
slowly, through the wintery fantastical forests. I felt fairylike in
the seemingly diamond dusted misty air, which felt pregnant
with the magical and mystical.

Strange, but in that chill of Finland’s midwinter, it was
cozy. The lush evergreens offered comfort through their stur-
diness and strength. Their solid, fierce roots deep in the earth
lent a steadiness and security.

In that sense of security, a wondrous world became avail-
able, and I felt free to let go. I was lost in life, and I began to
lose myself in the protection of the trees with the earth beneath

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my feet. In that tension between grounding and letting go, I
felt safe to release myself into the unknown and not knowing.
Who I was and where I was going was a mystery that I was
beginning to get comfortable with. This was a glimpse into a
new chapter in life and the myriad ways to exist.

I was comforted by the snowfall as well as the way it melted,
dissolving and seemingly disappearing to create something new.
In solitude and on my own, I felt surprisingly at home. Like the
prayers of pagans, I found faith that nature guides and provides.

Though healing and wholeness was not instant, I returned
as often as I could to refill nature’s suggested prescriptions for
wellness. Through walking meditations and quiet, tear-filled
prayers, I began to feel an inkling of what to do and which
direction to go. Listening closely, there appeared a hint of a
hint, and intuition seemed to whisper “go that way . . .”

I’m still trying. I’m more hopeful than ever. I am reading
all the signs, orienting myself in the direction of the evergreen’s
treasures and the snow’s gentle breaths, to the thousand things
that make the forests a text that can serve as a guidebook on
the way back to myself. Indeed, it is so, our true selves are a
mystery that only the universe knows and understands.

Tinka Harvard is an author and theologian. She is a graduate
of Wagner College and has a master’s in divinity from Union
Theological Seminary at Columbia University in New York
City. She is the author of Lush Life, a collection of short stories
published by Adelaide Books. Her writings have appeared most
recently in publications including Adelaide Literary Magazine,
Adelaide Literary Award Anthology 2019 for poetry, StepAway
Magazine, and Polychrome Ink. To learn more, please visit
www.tinkaharvard.com.

384

Ultreia

by Suzanne Maggio-Hucek

I pressed my back against the wall of the Albergue Parroquial
de Santa Maria del Camino and took one deep breath after an-
other, trying hard to compose myself. The wooden bench seats
stretched around the room encircling what normally served
as the entrance to this local lodging for pilgrims walking the
Camino de Santiago de Compostela. Now the room was full of
peregrinos, the Spanish word for pilgrims, seated in any space
they could find. Bodies filled every square inch of bench as
well as each stair up the albergue’s winding staircase and still
more on the floor, three and four rows deep, squeezed in like
sardines, waiting.

I’d arrived in Carrión de los Condes a few hours before.
Debbie, Pat and I, the couple I’d met from Arizona, had al-
ready checked in to our shared room in the albergue, taken
our showers and gone off in different directions to explore the
town. By now I’d been on the Camino for just about 15 days,
starting my journey on May 31st from St. Jean Pied de Port
in the French Pyrenees, the traditional starting point for the
Camino Frances. Many of the towns along the Camino were
nondescript, villages more than anything else and the truth
was, I had a hard time remembering one from the other. But

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Carrión de los Condes was different. Carrión de los Condes
had the singing nuns.

Except for the brief mention in the guidebook I was using,
I’d likely not have even known about this town’s unusual fea-
ture. Where, when and what they might sing was a complete
mystery.

Never mind that I didn’t really have any details. I just knew
I had to see them.

I saw Aussie Mark and Martine from Croatia outside the
cathedral and asked them if they had heard anything about the
nuns. They’d heard from some fellow peregrinos that they would
be singing at 6:00 in the municipal albergue. I thanked them
and promised to meet them there. As it was still early, I decided
to continue my wandering and stepped inside the cavernous
church. I found my way up to the altar just in time to catch a few
minutes of a group of white habit-clad sisters singing religious
songs accompanied by one of their own on the electric piano. In
addition to their habits they were wearing white fleece jackets,
perhaps to protect them from the chill in the old stone church.

Was this what I was looking for? Perhaps Mark and Mar-
tine had been mistaken. But the church was all but empty
except for a few of us who had stumbled upon this impromptu
concert. This couldn’t be what all the hype wasabout.

A little before 6 I found my way over to the municipal
albergue and chose a spot just under the stairwell, on the
hardwood bench against the back wall. Debbie and Pat came
in shortly after, as did Mark and Martine, Rafael, the gentle
Brazilian and dozens of other peregrinos I did not know. The
room was pungent with anticipation as more and more people
squeezed in, saying hello with the traditional “Buen Camino”
greeting we used along “The Way”. Before too long the nuns
joined us, the same sisters I’d seen at the church. This time they

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carried instruments with them. The electric piano was replaced
by a couple of guitars, a handful of percussion instruments and
a stack of well used song sheets. The nuns were younger than I
realized, their soft skin and dark hair peeking out from under
their white veils.

“Bienvenidos,” the youngest one said. She had a kind face
and a warm smile and spoke English fairly well. I guessed she
couldn’t have been much older than 30. “Welcome. Before we
get started, we’d like you to introduce yourselves. Tell us where
you are from and why you are walking the Camino.”

It was the question I’d heard most often since I’d begun the
journey on the 31st of May. Why are you walking the Camino?
Why was I walking the Camino? Despite the fact that I’d been
faced with that question more than once, I hadn’t settled on
an answer: I was turning 60 this year and it seemed like a good
thing to do to celebrate a big birthday. My mother had died a
few years earlier and I’d recently completed my first memoir that
explored my often tempestuous relationship with her. My father
had died from ALS, spending the last few months of his life in a
wheelchair. In fact, tied to my backpack were two scallop shells
with their names scribbled on them. Perhaps I was walking the
Camino for them.

But while all of the these “reasons” sounded good, none
of them felt like the right answer. It was all so unsatisfying. I’d
met people along the way with much clearer purposes than
mine. They were celebrating a recovery from cancer. Carrying
their wife’s ashes to rest in Santiago de Compostela. Raising
money for a favorite charity at home. The truth was, I didn’t
really know why I was walking. I just was. From the first time
I’d heard about the ancient pilgrimage, I knew I had to go.

And so here I was, in this municipal albergue in a tiny
little town packed full of people I had not yet met, from places

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I had never heard of, speaking languages I did not understand.
That’s the way it had been now for 15 days. Each day walking
along the path that tens of thousands had walked before for
hundreds of years. Sometimes I walked alone, sometimes with
others, through unremarkable towns, dirt paths and rolling
hills for more kilometers than I could count, to finally settle
down for the night in a shared dormitory with dozens of others
who were doing the same thing.

I’d come alone on this pilgrimage. Despite the requests
from several friends to join me, I knew this was a journey I
needed to take on my own. I’d arrived that first night in St.
Jean Pied de Port with my empty credencial, the passport pil-
grims carry to collect stamps to mark the stops along The Way
and with little expectation of what I might find. Now, 15 days
in with at least as many to go, that tabula rasa from that first
night was filled with so many memories I could barely keep
themstraight.

I felt my breath catch in my throat and before long I felt
the sting of tears in my eyes. I took a deep breath, trying to
steady my unexpected emotions. I listened as the peregrinos
to the right of me began to introduce themselves. They were
from Spain and Poland, Germany and Sweden. It was their
first Camino, or their fourth. They were walking with their
wife or their daughter, their mother or alone - to celebrate their
anniversary, in gratitude for their recovery from back surgery
or to deepen their faith.

With each testimony I struggled to fight back tears. What
would I say? How could I express what I was feeling in that
moment? Could I even find the words or would I just dissolve
into a pool of tears as I always seemed to in these moments of
deep emotion. Despite the fact that I had had more than two
weeks to arrive at an answer to this fundamental question, I

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still did not understand. What were my tears about? Why was
I so feeling so vulnerable?

As the introductions moved around the room and got
closer and closer to me, I struggled to gain control of my emo-
tions. “My name is Suzanne,” I said, pausing to take a deep
breath. “I’m from California.” I looked around at the faces that
were watching me. I could hear my voice beginning to crack
and I paused for a second to steady myself again. “I’m turning
60 this year and…” I forced a smile as I let my voice trail off.
I had managed to avoid a complete breakdown.

I wondered why I was so emotional. It had come upon
me quite unexpectedly. All through the introductions I found
myself straining to maintain my composure. It continued even
once the singing started. The song sheets were filled with a
variety of songs from all around the world. The sisters led us in
song, including the unofficial Camino anthem, Ultreia, singing
the choruses and asking us to sing along. Ultreïa ! Ultreïa ! E su-
seia Deus adjuva nos! The voices permeated the room, the ranges
and octaves and various accents creating a harmony unlike any-
thing I had ever heard before. Tears streamed down my face.

After it was over I stood up to leave, Instead of walking to the
door I found myself walking towards the nuns who were milling
about, talking with the pilgrims. “Muchismas gracias Hermana,”
I said in my best Spanish as the tears streamed down my face.
“Estoy muy emocional. Esto es un noche extraorinario para me.”

“De nada,” the sister responded as she reached out to give
me a hug. “Vaya con Dios, peregrina.”

An hour later I returned to the church for the pilgrim
mass. I hadn’t gone to mass since my first night at the mon-
astery in Roncesvalles. After the celebration was finished, the
priest invited the pilgrims to the altar. “Buenos tarde,” he said
and then proceeded to welcome each one of us in our native

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language. “I would like to invite each of you to come forward
for a personal blessing. After you receive your blessing, the
sisters have a small gift for you.”

“It is very lightweight,” one of the sisters added with a
smile and we all laughed. Two weeks in we were very mindful
about adding any weight to our already overloaded backpacks.

I got in line behind a handsome Spaniard I recognized from
the gathering with the nuns earlier and folded my hands the way
I would if I were going to receive communion. When I reached
the front of the line, I bowed my head as the priest placed his
hands on my shoulders and recited a version of the prayer I had
heard after the mass in Roncevalles on that first night.

“O God, who brought your servant Abraham out of the land of
the Chaldeans, protecting him in his wanderings, who guided

the Hebrew people across the desert, we ask that you watch
over us, your servants, as we walk in the love of your name to

Santiago de Compostela.

Be for us our companion on the walk,
Our guide at the crossroads,
Our breath in our weariness,
Our protection in danger,
Our albergue on the Camino,
Our shade in theheat,
Our light in the darkness,

Our consolation in our discouragements,
And our strength in our intentions.

So that with your guidance we may arrive safe and sound at
the end of the Road and enriched with grace and virtue we return
safely to our homes filled with joy.

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In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.
Apostle Santiago, pray for us.
Santa Maria, pray for us.“

“Amen,” I said and stepped into the line to wait for the
gift from the sisters. I reached out my hand to receive a small,
two-inch multicolored paper star.

“This is to remind you that you are the light,” Sister said
to us after we had all received our stars. “Like stars in the sky,
you are called to bring light into the world. One by one, you
can be the light for someone but when we join together, we
can illuminate even the darkest night.”

I turned the small paper star over in my hand and inhaled
in deeply as if to breath in the energy of the room in that
moment. The sister’s words, while spoken to the dozens of us
who had gathered, felt personal to me, a reminder, perhaps, of
something I already knew but needed to be reminded of. Like
the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are never alone.

I wandered back to the albergue after mass, looking around
for Irish John. I’d met John in the early days on the Camino
and it seemed like almost every day we walked at least part of
the trail together. He usually got a later start than me in the
mornings, but he walked quickly and by 10:30 or so, he usu-
ally caught up with me and we’d continue the rest of the way
together, covering the daily 30 kilometer trek and reaching the
next town by around 2:00, just in time to find a place to stay,
take a quick shower and settle down with a pint of cerveza con
limón, my preferred drink on the Camino. But John was no
where to be found and I was starting to think that I was going to
have to eat dinner alone, something I was not too keen on doing.

Next to the albergue was a restaurant. “The best food in
town,” the hospitalero had said when we’d checked in. I pulled
open the door and found John staring at me.

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“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. We’re
just about to get dinner.” I wouldn’t have to eat alone after all.
Like the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are never alone.

I would return to those words a few more times during
the remainder of my Camino. After a few weeks walking to-
gether, a group of us had grown close, forming what we called
our “Camino family.” Irish John, Mark and Martine, Rafael,
the Polish couple, Smitha, Alex, Patrick and Maria. These
were the faces I saw every day, the people I greeted with “Buen
Camino” as we passed each other on the way. The ones I drank
cerveza con limón with in the evenings while we enjoyed our
pilgrim meals. Two weeks in we’d shared our lives with each
other in a such a way that time seemed meaningless. Although
I had come to walk the Camino alone, I had never felt more
connected in all my life.

A few days later all that would change. I would be forced
to spend an extra night in León. Two and a half weeks into
my journey blisters formed across the balls and heels of my feet
making it too painful to walk. As reality began to sink in, I could
feel the fear inside me begin to build. The group of pilgrims
I had been walking with, my pilgrim “family”, would go on
without me. I would be alone again and as much as I fought the
need to stop, even temporarily, I knew I didn’t have much choice.

On the day my family walked on, I limped into a pilgrim
shop to see what I could do to take care of my feet. The shop-
keeper sold me a pair of socks promising me that they would
be the cure for what ailed me.

“Socks?” I said. I wasn’t easily swayed.
He nodded. “Take off all the bandages. Put skin to sock.
You’ll thank me. I promise.” I wondered how many peregrinos
he’d pitched with the same spiel.
“OK,” I said, unconvinced but by then I was in so much
pain I was willing to try anything. The next morning I awoke

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early, put on my magic socks, slipped my backpack on my back
and began again. Alone, I walked gingerly out of town. The
socks worked.

And then I met Benny. And Melissa. And Anabella. You
see, the thing I didn’t know was that the Camino is one big
family. We’re all walking together, finding our own way. In
taking that extra day of rest in León, I hadn’t lost my family, I’d
expanded it. Like the roads I had not yet walked, here were new
people to meet, new stories to hear, new memories to create.
As William Butler Yeats had said, “There are no strangers here;
Only friends you haven’t met yet.”

I walked into Santiago de Compostela on July 1st. I had
been on the Camino for 32 days including the extra day of rest
in León. The day before I’d sent Irish John a text. “Wait for me
to walk to Finisterre.” I said. Although the Camino officially
ends at the Cathedral in Santiago, pilgrims sometimes con-
tinue to walk to the coastal town of Finisterre, once considered
the end of the world.

“OK,” Irish John had texted back. “It will be good to have
a friend to walk with.”

But by the time I got to Santiago, he was gone. “Where
are you?” I asked.

“I’m on my way to Finisterre,” he replied. “I got to San-
tiago early and just needed to keep going. I never planned to
finish my Camino there anyway.”

My heart sunk. I wondered why he hadn’t waited. Why
he’d left without me. I felt hurt. Disappointed. Confused. I
found myself questioning the time we had spent together. I
wondered why he didn’t seem to feel as connected to me as I
did to him? I walked down the stone steps into the square and
pulled my backpack off my back.

“Suzanne. You made it!” I heard someone calling my
name. I turned to see Alex, my friend from Hamburg, coming

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towards me, his arms outstretched. We had walked together in
the early days. He grabbed me and put me in a big bear hug.

“You’re still here,” I said. I had heard from another pilgrim
that Alex was leaving early that morning to go back to Ham-
burg. I was afraid I was going to miss him.

“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said as we
hugged. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my dear
friend.”

Like they had so many times along the way, the Sister’s
words rang once again. “One by one, you can be the light for
someone but when we join together, we can illuminate even the
darkest night.” Like the stars in the sky, we are not alone. We are
never alone.

And it was in that moment that I finally understood. This
was why Iwalked.

Throughout her 30-year career as a licensed clinical social worker,
Suzanne Maggio has helped hundreds of families improve
their relationships by encouraging them to open their hearts
and share their stories. She now trains the new generation of
helpers as a university lecturer in Psychology, Counseling and
Social Work. Suzanne lives in Northern California with her
husband, two dogs and a handful of chickens.

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Watery Women’s Monologue

by Marianne Song

Tears have a strong association with the watery images of fem-
ininity in literature, when the innocent female protagonists,
roiled in ugly humanity, are surrendered to fate against their
hope. Their evanescent hedonistic desires from social disloca-
tion are paralleled by the clouds of water spraying in one wave
after another, then the drops of water united in the body of sea
water. Whenever my face is just beneath the undulating surface
of water, I sense the tears of the Little Mermaid are blooming
fully through the salty water on my lips. Her soul of white
foam glinting off the sunshine seems like whispering that her
hopeless love is worthy to endure grief because, anyway and
anyhow, she was true to herself. When I pick up a conch buried
in the beach to put it to my ears, there is a low, whooshing
sound deep inside.

Her plaintive monologue resonates. ‘One glimpse of a
charming prince on a ship bred an unbridled desire to have
him. To be a human, I became mute in an exchange of my
voice for two legs. Only the thought of being with him soothed
the pain of my golden scales being torn off. When I reached the
shoreline, the blue sky above me was wondrous strange after
the wrenching dislocation from the marine life. My muteness

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contributed to my emotional isolation from the prince and
other humans, but my contemplation of is the nature of true
love clawed away my ego: I forwent egoistic love and prayed
for his happiness instead of stabbing his heart with a dagger to
save my soul. My soul still shimmers on the waves in memory
of him.’

After a swarm of clouds slipping across the sun, the water
turns into iridescent emerald. With the white foam of surging
waves flying in an arc, an illusion of another woman, Adada,
ripples around me. Her spirit seems to skim over the gray and
green river freely. Her innocent smiles are retrieved by the tran-
quility in the river, since water embraces the weary souls as is
No more do her emotional scars remain in the river stream,
since the water is endlessly flowing as if erasing the fragments
of her dark memories. That is her water coffin. The current of
water sounds like her plaintive monologue.

‘My innate mute might drive me to search for protection
instead of standing on my own. The loss of my voice forced
me to follow the life rituals from birth to marriage by others.
The voice of my parents drilled me to fit in with my husband’s
family. I sense my happiness is deeply linked to their satis-
faction with my existence. Standing silently to serve them as
a daughter-in-law and wife, I believe obedience is the great
virtue for true happiness. While I wash the pile of dishes, the
water mirrors me as a weary woman with big, sunken eyes. The
tinted sadness in my eyes resembles a cow’s, reclaiming the
furrows from sunrise to sunset. It has to endure the toil with
martyr-like patience because of the heavy yoke hung around its
neck. From my husband’s room, the crispy sound of bills and
his enchanted joy with his parents, I feel relegated to a maid sac-
rificing for their comforts like a cow. This emotional isolation
makes me long for the feeling of being loved. At night, I leave

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tears on my pillow after staring into his wide back. Though
our bodies are covered with the same silk sheets, the dreams in
each of our souls demarcate the reality. In darkness, I am over-
whelmed by the disillusion when a yarn of the bed cover gets
loosened, torn and cut into tatters. The next day, I see another
woman holding his arm, crossing into the threshold of the
door. She is educated, cultured and well-looking. The money is
gnawing away the morality and ethics out of my husband. We
become strangers, and I end up leaving with alimony. Money
itself leaves my physical vulnerability more painful, which be-
comes my ideological foe. Cringing in the starry night, I am
drawn to the thought that it is my old male friend who can
love me wholly. In my pursuit of freedom of love and freedom
from materialism, I find him. Sensing that my own existence
brings happiness to the simplicity of his life, I find my dignity
through my existence with him. Our devotion to each other
soon generates his desire for material affluence. Obsessed by
the hallucination of my traumatic memories, I fear the money
will dim my fragile existence here again. To stop my soul from
perishing once again, I scatter the money into the river and
observe those crumpled papers flowing down the river. When
he finds all of his money bobbing up and down, he drags
and pushes me into the river, shouting, “Don’t come up until
you find my money. Each syllable of his fury and resentment
seems like a fragment of glass scratching the core of my heart.
With his fuming breath, his rocky hands push my head into
the water repeatedly, wherein I flounder to snatch the money
floating around me. Sensing the coldness starting to numb my
consciousness and memories, I feel so light. Maybe my resig-
nation from this life will unburden him. That is my form of
love towards him. Intentionally slipping across the stones may
be my first and last choice: then the loss of my balance in the

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deep water will ensure my salvation. The serenity in the river
seems to beckon me in a shiny way, accepting who I am, Adada
the Idiot, not what I have. Dying innocent and pure is another
way to fit into my universe where I am meant to be. My tears
become part of the sea. This is why seawater tastes salty.’

The storied waves are rolling towards the stone, the figure
of an old woman looking over the horizon line. Legend has
it that there lived a faithful woman waiting for her husband’s
return from the sea. However harshly the fierce storms may
swallow her, the cold and dark cannot keep her from standing
on the shore. The perpetuity of solitary hours turned her into
stone. The tears brimming over her eyes washed away her grief,
and her soul grew tranquil. The glittering sunshine still em-
braces the stone. I see a haenyeo, a female diver, diving under
the sea unfalteringly. Her breathless race with marine creatures
starts to harvest shells and abalones. The woman murmurs
to me, ‘While the haenyeo feels the sea water, my long and
twisted threads of sorrows and anguish are untangled and hung
around the lush seaweed swaying in the whirls. My spouse, a
fisherman, went missing on a boat in the boundless sea where
I am swimming for survival. He used to be my savior, who
was thought to stand by me whether it be rainy or snowy. The
sea swallowed his feeble body with fierce storms. The sea now
teaches me how to exist alone here. The moment of hauling
a net gives me odd comfort, which justifies my life here in
such marvelous water. Holding my breath in deep water is
when I slip into the reverie where a humpback whale bursts
the streams of water out. There are my tears. Yes, I am the big
whale.’

The watery spirits of three women turn into the sea spar-
kles as if forgiving their destiny. They are life saviors for their
own good in the sea.

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