This pilgrimage all started in Brooklyn. It was there, while living in a lovely old house in East Flatbush, that I promised Sara-la-Kali that one day I would attend her veneration in St-Maries-de-la-Mer.
That promise didn’t catch up with me until a decade later, living on the other side of the country in Portland, when she kindly reminded me of my promise and made it clear that the upcoming year was the year.
And it was when I said yes again, last year around this time, that everything started to crank into motion.
I was ruminating on these crankings the other day when the phone rang. I reached to grab it and as I did I suddenly felt an old but familiar pain in my back. Ignoring it in the moment, I answered the phone, and it wasn’t until I put my leg back down that I realized what I had done.
“I’m in Brooklyn”, says Rhyd, excitedly, on the other end of the line.
Of course you’re in Brooklyn, I thought to myself, wincing from the pain as I realized that I had just fucked up my sacroiliac joint out for the first time in many years.
For it was an injury that I had thought I left in Brooklyn. It hadn’t bothered me for nearly a decade out here on the West Coast, despite being a chronic, painful condition for the entire time I lived in New York. I always attributed it to differences in the weather and specifically the humidity and pressure.
But there it was, again, reawakening at the exact moment that my traveling partner calls to let me know that he has touched down in the place where both the pilgrimage and the injury root from.
A little too coincidental to be coincidence.