Few years back, Ann Sieben, commonly known as Winter Pilgrim was on an Awakin Call. Since that time, I've had the honor of being of service to her every time she slows her steps and regroups. Often, over hour long coffees, Ann will sneak in a story or two from past pilgrimages between the curation of walking routes and other tasks needed to prepare for long journeys on foot. These stories have profoundly shifted my life and how I am of service to others and we've talked numerous times about the best way to share them never really landing on a way until this past summer.

After 10 years on foot with near 30,000 miles of steps taken she found herself with a few weeks open weeks and wrote out some of those stories while sequestered in an attic in a Quebec convent. She has no desire to publish them but rather desired a document that could be gifted to the world posthumously for "whatever use they may be". True to Ann form an excel sheet was created with the title of Pilgrim Life Stories Matrix. A matrix indeed! Further honor was bestowed upon me in being one of two people she shared this matrix with. I spent days reading and rereading some of these deeply touching stories of encounters with people from all over the world. After many conversations we also decided to choose 8 of these stories to share with people that have followed Ann over the years. She asked that I share one of the stories with Service Space and a few other groups that she's previously connected to, simply because she feels bad that pilgrim life doesn't allow much room for ongoing connection.
From stories of Narcotraficers to Libyan soldiers I chose the one below to share with you as it reflects what Service Space means to me, glimpses of love from and in human connection.
I was at first remiss to share the link for signing up for these newsletter here however upon further thought there's no doubt that the stories of trust, love and the human condition would be of service to many here.
*** Birthdays For the Rich A Glimpse From Pilgrimage #3
Kiev to Patras: A pilgrimage dedicated to Saint Andrew
Start: Church of Saint Andrew, Kiev, Ukraine Monday November 16th, 2009
Finish: Cathedral of St. Andrew, Patras Greece, Saturday April 3, 2010
Days: 137
Distance: 4,423 kilometers/2,748 miles Many times in my three months in eastern Ukraine, the most impoverished place I’ve walked as a pilgrim, I had the opportunity to be present during a special event, such as a birthday or anniversary. In the homes of these simple people - not simple-minded, but hard workers with few aspirations aside from working hard and raising their families - there’s no sense of transience. They were born in their little family compounds and would die there. Born into an agricultural society, they have a role to fulfill, for those born before the early 1970s, it was a role assigned to them by the government and intended for life. There was no eagerness to use their position as a stepping stone to another nor to anticipate any career change later in life. Many of the older people assured me that life under communism - before 1991 - was much easier for them. Absent were any concerns about money or the future, accept it or struggle with it, that was it. Those who accepted found a certain contentment; those who didn’t didn’t. There’s also a lot of homemade vodka. People coming of age in post-communist times face a lot of uncertainty and confusion resulting to migration to the cities. There’s also a lot of homemade vodka.
The role of a pilgrim does not include judgment at any level. I was delighted to be welcomed into the homes of the country peasantry - not a derogatory term by any means - and this is where I had the opportunity to be present during a special family celebration. I witnessed many similar events, each of which I gained more insight into the ceremony. I’ll summarize one here as an example. On one occasion, I was told that the following day was the husband’s birthday. All sorts of preparations took place during the evening. A family compound, I should aside here, includes several structures: the one-room main house furnished with a central tile stove with an enormous tea kettle and ubiquitous pot of borscht, maybe a wooden chair or two, a stack of mats and folded blankets in a corner that also served as a sofa of sorts, maybe a standing cabinet with dishes and other kitchenware or just a shelf or two mounted on the concrete-block wall, occasionally a karaoke machine, pegs on the wall used for clothes storage, generally beneath a giant length of nylon lace; shoes piled up around the door. Another small hut, similarly arranged with a single room and a tile stove, is used for storage of extra necessities such as mats and blankets, cardboard boxes for clothing, and laundry paraphernalia, like galvanized buckets and wooden washboards. Another hut has gardening tools, sometimes chickens or ducks, but eaten before winter when I was there. An outhouse and water well round out the interior yard.
A question arose silently in my head when a birthday was announced: what does one get someone who has nothing? Clearly, there’s little spare cash. Clearly, too, there’s very limited ‘stuff’ in these houses, aligned with the lack of storage space. It’s not like every child in the house has his own closet or desk, as is more the norm in the Euro-American world I’m familiar with.
The birthday began early, while I was still around. Birthdayman was dressed in his finest - a tie with his usual work shirt, laundered the night before by one of the daughters, a paper crown on his head made by some child in the mix. Certain friends came at prearranged times. A neighbor couple started the morning off bringing a small amount of instant coffee, a treat in contrast to the usual tea. no exaggeration, the same leaves are reused for weeks. With the instant coffee savored ceremonially in a few small shot glasses passed around, following the chitchat and chorus of Happy Birthday in Russian, the neighborman stood before the birthdayman, cleared his throat, reached into his coat pocket for a piece of paper, unfolded it, and tilting it toward the light from the window, proceeded to read a poem he’d composed that reflected his feelings toward birthdayman, including some specific events that they shared together in the previous year. This episode would be repeated throughout the day as other neighbors, some traveling from other villages, and extended family troupe through, each at an appointed time so that birthdayman could be fully present with that person or couple. Each recited his poem then presented the birthdayman with the paper it’s written on. The stack grew throughout the day. People unable to attend the day personally had sent the poem through the mail and birthdayman read it outloud, repeating it to the different people who come through during the course of the day. On the occasions I was present when the birthday celebrant was a child, he wore a paper crown he proudly made himself and sat on the most important piece of furniture the family owns or could borrow for the occasion. He was made to feel absolutely and fully regal. Even small children listen attentively to the poetry being read. Small gifts, if any, are secondary to the poems, which are the treasures.
This celebration, the seven or eight times I witnessed it, struck me as something as beautiful as it is absent from my experiential stage. I’ve long ago turned away from the overwhelming level of commercialism in a typical American Christmas, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’ve known anyone who’s taken their birthday off from work in order to spend it with their family and friends. I’ve known a few who took their birthday off from work in order to treat themselves to something special, a day at the spa or something else for themselves. I’ve never known anyone who has either received or composed a poem for their birthday or someone else's. few, I imagine, would be satisfied with it. Maybe it happens in small circles ( I don’t think I’ve ever known a poet) but it’s not a cultural standard anywhere else I’ve been.
My survey of Ukraine for birthday celebrations was limited to the poor agricultural family demographic because I largely was walking in the countryside and rural areas. Maybe there’s a carryover of this long-standing cultural celebration among the middle class in the cities, too, but I suspect if a family had some money to spare, it would be spent on toys, clothes, and electronics for children who have their own rooms in which to store and play with them. I’m not against children having toys but the richness they gain from giving and receiving a stack of lovingly composed poems that serve no purpose but to express fondness and gratitude eclipses a deck of cards or electronic video game in ways they probably can’t comprehend. The fact that the composition and recitation of poems as celebration gifts is cultural and not familial is something particularly precious. I was forever enriched by this experience with the materially poor.