I was to present a five-day retreat at Our Lady of Mepkin Abbey in Monck’s Corner, South Carolina in May: “Devotions and Spiritual Exercises: Mary Oliver and Thomas Merton as Mentors for Contemplative Living.” We would use Oliver’s last volume of poetry, Devotions, as the text for this retreat. As I described in my last post, I was still suffering from depression. I did not want to get on the plane. Once I arrived at the airport in South Carolina I wanted to leave on the next plane out. Fortunately, I was met at the airport by Father Guerric, Mepkin’s retreat center director, who expertly calmed me down and enabled my beginning the retreat the next day on Monday afternoon. I wrote this “story” at Gerric’s urging for a book of essays kept at the retreat center.
May, 2018 at Mepkin Abbey
Never having been to Mepkin, I arrived in distress to present a five-day retreat animated by the poetry of Mary Oliver and Thomas Merton, mentors for contemplative living. I had experienced three deaths in close proximity within months. Heavy rains in New Jersey, despite the best efforts of the sub-pump, forced water into my basement for a week. I suffered insomnia. I walked into the lobby of the Saint Francis Retreat Center on Sunday afternoon barely in my right mind.
And thus the first object in the retreat center I spied upon entering was an attractive jar with a red top marked “Abbey’s Treats” in black marking pen. I thought without second guessing that these round pretzel objects with peanut butter centers were a Mepkin Abbey industry akin to cookies sold at Genesee Abbey, jam at Spencer Abbey, and candy at Wrentham.
In the early hours of Monday morning, still dazed and unable to sleep, I wandered into the living room of the Retreat Center, made a cup of herbal tea, and thought to try an “Abbey Treat.” I took only one, chewy enough to satisfy but I marked its bland taste. The monks should do better.
After presenting the first conference on Monday afternoon, I congratulated myself on how well it had gone despite my depression. To celebrate while the retreatants went to Vespers at the Abbey Church, I again poured herbal tea and, wanting to refuel after expending energy on the conference, I took the jar of “Abbey’s Treats” from its low shelf and ate at least five of them before I told myself that I should not hog them from the other retreatants. It was only then, as I returned the plastic container to its shelf, that I saw the retreat center’s mascot Abbey lying just outside the window. Abbey. Abbey’s Treats!! I picked up the plastic jar whose packaging I had ignored to realize that I had been feasting on dog food: Wishbone Dog Treats. I laughed long and hard at myself.
Later that Monday night, I along with the other retreatants as we tried to sleep, heard Abbey barking furiously outside our bedrooms. The next morning some conjectured she had been facing off with an alligator from the Cooper River or perhaps was protecting the Center from a bear. Only I guessed that, as usual having counted her treats nightly after all retired, she had realized I had poached her jar. She was barking at me to cease and desist.
As the week went on, I saw how Abbey became an object of affectionate attention by every person approaching her. We were united in our devotion to her good nature and to her open hospitality to each one of us. It was only on the eve of the end of the retreat that I confessed to our group that I had eaten Abbey’s Treats. Everyone howled. The next morning of our departure, as part of our last ritual of gathering in a circle, I had placed twelve of Abbey’s Treats on a “communion” plate on the table before us. At a good moment, everyone smiling in anticipation of what might come next, I passed the plate to share an Abbey Treat with each participant.
Many elements of the retreat would unite us forever as we departed for our homes from Mepkin, I began to explain, and Abbey would abide in memory to bind us. We might forget all that was said during the retreat, and eventually forget each other’s names, but we would never forget Abbey. Abbey would unite us with all those who had come to Mepkin before us, whom she had also accompanied, and she would unite us with all those in the future upon whom she would exert her ministry of hospitality. Therefore I urged that each of us have a final private appointment with Abbey to thank her for her generosity and her affection during our stay. Offering her one of her own treats in thanksgiving, we would show her gratitude and bow down.
As I gazed into her eyes to say my own good-bye, I promised not to forget how she had shared her jar with me and pulled me for a moment from the pit.
The Epiphany of Kindness in Sorrow’s Face
© by Jonathan Montaldo
Back in 1958, in Louisville, Kentucky on the downtown corner of Fourth and Walnut Streets, after visiting his doctor, the Trappist monk Thomas Merton stepped out onto the busy sidewalk and found himself suddenly in deep communion with the procession of human beings he saw there. In that moment of sunlit clarity, the haze of his monastic separation burned off from his eyes, and Merton discovered a kinship with everyone on the street. “Thank God,” he wrote later in his journals about the event, “I’m a member of the human race just like everyone else. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. …. A member of the human race! To think that such a commonplace realization should suddenly seem like news that one holds the winning ticket in a cosmic sweepstake. …I have the immense joy of being a member of the human race: if only everybody could realize this! There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.” (Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, 156-157, modified by JM).
This paragraph from Merton’s journals is famous, but there is another that follows shortly after that is another powerful revelation of a deep truth about us human beings. On that same afternoon trip in Louisville Merton had bought for fifty cents a book of photographs from Life Magazine called The Family of Man. The Family of Man had photographs of ordinary folk at weddings and funerals, in bars and churches, children at play and elders at rest. Merton reacted powerfully to this book:
“All those fabulous pictures. How scandalized some would be if I said that the whole book is to me a picture of God’s face and yet that is the Truth. There, there is God in my own Kind, my own Kind—“Kind” which means “likeness” and which means “love” and which means “child.” Human kind. Like one another, the dear “Kind” of sinners united and embraced in only one heart, in only one Kindness, which is the Heart and Kindness of God. I do not look for sin in you, Humankind. I do not see sin in you anymore today (though we are all sinners). There is something too real to allow sin any longer to seem important, to seem to exist, for it has been swallowed up, sin has been destroyed, and there is only the great secret between us that we are all one kind. God is seen and reveals God’s self as human, that is, in us and there is no other hope of finding wisdom than in God-human-hood: our own humanity transformed in God. [The Search for Solitude, 182-183 inclusive language added.]
My sister Janet died, it seems like yesterday, a very young sixty-seven year old. Two years before she had discovered a small lump on her left breast. The doctors removed it. Doctors treated her with chemotherapy and radium and pronounced her clear of cancer. A year passed and she became sick again. Doctors told her cancer was now everywhere in her lungs, her liver, and bone system. She lived for seven more months and lived more beautifully than I had ever experienced her living before. It was as if she had surrendered to her life’s end every mask she had worn to protect herself and became the person we had seen before only in glimpses. She reconciled enmities, she drew her children to herself, and she healed long-standing open wounds. We were awed by her kindness to us and by her appreciation of every kindness we were moved to show her, she being so kind. I spoke to her every day for seven months and every day she ended our conversation by telling me she loved me, a mantra ensure I would not forget. She lost consciousness only four days before she died. Her body cremated, this beautiful human being whose depths of kindness I had only just begun to appreciate became fire and disappeared.
Without the graces of palliative medicine, my sister would have been unable so strongly to show her true face as she departed from us. But it was more than medicinal herbs that robbed her death of its sting. It was the epiphany of kindness in the face of sorrow, it was her revelation of kindness in the middle of everything that was failing her, that made her death a final act of compassion for the life she had loved living.
Life and Death are identical twins to every human being of us. At the banquet of human existence to which we have been invited the menu is both sour and sweet. We eat our bread together sometimes celebrating, sometimes in tears. Just as weeds flourish with the wheat, evil in our lives nestles close in the heart of what is good. The climate of our lives is always changing. We are hot, then cold. Now we are happy this month, depressed in the next. This year we are famous, next year, disgraced. In the morning we are kissing our children a good day as we leave for work and, by the afternoon, we are incinerated, disappearing like incense into a blue sky. We are all kin as we suffer the curved streets of this life that every one of us travels.
But being kindred, why are we so unkind to one another? Why are we blind to each other’s dilemmas as being identical to our own? Why do we so unrelentingly accept Unkindness as the order of relations among us when it is our Kindness that binds us all together?
To be unkind is to be unnatural. For us to live our lives vis-à-vis one another unkindly is to be sick of soul. Our thoughtless unkindness to one another is a low-grade depression of the spirit that robs us of joy and sanity. Unkindness among us exiles us from the sunlit paradise our lives could more be if the scales of self-interest were to fall from our eyes and we could see everyone bathed in a light revealing them to us as our own precious kind.
How do we relearn kindness in an unkind world? Humility is the mother of Kindness. Humility prevents our taking first places at life’s banquet; humility prevents our hogging resources while sisters on other continents or just down the street cannot feed their children. Humility helps us step down from the pedestal of individual, unkind destinies to share life with the crowd of us. Humility helps us see how easy it is to lose everything we hold dear in an instant: our houses, our status, our families, our very selves lost in the distractions of the ten thousand things that keep us from realizing our kindness with one another.
Even religious faiths do not insure our kindness. Lives of faith, when most authentic, should reveal our fundamental unity with all human beings. Lives of faith should reorder our usual priorities, should move us to attend to the least privileged first, and should let the sick and the lame lead us in procession through life by their slower pace and with rhythms more appreciative that we must all proceed together carefully or suffer soul-death alone.
For the health of our collective souls, we must uncage our kindness from the narrow cells of our immediate family and friends. We must go off the restricted reservations of our corporate interest groups. We must leap over the wall of the gated communities of our minds that divide our world into the precious few who are saved, while the rest of them, not our kind at all, go unwashed in the Lamb’s blood. Who will deliver us from these narrow-minded perspectives every one of us easily adopts that divide our one humankind into the family and the strangers, into the have’s and have-nots, into tribes of Abel and tribes of Cain, into the descendants of Sarah and the offspring of Hagar?
This virus of irresponsibility for other human beings, our own kind, infects our relationship with all of Nature upon which the health of all creation depends. The circumference of our enacting kindness must, therefore, as Albert Einstein wrote, be as large as planet Earth’s. We must repair our kindness to all beings. We should convert ourselves to fostering ecologies of kindness in all our relationships as a daily spiritual practice.
Now has always been the acceptable time to be kin to one another, not next week, not in our next reincarnation, not in heavens that are elsewhere than where we all are now. This great work of our becoming epiphanies of human kindness in our relationships is the personal inner work that we each must take up more deeply.
I love this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye from her book Words Under the Words. She calls the poem “Kindness”.
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a heated broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness. …
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I, kindness, you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
[Naomi Shihab Nye, Words Under The Words]
My mothers and fathers, my sisters and brothers, dear cousins, we are all one kind: we must recognize ourselves as kin or not be well. Kindness is our only cure. Kindness is the medicine prescribed to be taken every day until its light burns off cataracts on our eyes and everywhere we look we shall see kin, everyone our own kind everywhere. Even in the middle of all that fails us and in full view of Sorrow’s face, may we finally realize an epiphany of our hidden kindness revealed at last.
© Jonathan Montaldo. <firstname.lastname@example.org>
I walked with my friends into Santiago de Compostela, mind clear and heart content, but without elation. I could not conjure any of the two months of walking as I entered the Square in front of the Cathedral of Saint James. Mindful of “all my relations”, I attended the noon Pilgrims’ Mass. The journey ended on Monday, October 29th and I dutifully picked up my “compostella” at the Pilgrims’ Office, the certificate that certifies my pilgrimage to Santiago from St. Jean-Pied-de-Port in France.
I end this cycle of podcasts with a poem, “Ithaca”, by the Greek poet Constantine Cafavy. In Homer’s Odyssey “Ithaca” was the island home to which Odysseus struggled to return, through many adventures, after his participation in the Trojan War. Here is Cavafy’s poem followed by a podcast of my reading it, then adding a “riff” of my own on his last stanza.
Grateful for everything in the past, I wait in hope for what is to come. Even though I left home alone for Santiago seven months ago to travel through Portugal, England, Italy, Switzerland and now Spain, many have departed with me “in the spirit” and have been my companions through my travels.
Our destinies are one. I don’t know how this can be true on a macro-level, how my destiny is one with everyone in the world, but I am certain how it is true that I share the same destiny with the entire network of my intimates–with all my personal relations. I know that I am, through the network of us, participating in creating the world with and for those I know best.
As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like them on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfumes of every kind –
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
A couple of days ago I was thinking about the “Spirit of the Camino,” which probably has as many interpretations as there are pilgrims. I decided to do an audio reflection on this topic on Wednesday in Melide, and then I changed it a bit and recorded an extra treatment, while I was walking along the Camino yesterday (25 Oct.), headed toward Arzua, Spain. Hope you enjoy the sound of my feet slapping their way to Santiago. —Jim Gravois
As we walked out of Villafranca de Bierzo, the river flowing with force past us on our left, we had no notion of the beauty that awaited us, nor did we realize the hard climb up and forward we would have to make into Galicia. Galicia is said to be one of the most economically challenged regions of Spain, but its beauty is incomparable, except perhaps to Ireland. Galicia is a Celtic land made green by constant rain.
Breaking up the climb between Villafranca and O Cebriero, Jim and I stopped over-night in the small village of Portella. It was here that I would encounter the milk cows of Galicia. The cows of Portella were more numerous than its human residents. They daily parade through the narrow streets from milking barns to feeding barns, goaded on by dogs and usually a woman with a stick. Pilgrims encountering the daily ritual passage of Portella’s cows must step aside and let them pass. I have now had this experience of Galician parading cows many times. If I had held out my arms, I could have touched these huge animals. When they looked into my eyes, as many of them did, I wanted to embrace them.
It was in Portella that I remembered my nose’s affinity for cow shit and the smell of the barns where cows are milked or bedded down. My yen for the odors of cow barns is perhaps a legacy of my mother’s grandparents and great-grandparents, who were dairy farmers in New Orleans, who continued the traditional work of the Deffes clan out of Alsace-Lorraine. I have not paid enough attention to my mother’s family, but have always more gravitated toward my Montaldo-Paretti roots. The Parettis were green grocers in New Orleans’ French market. The Montaldos managed gambling houses and my grandfather, Charles, managed a saloon in the French Quarter. I have more thought of myself as Italian rather than as my mother’s blend of French (Deffes), Spanish (Gomez) and German (Schindler). My great-niece, Cali, has traced the Deffes clan back to Jews living in Germany in the 1600s. Being in Galicia and bewitched once again by the aromas of dairy cows, my mother’s family is finally claiming its due in me.
Whatever the source, I have always liked the smell of cows and their shit. I remember visiting Bellefontaine Abbey in France, the motherhouse of St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts, where my cousin is a monk. On the first morning after my arrival at Bellefontaine, I attended Lauds and Eucharist in the twelfth-century abbey church. When Mass had ended, I walked out of the church and got a whiff of cow shit from the monastic barn. I thought back then how wonderful it was that these French monks had built their church so close to the cow barn. Psalmody and a cow barn harmonize with one another—the heights of singing for God linked to one of our souls’ basic elements.
Cistercian abbeys in America no longer have cow barns. No matter how reasonable it is that American Cistercians no longer drink the milk of their own cows, nor enjoy a daily dose of the aroma of their shit, something essential to their monasticism might now have gone missing. Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, once a working farm, no longer has an animal on its property under the care of its monks. No matter how foolish it might seem, given the inexorable decrease of their numbers, perhaps it’s time for Gethsemani to bring back the cow shit. Monks might need to be farmers again.
The fragrance of Galician cows brings me back down-to-earth from flights of fancy I am entertaining as I walk El Camino. Before I open my mouth publicly again, orally or in writing, I’m now vowing to pause a moment and recall the odor of cow barns. Perhaps I should spend a little of my social security money to have a perfumer concoct a fragrance of cow barn odors that I could lightly touch behind my ears before addressing an audience. I could call it Montaldo’s Cologne de Bouse de Vache. If it could be made cheaply enough, in addition to storing it in beautiful bottles for my own use, I could send Vatican City 500 bottles for future use in consistories that raise men to the rank of Cardinal. My gift would designate that each new Cardinal receive a bottle of Bouse de Vache in a crimson-silk lined box, bearing their coats-of-arms, along with a note: “A gift for your wise use as you become a Prince of the Holy Roman Church”.
Holding the sole patent on Cologne deBouse de Vache, I would exercise my prejudice to insure that no woman ever received a bottle, no matter how high the station to which she rose. Women already have a natural facility for smelling bullshit whenever its equivalent in speech reaches their mouths or their ears.
Walking through Galicia, I have meditated on these things. It’s a crazy notion—bottling the essence of cow barn. However, I might do a video for You-Tube in which I explain my idea. It might go viral enough that it would become a meme widely used by anyone finding themselves trapped in an audience with a pompous speaker (someone like me). In such a situation and without much thought, a person would turn and whisper to another sitting in an adjacent chair, “If only he had remembered to wear Montaldo’s Cologne de Bouse de Vache!”
I am writing a few words today in O Cebreiro, one of the highest points along the Camino, and certainly one of the most beautiful. When the weather is clear, as it was yesterday upon our arrival here, the views of the surrounding green hills and mountains are spectacular. The sunset yesterday was something to behold. Today it is windy, foggy, rainy, and chilly. I am reminded of the power of Nature, especially in high places. Will we even see the sun at all today? The Camino contains so many metaphors for life: its challenges, its disappointments, its surprising rewards. As we approach the final stage of this grand adventure, I offer some audio reflections on what the Camino may mean for the rest of my life. —Jim Gravois
When he considered the vastness of the cosmos, the French philosopher Blasé Pascal wrote that its “infinite spaces” terrified him. The stars humbled his existence. In their light he was nothing. Even as a young man I transposed Pascal’s anxiety to describe my own. It wasn’t the infinite spaces but the “infinite faces” that scared me. All those billions of human beings who have come before me, and the billions that exist now, who am I in the light of the infinite variety of their stories and individual existences?
As a corollary to my primal fear, my grammar school self at Sacred Heart of Jesus in New Orleans refused to conceive of heaven as a huge hall with all “the just” surrounding the Lord’s throne and singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy” for all eternity. Not only did this not strike me as fun, but I asked myself how all those “Egyptians” [I don’t know why I zeroed in on them] would crowd around the throne. Would there be room for me?
Yet why should the cosmos of seemingly infinite human existences, flowing out from and passing into one another, be a source of sadness and dismay? Why could not I choose to rejoice that I have been bestowed a “gift” to be part of this great parade, this never ending pilgrimage of humanity coming to fruition and dying as fertile seed for more life? Do I have the choice to not view my life as just a road to inevitable sadness and, instead, consider myself fortunate to have been blessed with “one wild and precious life” [Mary Oliver]?
In his journals Merton highlighted his choice in the decision placed before him to choose death or life: “Either you look at the universe as a very poor creation out of which no one can make anything, or you look at your own life and your own part in the universe as infinitely rich, full of inexhaustible interest, opening out into the infinite further possibilities for study and contemplation and praise. Beyond all and in all is God. “Perhaps the ‘Book of Life’, in the end, is the book of what one has lived and, if one has lived nothing, he is not in the Book of Life. “I have always wanted to write about everything. That does not mean to write a book that covers everything–which would be impossible. But a book in which everything can go. A book with a little of everything that creates itself out of nothing. That has its own life. A faithful book. I no longer look at it as a “book.” [Journals 3, July 17, 1956]
Over and over in his journals Merton urged himself to realize that his life, just as it was in all its particulars, constituted “God’s will” for him. To accept “God’s will” was to accept the parents who bore him, the monastery he had entered, his adopted country America just as it was, “bomb and all”. Merton’s lived mysticism and theology was to identity God’s love for him as inextricably connected with all his life’s relations: the people whom he loved and in turn loved him, the places where his life’s most significant moments were enacted, the culture of the societies of his time, the art, music and literature that most turned him on.
I turn on my sequentially new bunk beds on El Camino de Santiago, often being awake at 3:00 AM with no where to go without disturbing the thirty people sleeping with me in the dorm, wondering through the night what might be the “final significance” of my life. I admit all the blessings that have come my way. I realize that I have not suffered uniquely. My few accomplishments have been satisfying but limited. I am still the son of Irwin and Florence and no more precious a plant than one of the thousands of strange varieties that New Orleans breeds in abundance. I suspect that my dreams of receiving the Palme D’Or at Cannes for Best Actor in a Supporting role in a Comedy, with everyone tearfully on their feet to award me an unstoppable standing ovation, will probably not materialize. I doubt that there will be a movement for my beatification once I’m dead. I’ll get my fifteen minutes of “Poor Jonathan”, and then everyone will go over to Diana and Wesley’s for beer and pizza. And that will be a wrap.
A certain gospel story has always made me uncomfortable. It’s the moment when Jesus is preaching in a follower’s house. Someone comes to the door, and interrupts him to inform him that his mother and brothers are waiting outside for him. Jesus then responds, “Who is my mother? Who is my brother except those who do my Father’s will?” I have always wondered if and how he could get away with voicing that question. If Mary had an ounce of “New Orleans mother” in her, I imagine that, when Jesus finally came out of the house to greet her, she showed him the back of her hand. “Don’t you ever, young man, ask “Who is my mother?” when I’m standing ten feet away from you outside, waiting patiently for you to finish your honeyed words. I didn’t say my “Yes” to the angel Gabriel, to bear your holy ass into existence, so that I could hear you insult me in front of people who don’t know our family. Are you getting my drift, Jesus bar Joseph? You have a lot of book knowledge, son, but no common sense.”
At that moment Jesus had a choice. He could have bowed his head and accepted an illuminative lesson in humility, but no, he had to think himself extraordinary. He just couldn’t bring himself to abandon his starring role in his latest delusion of grandeur: “Woman,” he responded,” don’t you know that I must be about my Father’s business?” [Bam! Slap! “I didn’t mean it, mama”. Whomp!]. Jesus had to learn his truth the hard way: you place yourself in spiritual, and even physical, peril when you go around preaching theologies your own mother can’t understand.
Mary Oliver’s poem “Answers” speaks beautifully to the tension between “mere learning” and a “wisdom” that stays close to the ground that bore you into life and will always bear you forward to where you really want to go:
If I envy anyone it must be
My grandmother in a long ago
Green summer, who hurried
Between kitchen and orchard on small
Uneducated feet, and took easily
All shining fruits into her eager hands.
That summer I hurried too, wakened
To books and music and circling philosophies.
I sat in the kitchen sorting through volumes of answers
That could not solve the mystery of trees.
My grandmother stood among her kettles and ladles.
Smiling, in faulty grammar,
She praised my fortune and urged my lofty career.
So to please her I studied—but I will remember always
How she poured confusion out, how she cooked and labeled
All the wild sauces of the brimming year.
New and Selected Poems, Volume One: 235
We have spent two days in the mountains before coming down to Ponferrada. The ascents were hard, but the descents were even harder, the paths down were steep, full of jagged slate and large rocks. Descents are always harder, but you need to negotiate them eventually to land where you really need to go.