Part I: The Slowest Pilgrim - El Camino de Santiago, Spain 2004

Part I:


The Slowest Pilgrim

El Camino de Santiago

Spain 2004


Introduction

El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is an ancient pilgrimage route that begins in the French Pyrenees and traverses northern Spain, ending above Portugal along the Atlantic coast. It is one of three official Catholic pilgrimages, along with the pilgrimages to Jerusalem and Rome. Steeped in myth and mystery and rooted in Catholic tradition, the Camino has been continuously traversed by pilgrims for more than a thousand years. The Christian pilgrimage began when it was believed that the remains of Saint James the Greater, the apostle of Christ, were discovered in an unmarked grave in the far northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula. The stories suggest that following the death of Christ, his apostles disbanded and travelled far and wide spreading the gospel. Saint James made his way to the location of present-day Spain and worked to spread the teachings of Christ. Eventually, he returned home, and was beheaded. A couple of his followers, hoping to honor his death with a proper burial, stole his body and head in the night and escaped in a stone boat.
After many days at sea, the boat landed on the western coast of Spain, and the disciples began to search for a proper burial site. They were halted by a pagan queen who forbade their passing through her lands. Finally, she agreed that the disciples could bury their master on her mountain if they could survive the journey. They were warned of wild animals along the way, but en route, the animals became tamed by the presence of such holiness. They survived the journey and buried James, and the tomb was lost and forgotten for centuries.
In the early ninth century, a shepherd who was tending his flock of sheep followed a strange star-like light and stumbled upon the unmarked grave, and in a vision he became aware that it was indeed the tomb of Saint James. As rumors of the discovery spread, people began to journey to this faraway point at the western end of the European continent. The Catholic Church authenticated the remains, and a cathedral was erected to honor him. For hundreds of years since, pilgrims of all kinds have flocked to Santiago de Compostela to honor the holy remains and be blessed.
Stories abound, as a culture and mythology has evolved around the Camino. Some people believe that the tomb does not, in fact, house the remains of Saint James, but of a pagan priestess or perhaps a random shepherd, and that the Catholic Church took advantage of the opportunity to spread Christianity as far and wide as possible. Others believe that the Camino is an ancient path that was followed by the Druids to the apparent end of the world, now aptly named Finisterre, which in Latin means the end of land. There are people who believe that there are powerful ley lines that underlie the path of the Camino. These are believed to be part of a powerful energy grid that is built into the Earth, similar to the Chinese system of energy meridians that are present in our human bodies. In addition, the path also follows beneath the Milky Way in a perfect parallel, and it is believed that by following a path so powerfully charged with energy, it is believed that a person is bound to have intensely spiritual or religious experiences. There is also rich history involving the Knights Templar, a secret order filled with plenty of mysteries and mythology of its own, and their battles along the Camino.
A pilgrimage route to honor the remains of Saint James? A path that follows the powerful ley lines parallel to the Milky Way? Whichever perspective people choose, if they choose any at all, the Camino is a road that has been continually traversed for thousands of years, and it has always been associated with the Divine in one way or another. Humankind, in its endless attempt to prove whose concept of God is the right one, has shed much blood into the soil of the Camino. Christians, Muslims and Pagans all fought for hundreds of years along this path, building and destroying towns as they struggled for ownership of the land. Many of these towns still survive today, and I walked through them.
The Camino is quite different from the Appalachian Trail. There are villages every few kilometers, villages that came into existence because of the Camino itself. The path meanders through forests and fields, along old Roman roads, sometimes it joins dirt roads, and occasionally the path goes directly along busy highways. There are pilgrim fountains all along the way for pilgrims to refill their water gourds (or Nalgene bottles). Camping gear isn’t necessary, because there are pilgrim hostels, called refugios or albergues, in many of the villages along the way. These hostels are reserved for official pilgrims to Santiago, who must carry a pilgrim’s passport, or credencial, which must be stamped along the way. In Santiago, a pilgrim can present a completed credencial (or one covering at least 100 kilometers) and be awarded a Compostela, which is a certificate of completion of the pilgrimage. In addition, when the Feast of St. James, July 25th, falls on Sunday, as it did when I walked the Camino in 2004, it is considered a Holy Year. Pilgrims who are awarded a Compostela during a Holy Year are forgiven all accumulated time in Purgatory for their lifetime thus far.
I continued walking beyond Santiago for another three days to Finisterre on the Atlantic coast. As I mentioned before, Finis terrae is Latin for the end of land or even the end of the world. This place was believed to be the actual end of the world until Christopher Columbus sailed off the “end” and discovered that the world was actually round. What is certain is that Finisterre, perched on the end of a tiny finger of land, is one of the westernmost points in Spain. And beyond that, home. I walked for more than 500 miles across Spain to end up staring right back in the direction I came from. It sure sounds crazy when I look at it that way. It was indeed a pretty crazy undertaking, I didn’t need to walk 500 miles to know that! Before completing the journey, I didn’t have even one completely rational reason as to why I was walking the Camino. All I knew is that I was intuitively called to do it.
The pages that follow serve two purposes. First, they are my own attempt to understand the journey that changed me so deeply. It is my hope that through sharing these experiences that I will be able to integrate the knowledge and lessons I received along El Camino, lessons so vast in scope that I am still coming to understand them now. Second, they are my story of walking El Camino. Through writing I hope to offer my experience to others who are receptive to it, whether they are fellow pilgrims or simply fellow human beings. I am neither a historian nor an anthropologist. I hold no great credentials to validate my words. These writings are simply the story of my pilgrimage.

***

Camino Journals

***

June 15, 2004
(flying to London)

As the golden sun dances across the southern wing of this plane, I am off the continent. My heart is so full. I couldn’t know any deeper that this is what I must do. I am still stunned that this is happening. In three days I will begin walking. This is my divine appointment. It is certain. It is joyful. It is so clear to me, I don’t even feel “me” right now. It’s still so utterly unbelievable.

***

June 16, 2004
(London)

At customs, the woman asked me “why are you here?” The wording, sounding so odd and metaphysical, threw me off. I said, “my plane just landed.” Humorlessly, she said, “that’s not funny.” I tried to clarify that I had a connecting flight to France from Gatwick Airport, and she insisted upon seeing the ticket. I had to dig deeply into my backpack, which took quite a bit of time, and just as much time to put away.
Once I got off the Underground at Westminster, I ascended the stairs and found myself on a bridge overlooking the River Thames. I wandered past Big Ben, the House of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and then found a lovely park, Victoria Park, and found a nice shady spot in the grass. I took off my pack, spread out a sarong, and spent a couple of hours napping. I really needed it, too. The morning air was cool, which surprised me, and feeling chilled, I moved my napping spot into the full sun.

***

(Toulouse, France)

I’m in an all-night bar in Toulouse, drinking Perrier until they close down. Not because I’m being fabulous and loving the nightlife, but because I have no place to sleep in this town, not at any cost. The night is young, and I have little else to do but write.
If I could only go back, I’d have slept all day in one of the beautiful London parks. Or I would have gone to Gatwick Airport hours earlier for a shower. At the time, though, the idea didn’t cross my mind. After landing here, I met another woman from my flight, an Irish woman, Julie, from Cork. We took the bus to the center of Toulouse together, which dropped us off at the Gare Matabian. We parted company once there, and I went into the city to find a room. Availability? None. A woman at one hotel told me that there was a “Congress” in Toulouse, which assured that every room would be booked for at least forty kilometers. I asked her if it was possible to call another hotel, and she tried, but without success.
I wandered around for over an hour. All the hotels had signs posted, “complet.” Full. I began to feel desperate and overwhelmed, and by that time it was nearly 11:00 p.m. I sat down on a bench and stifled a few sobs. What do I do? I wanted to just go to sleep right there, but the vibe was vagrant, transient, creepy. The choices: leave town for somewhere else, find a place in the street to sleep, sleep in the train station, or have dinner and figure it out later.
There were no other trains heading out of the city in the direction that I intended to go the next morning. There were a lot of suspicious-looking people in the streets. I went back to the Gare. My Irish acquaintance, Julie, was still there, reading. I briefly shared my dilemma. Together, we asked a station employee what I should do, and he recommended that I find a bar, one was sure to be open very late if not all night. I wandered out into the streets, inquiring at several bars, finally finding one that was open. So, here I am, where I will remain until the Gare reopens at 4:00 a.m. Then I can go back to the train station and sleep. I think there’s a shower there too. God, I hope there is. I feel so disgusting.
I’m so completely exhausted, I haven’t really slept in days. I’m so tired now that I can feel it in my skin. Tonight was supposed to be my luxury night with a soft bed and a shower. Here I am at a seedy bar filled with half-drunk people, some of whom are being aggressive with each other.
My train leaves tomorrow morning around 10:00 a.m. Surely I’ll be able to sleep on the train to Bayonne. A couple hours of layover there, and then on to St. Jean.
Now I must decide this. Do I begin walking on Friday as planned, or do I take Friday to really rest up and then begin on Saturday? Right now, I think I should find a small hotel and crash as soon as I get to St. Jean. Then I can use Friday to prepare and get my pilgrim’s passport, and then walk fresh. This lack of sleep could hit me hard and I don’t think I should begin like that.
Earlier, in the midst of writing, I was joined by two French-speaking men from Morocco. The first man was caramel-skinned and tall, with odd hands, one missing a fingertip, and red nails and dark stains all over them. The second man had curly hair and severely bloodshot eyes, probably from excessive drug use. Neither spoke more than five English words, so I was bombarded by their desire to have an all-French conversation. As tired as I was, I spent three hours miserably faltering in my attempts. They both spent this time trying like hell to pick me up.

***

June 17, 2004
(St. Jean)

As I waited to board the train from Bayonne to St. Jean, I began to see people with packs and boots and walking sticks. I tried to talk with a man who was wearing a Santiago shirt, but he spoke neither English or French. We were only able to acknowledge being fellow peregrinos. As I waited for the train to arrive, a man standing next to me said, “a Saint Jean?” From his accent I could tell that he was an English speaker, and we began chatting. Camilo, from British Columbia. What a wonderful thing to share conversation with a person who speaks my language! We boarded the train and continued our conversation.
The tiny train took off. It was only one car long! There was something magical about it, and my excitement surely added to that feeling, but there was something very special about that train. As we pulled away, our driver began the journey by racing a freight train that ran along beside of us, and as we won, the other driver laughed heartily. Our driver kept blowing the whistle at people that we passed along the way: cyclists, walkers, random people, whoever. Some just stared back, and others waved. I talked with Camilo, made eye contact with a few other people on the train, smiling, and dozed some too. We stopped in tiny villages, and the land changed from flat to rolling. These mountains, the Pyrenees, are like the Appalachians at home. Beautiful, sometimes more like actual peaks. Eventually we rolled to a halt at St. Jean Pied-de-Port. A tiny lump grew in my throat and tears sprang to my eyes. Off the train came about ten pilgrims, all of us with packs and sleeping mats. Oh, what a beautiful, amazing, unbelievable sight! We all walked along a street toward the town center, Camilo and me last in the line. We all walked up the cobblestone street to the city walls and then up another street, very steep and fairy tale perfect! Little rows of houses and shops, all with so many flowers everywhere, beautiful doors and shutters, breathtakingly charming. I can’t believe this place is real!
There were lots of signs that said refugio or hostel. As we wandered to the top of the hill, a man met us on the street, a representative of Le Societe des Amis du Chemin St. Jacques. He greeted us and led us inside. It was an amazing reception. It was a very old building, large wooden plank floors, and stone walls. There were a few people inside who sorted us by language, and a very nice, grandfatherly man sat down with Camilo and myself (the only English speakers), and asked what we needed. There we acquired our pilgrim passport, the credencial, and filled out our personal information. My first stamp is there now, and receiving it was such an emotional moment, too. Then, this lovely man guided us through a map of the first stage of the journey to Roncesvalles, in Spain, and provided a list of available refugios. I experienced such a deep feeling of connection with this man, his eyes were kind and intuitive. He finally asked each of us when we would begin, and we both had decided to start walking on Saturday. He recommended a place for us to stay, right beside the office.
Two women met us on the street in front of the house next door, and our guide, who stepped out of the office with us, briefly spoke to the women. We were whisked inside by these two amazing, jolly, beautiful women: Adine and Anne Marie. It would be no problem to stay two nights. We were offered lemon beer, which was delicious, and Adine also offered to do our laundry. We were shown to our shared room, and there is a spectacular porch just beside my bed, looking out onto the mountains. There are geraniums on the porch, too, and a table overlooking a beautiful flower garden.
After dinner, Camilo and I went next door to a shop with a bin of wooden walking sticks. We both chose one. Mine is a light color, lightweight wood, with a flower carved into it. It was clear from the time I saw it that it was the stick for me! We then wandered around town, clicking our sticks on the cobblestones, and ventured over the River Nive, so beautiful in the waning light of evening. We climbed up a series of ancient, steep stone steps to La Citadel, and at the top, had a perfect view of the town of St. Jean, as well as the misty mountains glowing golden in their haze. This place is magnificent! I am in paradise here. I feel like I am in the gentle palm of the universe, being protected and held up to the extraordinary road that lies ahead.

***

June 18, 2004
(in St. Jean)

What an extraordinarily beautiful morning! There is a dense fog dancing about the base of the mountains, but not too much into the town. The sunlight is bright and fresh, and the morning air is cool and crisp. The smell of dampness and sweet earth and flowers is mingling with the joyful birdsong. I have never felt better in my life! Adine just brought up a tray of divine looking breakfast. Tea with sugar and milk, bread, butter, and jam.
My First Candle

The sleep I enjoyed my first night in St. Jean was the first significant amount of sleep I’d had in three days. By the time I was up and about the next morning, the day was warm and sunny. Camilo was still asleep, and I decided to wander around the town on my own. I was very excited to finally be in St. Jean, the fabled town of beginnings. St. Jean was a magical place with its cobblestone streets, picturesque river, beautiful old houses, some with door knockers in the shape of a lady’s hand, abundant flowers, and the Pyrenees in the distance. In St. Jean I could feel the presence of centuries of pilgrims, also on the verge of a life-altering voyage, filled with excitement and anticipation of the unknown. The blessing of a lazy day was just what I needed to rejuvenate my spirit.
I spent the morning walking to the eastern edge of town and exploring the country roads and the cemetery. As I wandered around the cemetery, an old man parked his car and got out. I assumed that he was there to pay homage to a family grave. Instead, he went to the iron fence that marked the entrance to the cemetery and unzipped his pants, urinating right on the gate. I was surprised and attempted to keep myself out of sight. I felt awkward after witnessing this moment, and I don’t recall whether he did in fact visit a grave.
When I’d finished wandering through the east end of town, I decided to investigate some of the shops. I needed to purchase provisions for the next day’s walk: fruit, bread, cheese, nuts, since there would be no food along the route at all, and no store for provisions until well past Roncesvalles. However, by the time I made it to the center of St. Jean, everything was closed for siesta until 4:00 p.m. I sat by the river for a while, allowing the ice cold water to wash over my feet. I wandered back along the river, heading uphill toward home. On the right side of the street I saw the town’s church. It was the simplest one I had seen in my limited travels in Europe, and it ended up being the simplest one I saw along the entire Camino. A dark foyer led to a shadowed wooden door. From the entrance I heard faint sounds of music, what sounded like someone playing a grand organ. I timidly made my way to the door. The music grew louder, and I was mesmerized by this church and its midday organ music. I wondered if there was really someone inside playing.
The music was a recording. I encountered many churches with similar recordings in the coming weeks, but at that moment I was fascinated. I went in and felt a gasp rise from deep within me, and an impending sob threatened to burst forth as tears sprang to my eyes. Candles. I walked around the cavelike room. The floor was wooden and very dusty. There were a few electric lights and candles burning, but the dimness was quite comforting on this already hot afternoon. It was cool inside the church, and the organ music gave way to Gregorian chant. The place was empty except for me. I walked to the front where candles were burning, offered as a form of prayer. Suddenly, I had the strong feeling that I had to light one! It struck me as a strange idea, since I am neither Catholic nor Christian. I wondered if it would be considered blasphemous if I were to light a candle in this church, a prayer offered to the universe on the eve of my pilgrimage? I didn’t think so, since my own spiritual beliefs embrace the unity of all faith. Still, I hesitated. I had never lighted a candle in a sacred space before. A squirrelly feeling stirred in my stomach. I chose a long white taper, placed my donation in the box, and walked up to light my candle. I felt small and connected and my heart filled with an indescribable feeling of joy and power and love that rendered me speechless and still, and feeling connected to the infinite.
It felt like time was standing still. Here I was in the Pyrenees in France, standing inside an ancient church in this legendary town. For centuries pilgrims had been offering candles in this way, a prayer to God to guide their journey. Here I was, one tiny being in the river of existence, adding my own light to the others. The space around me was pregnant with energy, and for the first time in my life I felt this inexplicable connection to everything. I could feel it in my body, I was fully stitched into the fabric of the universe, and as I walked toward the other candles, I felt my heart expand. From the other light comes my own. I lighted my candle from another already burning. Tears streamed down my face, and even though I offered no formal prayer, I offered myself to the experience, to this white light burning in a little cave-church. The candle would surely burn through the entire next day as I crossed the Pyrenees into Spain.

***


June 19, 2004
(First Day, St-Jean to Roncesvalles)

The hardest day of my life. Up at 5:30 a.m. Dark, rainy. Breakfast with Adine, she’s been to Las Vegas. Her brother is dead. Camilo wanted to go alone, I left after. Tears upon leaving Adine’s. Tears at the Port d’Espagne. Lots more tears all day.
Dragonflies, slugs, black and big as mice, lizard, small, black and yellow. Sheep, cows, horses, all free. Fog, fog fog.
Many others, all passing me. Beatrice, walking from Lausanne. Vim, a jovial, tall man from Holland, he caught me singing! Christine, from Toronto, and Antonio, from Italy: my angels, they saved me from the rain and fog by the invisible virgin statue. Walked together a very long way. Semma from Spain, studying yoga in India. Aeveen, gentle soul from Ireland, older woman, no preparation, carrying a lot of stuff, but she is wise in her understanding of tears. Stefano, my Roncesvalles bunk companion, Italian, speaks every language, walked the Camino four times. Many, many others with so much energy and creativity and vision.
Cold. Rain felt like sleet. Everything soaked, very nearly. Sobbing at Col de Bentana. My angels waited up ahead. Sobbing many other times. Tears, joy, anger, inferiority, self hate. No humor, no understanding, no love, no eyes. No good.
Trees in fog, sheep in fog, path in fog, cliffs in fog. Occasional passing. Saw St. Jean at clearing. Uphill was awful. The cold made my lungs burn. Anger, frustration, suffering. All of it is suffering. Self-imposed.
Arrived in Roncesvalles at the Pilgrim Office at 5:00 p.m. Almost eleven hours.
Many thoughts. People at home. Michael.
My song: “this is as hard as it gets.”
Mud, water, mud, collapsing in the wet mud. The stick was so useful for that. Pack problems, plenty of water, no time for food, only two power bars and a handful of nuts.
Mossy rocks, big trees, trees of the ancient world. Crosses.
Mass, Pilgrims’ Blessing. Dinner. Potato soup, bread, french fries, peach yogurt. A sip of wine from Navarra. So good. I feel a touch of sickness. From the rain and cold and crying.

***

June 20, 2004
(Roncesvalles to Larrasoana)

Rain. Again. Walked in light rain to Burguete for breakfast. Met up with Semma at the bar. Walked together all day.
Dark clouds. Blue cloud-speckled sky. Cold. Almost became warm. Rain cleared by mid-morning and sun by mid-afternoon.
Lovely, lovely forests. Some muddy and damp closer to Roncesvalles, and drier toward Zubiri. Very rocky path! Big, gnarled, mossy trees. Some moderately steep climbs. Hard, especially because of chest congestion. Very tight lungs.
Semma, swami training in India. Much difficulty. Should have stopped at Zubiri, but the hostel was full. On to Larrasoana, lovely town. Played flute in square in Zubiri and Larrasoana.
Very demanding mentally and physically. Tears. Semma waited every time. I felt very guilty to slow her first day down.
Feelings of weakness, inadequacy. So slow. Can I do this? Felt so unwell. Negativity. Unable not to react. Tired. Cried. What have I gotten myself into? This is only day two. Moments of joy, too, but not predominant. I feel like crap. So hard walking this much.

***

June 21, 2004
(Larrasoana to Pamplona)

Today, day three. I am seated by a peaceful stream, in the dappled shade of a lovely forested area of the Camino. Today, my easy day, is only 12.6 miles all the way to Cizur Menor. Maybe I’ll stop before. Depends on the day. It was very cool this morning. I slept until 7:30 a.m. Took my time getting ready, and the pack doesn’t feel too heavy today. It feels good on my back. In Pamplona, things must go!
My sickness is passing. A bit of sniffling, coughing, sneezing. Walked alone, easily. Up until today I’ve either felt bad to be passed by so many people or desperately trying to keep up. Afraid to be alone? Yes. Especially on day one. Yesterday, because of sickness. Today, I have no expectations of myself. I know that keeping anything but my natural pace is a bad idea. If others end up with me, fine. If I’m alone, also fine. It’s beautiful, partly cloudy blue sky, sun, cool. I finally feel happy.

***

Walking, not bad. Ankles tired mostly. Hills were easier and I really took my time. Some stretches with bare hot sun. Sometimes narrow track, but not as narrow as yesterday. I fell once, tried to let a group pass, but when I stepped off the path into the grass, there was no ground! I went straight down and hit my forehead on the ground, my pack crashing on top. It’s a bit sore now. Five Spanish men rushed to my aid, helping me up, lifting off my pack, commenting on how heavy it was. The gave me water and medicated my scraped knee. They were so nice to me. Who needs language? The Camino is clearly stronger than any language barrier. Especially among the pilgrims.
A lot of anger and hostility emerged today, mostly as a result of encounters with two groups: ten cyclists and a troop of Spanish boy scouts. The cyclists kept getting on and off, wanting to pass, then stopping, and with the narrow track, that was irritating. The boy scouts were worse. Four men, eight boys. Packs on, packs off. Stop, go, pass, linger. For nearly half the day this went on. I eventually took a long break to give them enough distance so that I wouldn’t see them again. Why did they bother me so much? This stop and go was the same thing I was doing yesterday with Semma.
Many beautiful, pastoral places. Lovely river, many incredible medieval bridges. On the outskirts of Pamplona I wandered down the road and was greeted by Aeveen calling to me from the second story window of a restaurant. How odd to hear my name called in a foreign, brand new place! I joined them for lunch.
Decided not to stop in Trinidad del Arre, but to go on into Pamplona, an hour further along the road. Very tired during this. In entering the city, there were enormous fortified walls and a drawbridge. The fortified walls must have been more than 200 feet high. I was too tired to really enjoy photographing it. I found the albergue easily, the word was painted on the cobblestone road in yellow, with yellow arrows pointing the direction. The place was housed in the second floor of a convent, a beautiful, huge place. Nuns in gray dresses with their hair covered wandered all around.
Pamplona observations: music everywhere. Lots of people in the streets. Pigeons. Lots of cars, big ones with four doors. People yelling at children. Beautiful from within the streets, not from afar. Many colors, beautiful old buildings.
Each day, I’m approaching a point of near explosion. Crying. Screaming. A strange feeling of discomfort around my heart. At first I thought it was just my pack pulling my shoulders and stretching my chest, and surely that’s happening. But this is much stronger. It’s excruciating, painful, and it radiates into my solar plexus, too, and always intensifies at points of extreme exhaustion.

***

June 22, 2004
(Pamplona to Puente la Reina)

Left Pamplona around 8:00 a.m. The lighter pack was nice! Generally, Pamplona was very tense and busy and not very friendly. I arrived today in Puente la Reina at 5:15 p.m.
The first half of the day was very hard. Hot sun, little shade. Cizur Menor, had tea with the French pilgrims and their burros. Up to Zariquiegui, and then up, up, up to Alto de Perdon. Tears. Sobs. Why am I here? I’m not strong enough. What have I gotten myself into? Everyone passing me by. I’m so slow, I’m never going to make it. At the top of the Alto, I sat in the shade. The wind was so strong, in part from the wind turbines.
On the way up, there were many beautiful flowers, strong, short trees, a green snake, some ruins in the distance. Fields of grain. All the time, the wind turbines on the horizon. I was completely closed to receiving all that beauty.
I stayed a long time at Alto del Perdon. Very tired, resting in the shade. The boy scout troop showed up, and they asked me to photograph them all together. I happily obliged, and that was the end of my irritation toward them. End of a strange barrier. Also, a man in a car saw me putting on my sandals to walk. He got out of the car to come over, and told me that I shouldn’t walk in my sandals. Never in Navarra. In Castillo, it’s fine. I almost ignored his words, but I’m glad I listened. The rocks were very loose and the path was rough.
On the way down, I got into a bit of a groove, and before I knew it, I was in a town and could see other pilgrims on the horizon. The first town was Uterga, completely deserted, but with a wonderful cool fountain in the center square. Cool water plus hot, tired feet equals bliss! I put my legs in up to my knees, and filled my water bottles too. I sprawled on the ground for a while in the shade. While resting in Uterga, I flipped through my Camino guidebook and I came upon a thought written inside: don’t forget why you’re doing this! For joy, for the Divine in the world! Before leaving, I wet my hair and dunked as much of my head as I could, soaking my hat too.
After that my feet hurt less, then almost none at all. My pace picked up into a steady rhythm. At that moment, my true self reappeared. Up until then, I had been caught up in toxic, negative, whining and complaining thought. Now I’m good again. Eventually, I saw Puenta la Reina in the distance and I shouted out loud. It was a short walk away.
My toes hurt. That’s about all. My pack wasn’t too heavy. My legs were fine.
After dinner, sitting on the lawn, it was a very social evening. Several people asked me to play my flute and I improvised throughout the evening. I feel so free now. My feet hurt a bit, but here I am on the Camino! Nothing to do but walk, sleep, and be. I rolled around in the soft grass, looking at stork nests.
This if finally becoming a rhythm to me.
Tomorrow, to Estella.

***

June 24, 2004
(Estella to Los Arcos)

A very difficult morning. Sick feeling in my stomach. Up just after 5:00 a.m. My bed was in the hallway. Left by 6:00 a.m. Tears almost immediately. Slow walking, painful feet. No joy. People passing. Feeling worse. Sarah and Hannah, a mother and daughter from the States, passed me while I was sitting on a stone. Sarah told me to cry and let it out.
Christine, my angel from day one, came through next, and offered to wait and walk with me. I told her to go on. I went to a more secluded rock in the forest and began to sob. Why? I felt sick. Not just my stomach, but my spirit. I felt like my whole being was contracting. A third pilgrim came over and asked if I was meditating. Jessica, an American I met in Estella. I said no, and pulled myself together to walk. Beautiful forests, flowers, trees, but no joy.
Eventually I met up with Jessica and we walked and talked together, through fields, hillsides, a lavender field. Jessica inspired me to think about why I’m here. What’s the point? Not just getting from one place to another.
Then I saw the light!
I changed into my sandals as I walked out of town and was greeted by a man working in his garden. My step was light. The afternoon was hot, but with clouds and a breeze. I sang out loud for at least an hour. Thanks to Jessica, my angel for today.
A couple small breaks. I dug into some shade under a scrub tree. I had made it almost all the way to Los Arcos when a car pulled up beside of me and Jessica jumped out, holding a bottle of cold water. She had been worried about me, and found a man to come and find me! When the ride showed up, I was only one kilometer away.
Los Arcos has an amazing church, and in the center courtyard, the most amazing rose garden. This was the first day that I arrived in time for an afternoon nap.

***

June 25, 2004
(Los Arcos to Viana)

I am in Viana, Navarra, outside the albergue in the ruins of a glorious old church. Unbelievably beautiful. And this evening I’ve been able to give to others, as so many people have given so generously to me.
Jessica, my American pilot friend, was having foot pain, and I gave her a foot massage as we were sitting at a bar. I think it really helped her. The two of us and another pilgrim, Masako, from Japan, wandered around town a bit, looking for someplace to have dinner. Earlier, we had all smelled someone cooking garlicky pasta, and decided that we would cook dinner ourselves. We made simple pasta with tomato sauce and sautéed garlic, along with fresh bread, local cheese, and wine. For dessert, Jessica found creme puffs at a local bakery, which we devoured along with ice cream. It was a wonderful meal shared with wonderful people.
We all went to the Pilgrims’ Mass, which was the first full-length Mass that I had ever attended. It was entirely in Spanish. I understood virtually nothing. When there was communion, everyone went forward, and I decided to go too. What an odd thing, communion! But the space and intentions of the ritual did, in fact, feel sacred. The younger of the two priests, in his green robes, placed the circular disc in my mouth. At the end of the Mass, the older priest called up all pilgrims for a special blessing. Again, I understood little, but the energy, the intention was very strong. I was moved by feeling this man’s genuine enthusiasm toward our journey.
After exploring the interior of the church, I found Jessica and Masako lingering near the entrance. Jessica asked if I’d like her to pray for me for tomorrow, and I said sure. The three of us held hands, and she spoke of our walking and of our difficulty, and of the safety and honor given to pilgrims. The energy between us as we grasped hands felt very whole and as we held on tighter, I felt the sacredness of the space around us, and the space we were creating. Tears poured down my face, and when the prayer was finished, we all embraced. I’ve only known these people for a day or so, but I feel so much sincerity and love between us. On the Camino, it doesn’t seem to matter how long you know someone at all, the connections are deep.
Outside the church, Masako began to cry, and I did too, and we all embraced again. I love these people so much. That’s what this path is all about. To take the hand of a person, to simply love them. What could make more sense, and yet what is more rare in our modern world?
The way to Viana was long and hot. Forests, some good shade, olive trees, almond trees, snails in the path. Many fields of wheat. Very hot. I wore a sarong around my shoulders to block the sun from burning me any further. I was in good spirits for most of the day, until the last few kilometers before Viana. That’s when I slowed down again on the last hill. Very hot. Hungry, but didn’t feel like eating. Chills on my scalp, sick stomach. Again, I began to cry. Partially out of exhaustion, partially out of feeling lonely, partially just because of feeling overwhelmed by the heat.
Two voice emerged: first, the crying, whimpering child. It’s hot, I’m tired, I can’t do this. Second, the tough, angry adult. Shut up the whining.
I tried to observe the dialogue, the whole thing was out loud, not just in my head. This dialogue is a strong pattern emerging. The crying is never small, and never limited to a few tears. It’s sobbing that comes up from my gut, spasmodic contractions. I have to let it come. But then, that’s the point of this journey. It is most intense.
Eventually I found Masako and Jessica collapsed in the path, half-asleep and beat. Tear-streaked and equally exhausted, I joined them. Some napping. We eventually walked into town.
I have walked for seven days now: St. Jean to Roncesvalles to Larrasoana to Pamplona to Puente la Reina to Estella to Los Arcos to Viana. It’s getting easier. Today I walked all day in my sandals. A good plan.
Tomorrow, I pray for openness and tolerance and gentleness with not only the others that I encounter, but also with myself.

***

June 26, 2004
(Viana to Navarete)

Today from Viana to Navarete, by way of Logrono. A very hard day. Lots of tears, sobbing. But the feeling is more of exasperation than desperation today. So, so hot. Today is day eight.

***


Regarding Logrono

I awoke on the middle tier of a three-tiered bunk bed. It was very early, but I was one of the last people remaining in the refugio. After my usual morning ritual of washing my face and brushing my teeth, I hit the dusty road. The last of the rolling hills had disappeared the day before, and what stretched out before me was a vast expanse of dry, cracked earth and wheat fields. The day’s journey would take me from Viana through the city of Logrono, the second of five large cities on the Camino.
My companions Jessica and Masako had awakened at 4:00 a.m. to walk in the dark, hoping to avoid the grueling heat of the afternoon sun. Though the idea was tempting, I knew that my body needed sleep. They were hours ahead of me as I made my way out of Viana onto the parched track.
After a while, I approached several picnic tables by a small stream. I dropped my pack to the ground and sat for a while. A few other pilgrims passed by as I rested. I had walked about two kilometers, and Logrono was only ten kilometers away. Not too bad. Just as I was getting ready to walk again, a man approached me. He was in his forties and wore a pink shirt and overalls. He spoke to me in Spanish, and when my blank expression revealed my lack of comprehension, he spoke to me in English. Did I know that all of the signs to Logrono were wrong? The actual distance to the city is much further than the signs suggest. I nodded, thanked him for the information and began walking, not really thinking much of it.
The man in the pink shirt walked very quickly, and he was out of sight in minutes. I ambled forward, enjoying the morning hours. Walking was pleasant during the morning. Not too hot, not too crowded, and my body hadn’t yet taken on the day’s misery of thousands of footsteps and a heavy pack. Logrono couldn’t be that far away, regardless of the signs. I had been able to see the city from the gardens behind the refuge in Viana.
The Camino snaked along fields, turning here, turning there. The city became visible in the distance. In a while, I came upon the man in the pink shirt again. He was kneeling beside a trail marker. Attached to the concrete pillar was an engraved slate of plastic announcing the distance to Logrono, and he was attempting to pry the plastic away from the post. He asked me if I had a knife or other sharp tool. I declared that I did not, though I had a pocket knife in my backpack. There was something about this man that I didn’t trust. He seemed a bit unstable. There was something in his eyes, his body language. There was no way I was going to give my pocket knife to an apparent nutcase.
Perhaps he was just a farmer with too much time on his hands, and he was obsessed with this bit of the Camino. But having grown up in an era of slasher movies, my first reaction was one of caution. Sure, he seemed harmless. He was probably just a do-gooder trying to make sure all the information on the Camino was accurate, but what a good cover for a serial killer! The Kilometer Killer. He would hover beside mislabeled sign posts for days, trying to fix them, to no avail. His frustration would mount, he would develop a nervous twitch in his face, and as he kneeled beside the post, scratching away at it with his bare hands, he would finally snap. Then, he would wait for an unsuspecting pilgrim to walk by and ask to borrow her knife. It would have to be a woman, because he wasn’t a large man and would need to be able to dominate and kill her quickly. As the woman would offer him the knife, he would knock her out. She would be discovered later that day draped across her backpack, her hands and feet bound, her throat slit, and the correct, much higher, number of kilometers would be carved into her bare back: It’s 15 kilometers to Logrono. The sign is wrong...
I picked up my pace to get away from him as quickly as possible. The road stretched on and on, and the pleasantness of the morning began to develop a rough edge. Ten kilometers from Viana to Logrono. That’s three hours at even my slow pace, and I had already been walking for more than two hours. As the landscape gradually changed from wheat fields into the outskirts of the city, the dirt track became paved. I decided to take a break. I had become accustomed to stopping in the first village of the day for breakfast, and that clearly wasn’t going to happen. I dug into my pack and found the crushed remains of a baguette and some rounds of cheese. After breakfast I walked for another thirty minutes before I entered the urban jungle of Logrono. Clearly, the man in the pink shirt had been onto something about the kilometers. How quickly I had chosen to distrust him.
On the fringes of the city, I wandered down the dusty road as it passed between wastelands of weeds and litter. A few ramshackle buildings appeared on the right. As I approached, I realized that these shacks were houses. Corrugated roofs and chain link fences decorated the dilapidated structures, and there were mangy, disgruntled dogs barking everywhere. Perched in front of one of the houses was a small table. I remember that there was shade, but I can’t recall if it was provided by an umbrella or trees. The woman behind the table smiled at me. She had cold beverages for sale as well as a large lined book and a stamp. “Sello?” she offered. I gladly accepted her stamp, signing my name and country to her book, and continued along the path. It was several months before I realized that I had encountered the famous hospitality of Felisa, a woman who had been greeting and attending to the needs of pilgrims at the edge of Logrono for years. Felisa herself had passed away several years before, but another woman, perhaps her daughter, had kindly taken over her role. It is rumored that Felisa kept records of pilgrims’ signatures for decades. What a blessing it was that I left the albergue late that morning. When I spoke to Masako later that day, she told me that she had not met anyone on her the way into the city. Felisa’s hospitality apparently begins at a more reasonable hour!
The dusty road led to a sidewalk, and a large bridge led across the river into the main part of the city. There was a tourist office on the left just before crossing the bridge. I entered, and the woman inside gave me a map. In broken English, she showed me where the Camino wound through the city. By the time I was wandering the narrow, cobblestone streets, I had already approached my threshold of exhaustion, both physically and emotionally. I had been told that the Logrono Cathedral was a sight to behold, and that it was frequently overlooked by pilgrims. I had hoped to find it, but in the city, I became disoriented. There were many large churches, and my mind was reeling. I couldn’t seem to comprehend the small map I had been given. I entered a nearby church, and felt instantly enveloped in its cool darkness. An old woman glanced up at me as I entered. She wore a full dark skirt and was bent over near the entryway, mopping the floor. Many of the benches had been moved, and I felt like an intruder with my bulky backpack and filthy shoes. I walked quickly through the church and made my way back to the street. I briefly encountered two Spanish girls I had met before, and though they pointed me in the direction of the cathedral, I never found it. Along the way, I discovered another beautiful church. Above the grand entryway was a giant carved statue of Santiago Matamoros, which is the image of Santiago riding a horse, purportedly assisting the Christians in driving the Moors out of Iberia. This is an image that I regard with great suspicion. I find it difficult to believe that any true saint or enlightened being would assist humanity in any struggle to dominate and kill, even in the name of religion. My feelings aside, the image was beautiful in its detail, and I entered the church.
Nothing in all the books I had read prepared me for the comfort and peace I would find in churches along the Camino. I loved the deep quiet, the delightful dark coolness, the feeling of sanctuary from the rest of the world that awaited within those doors. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t Christian. In fact, religion seemed to have very little to do with the peace I found within churches, from tiny chapels to the grandest of cathedrals. Churches provided a resting place for the weary, a safe place to experience an enormity of emotional release, a sacred space in which to meditate, and a home to beautiful religious artwork dating back hundreds of years. Most of the churches I’d been in at home had none of these qualities. Most of all, American churches are rarely open all the time, providing sanctuary to anyone who needs a place to just be. But along the Camino there were so many churches, it was one of my few regrets that I couldn’t spend time in each one. This church in Logrono was one of the most peaceful sanctuaries on my path.
I walked into the church and found only one other person there, a man in his fifties, praying near a statue of the Virgin Mary. He held a rosary, and prayed in whispers, his eyes tightly closed. I walked over to the benches quietly so that I wouldn’t disturb his worship. I unstrapped my pack and removed my shoes. The only sound was the man’s whispering. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since I had meditated properly, probably since I was in St. Jean Pied-de-Port before beginning the Camino. The sound of my own breath mingled with the man’s prayers, kneeling and standing and kneeling again. I was gradually restored to a feeling of balance and calm. I sat in the church for nearly an hour, and then made my way out into the light of the midday sun.
Re-entry into the world was shocking. The streets were bustling, business were open, and a camera crew was set up, filming pilgrims as they passed. For the nightly news? A documentary? Spanish tourism? I felt certain that I needed to get out of the city as quickly as possible, and I soon found the yellow arrows. I stopped briefly at a smoky bar on my way out of town to order black tea with sugar. This part of the city was much newer, and cars and people zoomed around. Even before noon, men were ordering liquor and chain smoking. Many of them glanced over at me with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. I felt completely out of place as a pilgrim in this modern world. Even with my high-tech gear, my journey felt completely removed from the world of business and commerce. I felt small and awkward, and after using the toilet I left. I passed by shops and car dealerships and climbed up a small hill to a sprawling city park. From the top of the hillside, all of Logrono sprawled out below. I felt grateful to be leaving the urban madness and tears streamed down my face. I heaved my pack onto the ground and flung myself down beside it. The day hadn’t been too bad, really, but I was already in tears! Would I ever make it all the way across Spain? My spot in the grass was in the shade, and the well manicured lawn was soft and inviting. Leaning across my pack, I cried myself into a fitful, restless sleep.
I awoke after dozing for about an hour. I felt shaky and disoriented. I looked at my guidebook. Another ten kilometers to Navarete. I told myself that I could certainly make it that far. I struggled to strap my pack onto my back, and set off. The park was full of people lounging about. I followed the paved path through the lawns and trees. On my way out of the park, I noticed a man in a red Speedo bikini. His back was to the path and he was clearly urinating, which surprised me because of the openness of the surroundings. Then, to my greater surprise, the man turned around to the path, still urinating. The expression on his face was one of pure enjoyment. Though I generally feel that Europeans are more comfortable with their bodies and sexuality than Americans, this man’s behavior was completely inappropriate. He was an exhibitionist, and the second pervert I encountered on the Camino.
The rolling lawns receded, and the Camino meandered through fields. On the left, the path was lined with trees. Though they were merely saplings, six feet tall, the spots of shade that they provided were great blessings. Feeling so grateful for their presence and the pools of shade they offered, I decided to thank each tree as I passed. It became a moving exercise for me. With each small tree and each offering of thanks, I became more and more aware of just how much we take trees for granted. In America, we have hundreds of city, state, and national parks, nature preserves, and wilderness areas. But every day we plow down beautiful stands of trees for the sake of building new housing subdivisions or strip malls. How would my country’s powerful leaders feel if they were the ones walking this long road across Spain? Would they feel delicious relief in the perfect shade of a sapling? Would they consider the tremendous importance of nature and the balance of our ecosystems? After a week as a grubby, hot, exhausted pilgrim, they would most likely be feeling much like me, ready to kiss the roots of every beautiful tree on earth not only for their inherent beauty, but also the perfect shade they offer, while asking for nothing in return. I thanked every tree, and eventually they became fewer and farther between. I continued along the path in the blistering sun.
The shade began to dwindle. I took a break at the last fountain on the paved, tree-lined path. Then the day became very hard. So damn hot, so little shade. Open vineyards, wheat fields, the heat waves dancing over them. I began to cry and shout out loud, timidly at first, then at the top of my lungs: Why am I here?! What the hell am I doing to myself? Self-imposed heat torture! I fucking hate heat! As my frustration reached the snapping point, I threw my stick and backpack to the ground with great force.
Just when I felt that I’d never make it, signs of civilization appeared. Then I came across a chain link fence filled with crosses made of twigs. How beautiful and perfectly placed they were, just when I felt like I couldn’t go on. I was so moved by these symbols, all made by other suffering pilgrims. I’m suffering, but so is everyone else! How selfish of me to whine and howl. We are all feeling a lot of the same things here.
Then an epiphany struck me, my new mantra: It’s not when my suffering ends, but when I cease to identify with that suffering that I will find joy.
I arrived in Navarete and got the last bed at the albergue. After a shower, I went with Masako to the bar next door, sitting there until dinner and ended up having dinner there too. We were joined by an old man, Jose, a pilgrim who spoke no English. He told us that he had walked the Camino twenty seven times! He had made his own stamp, and issued us stamps, as well as handing me a photocopy of an article about him. He talked the whole afternoon, though we understood nothing, and sipped wine from his pigskin bota.
Late in the afternoon there was a wedding in town. A few people walked by in formal clothes and the bride and groom lit their cigarettes. Everyone applauded as they walked through the tiny town. This must have been the celebration of the year in Navarete.
The predominant feelings today were strong and filled with exasperation. I was ready to quit. It’s so hard. My need for completion, my determination, my pride, all were burned to a crisp in the hot afternoon sun. I seriously considered today what would be required if I decide to quit. I can quit. Or I can walk as much as I can at my own pace and go far as I can. It is not important that I reach any goal. The Way itself is the only goal!

***


June 28, 2004
(Najera to Santo Domingo de la Calzada)

Yesterday I walked to Najera with Christine from Toronto. Nice pace, and nice to share her company. We stopped at a lovely stream just outside of town and put our feet in. The water was so cold! Wonderful! We sat for quite a while and talked. Wild mint was growing on the banks of the river. Mmm... As we walked into town, we were greeted and given a map to the albergue by a man in long priest’s robes. What a welcome! Dinner at a restaurant with Christine, Masako, and an older German woman, Frauke. While there, we met people from the U. S., who were seated at the next table. Bev and Monica from Arizona, sisters. Christian, from Baltimore. Also, two English women, Gemma and Claire. It turns out that Christian and I have several acquaintances in common, and his brother owns the bar in the town where I live. Yes, it’s a small world.
On our way back home after dinner, a fiesta was beginning. A band made its way down the street, and Masako and I were pulled into dancing with several Spanish men. They twirled us around and tried to buy us drinks. We laughed all the way back, and stumbled into bed.
Today, to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Staying at the Cistercian Monastery albergue. I’m very sleepy but want to write and stay awake to attend Mass. This place is so lovely, a bit run down, but it’s in an ancient convent. There are nuns living across the courtyard. One was washing a window earlier.
This morning when I began to walk, it was dark, but the first light of day was appearing. I walked through wheat fields and vineyards and past an amazing cemetery with a fantastic Roman archway. It was too dark to really see much or photograph anything. Sunrise was remarkable! The rosy morning light cast a beautiful glow on the loose red soil. Deep blue shadows in the dusty red. I stopped for breakfast by a stop sign near Ventosa. Bread and cheese.
There were interesting small rock pillars along the path, rocks piled in stacks by pilgrims, every size every shape. Cairns, that’s what they’re called. I made two myself. I also noticed as I walked that many vineyards have roses planted at the end of each row.
Today was not too hard a day. Met up with the girls from Arizona and Christian, and met Tom from Denmark. Talked with Monica as I walked, and shared my epiphany from the other day, that my hope was not to escape the suffering, but to learn not to identify with it.
The temperature stayed lovely, and the kilometers flew by. One big hill. Masako, Bev, Monica and I all met up there once more, chatting as we walked.
On the last stretch, we played games. Silly ones and singing ones. Laughing, fun. The town of Santo Domingo was in sight before we knew it. My feet were killing me, and Masako and I crashed on the sidewalk beside of a potato processing factory. I think we were offered a ride into town by the driver of a semi-truck. We were also offered all the potatoes we wanted from a pile that was more than ten feet high.
This evening I wandered by the Monastery, and heard chanting inside. Vespers? One nun was leading, surrounded by other nuns, and the people in the aisles were chanting back. Santa Maria something or other. It was entrancing at first, the drone of voices, but became dull after a while. Not ecstatic at all. The women’s faces were stoic, not enraptured.
Wandered to the Cathedral, same chanting continued there, even less inspired and led by a priest. Mass also seemed uninspired. Maybe because I’m tired. I didn’t take communion, it seemed like a sick symbolic ritual tonight. After the Mass, there was a discussion about Santo Domingo and a pilgrim’s blessing. It turned out to be a dissertation, in Spanish, of course. I was falling asleep and left.
My feet were hurting so much on the way into town. I’ve noticed that the real suffering comes close to my destination at the end of the day’s walking, often when the town is in sight. I was feeling whiny and angry. I argued a bit out loud with myself about it, in fact.

***

June 29, 2004
(Santo Domingo to Belorado)

Today, day eleven. Santo Domingo to Belorado. Slept well, woke up at 5:00 a.m. and was ready to go by 5:45, but the front door was locked. Spent the time reorganizing my backpack until the doors were opened at 6:15 a.m. In the next town, the church was open. Very simple and beautiful and cool. Storks nested in the bell tower. I lighted a candle there. Antonio was there, reading a bible and praying. There was a ceiling carving that really caught my attention: a flat, round, smiling face of the sky. It made me smile. There was also a stone basin filled with holy water, and I touched my fingers into it. I left town feeling very happy.
Walked to the next town, Redecilla. The church was open, and with Antonio and Masako, went in. The space was peaceful. There was a famous baptismal font there, a huge stone-carved basin. The space was cool and wonderful. I went outside to get my flute from my backpack. I hadn’t played in any of the churches along the Camino and this would be my first. Antonio was reading to himself from the pulpit, and when he went to sit down, I began to play. I felt so inspired! It sounded amazing in the incredibly resonant stone space. I played from my heart and the music came out of me like a force. When I finished playing, tears streamed down my face. I felt so peaceful.
As I walked on, the heat began to kick in. I walked more slowly to the next little town. The heat began to make me feel sick and negative. I took a break at a fountain in the shade. The cool water on my hands and wrists was so good. Someone dumped water on my head, too, which felt great!
From there, not far to Belorado. The heat was intense, but it had been worse days ago. I felt sick, beaten down, and began to cry. Again. I walked behind Masako a bit so she wouldn’t see me crying, but eventually she turned around and saw me. She was so wonderful, smiling and patting me on the back, assuring me that it would be okay, that I would make it. I felt so stupid and weak. Finally, I sat down, sobbing out of exhaustion and heat, and lack of food. Masako joined me as I took a break, and though I told her not to wait for me, she did.
We walked on and on. Belorado was hidden around a curve of the tall hills, and we finally saw some buildings. As Masako and I entered town, an older woman heard us talking and asked us, “will you stay here in Belorado?” We said yes, and she graciously welcomed us to the town. It was touching how she said it, a gesture of kindness, and it made me want to cry again, but I was already too dry. She was a representative of the albergue and as we entered, she pulled over chairs for us to rest upon as she checked our credencials.
The same thing is killing me every day: being almost there. That’s when I panic, cry, scream, crash. Seeing a town at the end of the day brings it on. Even when the walking is easy. Flat, good paths today. No major hills. Feet were pretty good. And still this mental wall. When will it fall away, or when will I go through it?
Dinner with a whole group of pilgrims. A huge table, wonderful, fun camaraderie. Afterwards, Monica, Claire, Masako and I decided to trek up the hill to the town’s ruined castle. Very old, it really looked more like a rock formation than a castle. The others went further up the hill, past the castle, but I stayed in the ruins and pulled out my flute and I played while sitting in the tall grass. The sun was setting, and the entire town, visible down below, glowed in the warm sunset. The tile roofs looked even redder than before, and the rolling Castilian plane stretched off into the horizon.

***

June 30, 2004
(Belorado to San Juan de Ortega)

Walked from Belorado to San Juan de Ortega. Slept well, but not long enough. Hot when I went to bed, but awoke at 3:00 a.m. freezing. Up at 5:00 a.m. I was really dragging, too. My feet hurt a lot, and putting on my boots was excruciating. Damn them, my too-small boots.
I misread my map and thought we’d be in Villafranca sooner than we were. I was way off. I really tried to think less about destination and more about walking. Whining, complaining, pain, suffering. Masako walked ahead of me, quite a bit ahead. I began to feel negative. Kept trying not to be attached to the pain of my feet. It really wasn’t so bad. I kept thinking that, trying to convince my self, the pain in my feet isn’t bad, my pack isn’t heavy.
Alone again. Always, this feeling of being abandoned. The first part of walking was quite easy, but I had pretty much decided to give up for the day in Villafranca. Entering town, there were so many big trucks, and the Camino was along that main street - very noisy, the energy was so scattered. I walked straight to the church, and went in, removing my boots. The cold stone floor felt so good under my feet, so cool. I got out my flute, walked to the rug at the front of the church, and began to play. It rejuvenated me so much that I decided to keep walking.
I headed on my way, and began trudging uphill. Soon there were trees and shade, and lovely purple and yellow flowers. The trees were Holm oak, with fuzzy soft leaves. The “huge” hills weren’t bad. I was slow and steady, and got a good pace going, too. Walking in sandals felt much better. So much beauty at the top of Montes de Oca. It was hot, but always a breeze, and even though I was walking in the sun, there was almost always the possibility of shade. I stopped to rest several times, and during one of these breaks, stretched over my backpack and napped under the shade of a pine tree.
Deeply dry, cracked earth, pine needles, the rest of the forest, pine. I really enjoyed the walk, my feet were good, my pack was light, and I enjoyed the walking itself without caring about the destination. It would come when it would come. Those twelve kilometers flew by! Finally, the signs of a town appeared, and before I knew it, I entered San Juan de Ortega. I was greeted by Masako and Monica, who were beside the community fountain washing their laundry the old fashioned way. I got the last bed in the albergue, once again.
This town, this day, a good vibe. I wished that I could've gone into the church. It had a great vibe, simple but strong. I’m happy here, this little hamlet in the middle of the fields of grain and flowers has really good energy. My heart feels very open. I enjoyed spending time with Claire and Gemma, too, their energy is calm and grounding.
My prayer is to keep this joy tomorrow, that my feet will stay happy, that my brain will stay relaxed. When I entered town today I was happy, not complaining, whining, and driven to be done. I pray for joy and easy walking tomorrow.

***

July 1, 2004
(San Juan to Burgos)

I started out walking in the dark. Two stars were still visible high in the sky. More walking through beautiful old forest, definitely a forest with creepy energy! Soon, I arrived at Atapuerca, a town with an archaeological site, where they’re excavating relics of a prehistoric village. I didn’t see the ruins, since they were several kilometers off the path, but there were several large old stones, dolmens, just before town. I walked off the path to touch one, absorbing its solid strength.
The little cafe in the town was amazing! I ordered tea and a fresh-from-the-oven, still warm croissant, and then an equally fresh chocolate croissant, and the chocolate was still soft and warm. The morning was very cold, and I put on my long sleeved shirt. After I ate, I continued walking alone, up a hill with beautiful wildflowers and wind and open sky. Written in stones, PAZ, along the path. The top of the hill was flat and very windy, and I could see all the way to Burgos. Down through wheat fields trimmed with bright red poppies and other flowers. Stopped in a small village bar to finally sample Spain’s famous cafe con leche, strong but very good. It gave me a lot of extra energy to keep walking quickly! I wandered through several more lovely small villages, walking strong all the way to Castanares, on the outskirts of Burgos. There the lovely day took a turn.
Lots of fast traffic. I walked over the freeway and felt physically unstable, pulled off my center by the force of the trucks speeding by. There was a sign posted, offering a longer option that claimed to avoid asphalt and factories, which I gladly took. At first it was very nice, but I ended up in a garbage dump. A man was tossing grass clippings into a pile of broken tiles and dirt. Pools of nasty water were everywhere, and disgusting smells too. It was better than being in the midst of traffic, I suppose, but still disappointing. I got lost once when the path went by an abandoned restaurant building, and I ended up back in the garbage dump at the edge of a wheat field near the very highway I’d been hoping to avoid. I had to bushwhack through the wheat field to get back to the road, reconnecting with the path. From there I began to feel more and more heartsick. Physically strong, but psychically drained. I walked through run-down communities, past factories and car dealerships. Finally, I entered Burgos. By then, I was wishing that I had just taken a bus into town from Castanuela.
I walked through the city beside of a beautiful river with a sprawling, green promenade ... on the other side. Too exhausted and drained to enjoy it. Took a couple of breaks beside the river, each time feeling closer to tears. I was so tired that I didn’t even care to enter the heart of the city. I followed the river route directly to the albergue on the far outskirts of town. Once, a truck whizzed by and blew debris into my eyes, at that point I began to cry. Off and on for the last two kilometers, I cried, probably looking mad to passersby, talking to myself and feeling angry. I didn’t take the recommended route by the cathedral, I was too tired to care. I eventually stumbled into the albergue and took a shower, followed by a nap. In that moment, I didn’t have any desire to see the city. But then one of the hospitaleros gave out tickets for a free train that would take pilgrims into town, and I decided to go. There, we were dropped at the Cathedral.
What an amazing building! From the outside, the Cathedral looked like a giant wedding cake, the stone held such air and lightness. The place was huge and extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything that can compare with it, and I was instantly moved to tears, which I managed to hold back for the sake of others. It was so ornate, so much detail, gold, dark wood, glass in so many colors, light, crypts. My favorite room had a huge vaulted ceiling with skylights adorned with eight-pointed gold stars. Upon entering that space, tears spilled down my face. I sat there on the black and white steps and looked up. A deep serenity filled me. I felt like I was floating.

***

July 2, 2004
(Burgos to Hornillos del Camino)

Today I walked from Burgos to Hornillos del Camino. Relatively short day, 18.8 kilometers. Very cold and overcast. I was sure it would rain. Just outside of a small town, saw Bev walking with an unfamiliar woman, they were headed in a different direction than the Camino route. A shortcut. Masako and I joined them, running to catch up. We walked through nice tall grass and a forest, then along the highway. I ended up talking with the woman, Mercedes, and she shared stories of her children, and that she had almost moved to America to teach Spanish. She left us eventually, offering her e-mail address and telephone number in case she could help in any way.
On the way out of town, I wandered into a small church. I sat to enjoy the space, very sacred-feeling. There were many little old Spanish women inside, and I was just in time for Mass. When it was finished, I hoped to play my flute, but the priest and another man seemed anxious for everyone to leave, and I walked on alone.
The next town was very close, and as I approached, I was met by a nun, a tiny woman of about ninety, dressed entirely in white. She met each pilgrim with a beatific smile, and gave each of us a gold medallion attached to a blue string, an image of the Virgin Mary. I was touched by her kindness. I stopped at the town fountain to tie it onto my wrist. The whole town had a great feeling, warm and gracious.
Past that town, the Camino entered the Meseta, one of the most challenging parts of the path. Flat, huge sky, white dusty road, wheat rustling in the breeze, rocks, colorful flowers, a constant breeze. The lack of shade was no problem with the breeze, but trees were few and far between. Gentle climbing to the top, a plateau of dry wheat fields, dry hills almost salty looking. So peaceful, especially after having been in Burgos.
I was very tired from the knees down, and wanted to hurry up and get to Hornillos. I began counting my steps. Feeling like I was getting nowhere fast, I then tried to stop counting, but tapping my stick on the ground reinforced it, making me feel irritated. I finally decided to walk twice as slow as was natural. It made me feel calmer. When I arrived, I got the last mattress on the floor in Hornillos.
During dinner, I began feeling odd. My vision seemed a bit off, and I felt dizzy and lost my appetite. After dinner it was very late, and though I felt tired, I was asked to play my flute, and I agreed. We went behind the albergue and found a huge room of some sort, open on two sides, and empty. It appeared to be some kind of covered sports arena. Inside, the acoustics were wonderful. There was a man, a pilgrim, preparing to sleep there, but he didn’t mind the music. I began with an improvisation, and then played a few familiar tunes, Danny Boy and Amazing Grace. I was so happy to be playing! The sound felt huge, like in a concert hall. I felt so much better after playing. It’s a gift I can give from my heart to whoever wants to listen, and it makes me feel whole, connected.
When I went back to the albergue, it turned out that my Danish friends, Tom and Matthias, had been holding beds for a couple of people who never arrived, and I was offered a bed by the garden door instead of the mattress on the floor. There were so many blessings today! Little difficulty, much joy! Every day just gets better.

***

July 3, 2004
(Hornillos to Castrojeriz)

Today I awoke at 5:00 a.m. The morning was very cool. The funny feeling from dinner last night materialized into diarrhea. Of all the sucky things to deal with while walking.
Walked with sandals and socks today, the walking through dust with bare feet has dried them out tremendously and they’ve begun to crack and split. All day my feet didn't really hurt. I stopped about every five kilometers. Began walking up into the Meseta almost immediately. The morning light was golden, the shadows long, the breeze very cool.
En route, in one of the high pastures, a shepherd and his flock of sheep. I got closer and asked to photograph him, and he yelled “No!” and something else I couldn’t understand. I respected his wish and kept walking. His nastiness did get to me though, and I turned it over in my mind for the next hour.
Hontanas appeared like a vision from nowhere. One minute, Meseta for miles. The next, descending steeply into the village. I’d long waited for this village because of its infamous swimming pool, but left town after breakfast, the sparkling pool looking like a mirage. It was much too cold to really appreciate it.
The rest of the walk was great, warm to hot, and nice for a change since it’s been cool for days. Walking on a flat path through fields, no shade mostly. In view, a road lined with shade-giving trees. Past a few scattered ruins. Eventually the path met the shady road, and I stopped for a while to rest under a giant tree.
I began walking again, delighted under the trees. In a short distance, a large structure became visible. The ruins and archway of the Convent of San Anton. Huge and stunning ruins, with a courtyard and albergue there. I wandered in, open-mouthed with wonder, and found my companions Masako and Bev sitting in a large community room that opened onto the courtyard. It was an incredible rest stop! Beautiful old structure, and a very friendly man inside too, who stamped our credencials. I noticed a game board there, and it was a game that I had read about, Juego de la Oca. The goose game. Bev asked the man, in Spanish, about the game, and he took it out for us to play. Four players, all are geese. Two dice to roll. Move spaces around the board. If you land on a goose, advance to the next goose and go again. If you land on a bridge, go back to the previous space. Jail, lose three turns. Death, back to the beginning. The object is to get to the center and there are no losers. The game continues until everyone ends up in the center.
Entering Castrojeriz. For a town of less than a thousand people, this place sprawls! Many old ruined houses, wooden doors falling off, walls collapsing to reveal plants growing inside. Rusty old farm equipment. The town felt ancient. It was very hot until late in the day. Wandered past many hostels and hotels and bars until I found the refugio and learned that I had before they opened for the day.
Eventually, two jovial men came to open the place, and what a show they offered! They were animated and funny, speaking almost no English, but gesturing and using sound affects to make their points. Antonio, Bev, Masako and I were assigned one bed-cubicle, very cozy. The men began trying to tell us that a famous American actress had stayed there, and that she had written a book. I said, “Shirley MacLaine?” They nodded excitedly and told me that I was sleeping in the same bed that she had slept in. I was surprised and happy to know this, since she had been the initial inspiration for my journey.
Today, walking was easier and a bit faster. My brain is slowly relaxing its grip on time, slowing to the pace of walking, the speed the human body was intended to travel. I feel peaceful, open. After dinner I needed to spend some time alone, and began to feel sad. I feel like I don’t have as strong a connection with all these amazing people I’ve met here, at least not as strong as the connection they seem to have with each other. I feel separate. I don’t feel receptive.

***

July 4, 2004
(Castrojeriz to Fromista)

At around 6:00 a.m. the soft sounds of Gregorian chant began to float into the room. Antonio, sleeping in the bottom bed next to mine, sat straight up in bed, as if he was hearing things. Very funny! They turned on the lights then, too, and one of the charming men called me over to the window to see the last minutes of the full moon in the morning sky. So beautiful! Got ready to go and went upstairs for breakfast. After finishing, I went into the kitchen and washed my dishes, then those of several others who came in. When I was finished, the kind man handed me a towel to dry my hands. I hugged him, and he kissed my cheeks, wishing me buen Camino! What an extraordinarily special place! These men treated us with such great care and joy, we were all important, not just another load of pilgrims. Todo bien! That’s what they always asked whenever I’d see them, meaning ‘all good?’ I was so touched by their hospitality and kindness, it went far beyond any other that I’ve encountered since that of Adine back in St. Jean.
The day began hard. I kept pace with Masako for a while, until a huge hill appeared, and the path snaked unforgivingly to the top of the hill to enter the Meseta once again. Holy damn, it was nearly straight up! Exhausting, lung-busting, but over with quickly. At the top, took a a break, and all my companions were there. Monica gave me some medicine to help with my still-ailing stomach. Walked on through the flat, easy land. The Meseta is like a sea of wheat stretching out into the sky, so beautiful.
I wasn’t the only one stricken with stomach problems. Tom was looking pretty bad, and when I reached the next town, the others asked me to play for him. A mixed crowd of locals, our group, and other pilgrims gathered.
I finished playing and walked on before the others, out of the Meseta. Crossing hot fields. The constant breeze made it bearable. Drank lots of water, and really needed it in the heat. I was holding up well mentally and physically until I got a headache. I sat under some glorious shady pines to rest briefly and take some ibuprofen.
Finally made it to Boadilla del Camino, and considered stopping there. There was a lovely, private albergue with beautiful gardens, run by a man named Javier who played the guitar for us. Something inside told me to just stay, not to walk on to Fromista. I sat a long while, contemplating my options. I didn’t want to lose my companions. Just as I was leaving town, I noticed a large group of more than twenty teens in a circle wearing packs. They looked like they were just starting out, too. I should have followed my instinct to just stay.
I left and began my final seven kilometers to Fromista. Hot. Little shade. Dry. My mouth and throat felt swollen and my lips were very dry. I drank water almost constantly. Then the hell began. In twos, threes, fours, the teens began to pass me. Would they be staying at the only albergue in town, rumored to have fewer than fifty beds? Surely not...
I began to feel more and more irritated by the kids. Walking by, they chirped, animo, animo! Go to hell, I thought. I felt a lot of hostility and violence. All the way to Fromista, they walked by me. I walked along the Castilian Canal, murky, still water, tall grasses growing alongside. Tree lined, some shade and breeze. I felt hot, tired, irritable. I didn’t cry at least! I wandered into town, passing over the canal, an extraordinary system if not entirely beautiful. Someone was canoeing far off in the distance, past the lowest visible lock.
Into town along a busy, noisy, smelly road. Walked past a famous church, beautiful and closed. Claire called out to me, the albergue was full. I went inside, and it was completely filled with the kids. Every spot of floor was covered. No one looked like they knew what was going on. I was hot and my stomach was in dire need of relief. I went to the bar next door and met Christian and Bev. I asked the bartender where the nearest pension was, and it turned out to be right across the street, still overlooking the plaza. Nice.
I went in and was greeted. I said in my weak Spanish, “albergue completo, una, por favor.” I was led upstairs, shown where the shower was, and then to my room. The woman gave me a nice white towel. My room had two twin beds, and was very small but nice. The shower was glorious, endless hot water and a very clean bathroom. I took a long shower and made my way back to my little room. I fell onto the bed, lying there naked for a few moments, enjoying the privacy of being clean and alone. I felt a little like I was cheating, staying here, not camping out with my sleeping mat, but I was sure that I had made a good choice, especially considering my digestive distress.
Today was too long, more than twenty seven kilometers. My feet were great, as was my entire body except for my intestinal disturbance.
I found it so hard to enjoy the last seven kilometers. I didn’t feel inspired to enjoy photography, and I hardly noticed the lovely, shady, tree-lined path, canal, and flowers. I don’t want to push myself so hard. What’s the point? I want the Camino to teach me, to open me. When I am so physically taxed, all my subtle receptiveness shuts down. Most of the day was lovely. I must listen to my intuition and not surpass that point of joy. I must listen carefully to the quieter messages, the ones between breezes, written on the petals of flowers.
My sobbing and crying days seem to have passed. That was the breaking-down process. What is occurring now, then?

***

July 5, 2004
(Fromista to Carrion de los Condes)

It was so nice to wake up in a quiet private room. It was less nice to wake up to a revolution in my intestines. My stomach was truly awful, cramps, diarrhea every twenty minutes. It took me forever to get moving. I resorted to taking the Cipro that a friend from home had given me, but in the early part of the day, I still felt awful.
I found the Camino out of town. I tried to eat an apple, took three bites and felt worse. The nausea swirled and I thought I’d throw up. I tried to breathe slowly and deeply. I soon made it to the next town. From there I could figure out how to take a taxi to Carrion. There was a nice small chapel just outside of the village, I walked over but it was closed. I peeked in the old keyhole, very simple wooden benches, a plain altar, one stained-glass window, all under tall, shady trees. What a lovely peaceful place.
Entering the next town, I noticed some interesting ruins. Adobe-like structures of mud and straw, nearly all collapsed. Very American southwest looking. I walked into a bar, ordered tea, hoping to settle my stomach. I paid the bartender. He picked up my money and slammed the change back at me, giving me a nasty look. I steadily met his eyes. In his hostile Spanish, he clearly let me know that I had overpaid for my tea. I went outside to a table, upset by the man’s aggression, and began to cry. The day was very cool and gray and overcast. A few pilgrims passed by, but no familiar faces.
I continued walking. In another few kilometers, another town. The sun finally broke through the clouds. Walked along a lovely tree-lined path by the river. The day was so nice and cool, and I felt so awful. Soon, I saw a sign directing passersby to a bar selling fresh-baked organic bread. I decided to go and rest there. It was a tiny farm village. Signs pointed the way to the most lovely little village bar. Shady garden with small trees, rose bushes, flowers. Gregorian chant music was playing, surreally serene. There were two large picnic tables under a grass-roof pavilion. I sat there a long while, got out my guidebook and tried to figure out if I could make it.
I walked on, not on the main path, but along the Senda, the modern, paved path that follows alongside the Camino Highway. Journal in hand. Before leaving home to begin my journey, I had asked my friends at home to write words of wisdom inside, and I read each person’s words out loud, as well as some of my own favorite quotes, all for inspiration. I practiced throwing away each negative thought, each discomfort, each desire, each idea. I made it to the next town. I learned of a famous church there and went inside to enjoy the cool, quiet space. It was spectacular. I was the only pilgrim there, but there were many tourists. I sat quietly for a while, still considering taking a taxi.
I decided to walk the last six kilometers to Carrion. The heat wasn’t too bad, a constant breeze. The flowers were lovely, butterflies danced in the sky around me. I practiced throwing it all away. Soon I was on the edge of town. In those six kilometers, I hadn’t seen another soul on foot, only a few cyclists and a few stray cars. A very odd feeling.
I wandered into town parched. Rounding a corner, I heard my name called out. My companions were at a corner bar, and it was such a pleasure to finally see some familiar faces. I was beat and speechless, and they were all so welcoming in directing me to the albergue.
That night, we all had an incredible picnic. A huge circle of people with an impressive spread of food. Tom and Matthias from Denmark, Claire and Gemma from England, Masako, Christian, Monica and Bev, and two new friends, also from Denmark, Mette and Brigid. I was feeling so happy, like I was floating in the arms of the sky, so happy with my extraordinary Camino family.
Sad too. I expected to walk only seventeen kilometers the next day, while everyone else planned to cover twenty seven. It felt, to me, like a beautiful farewell dinner. To end the evening, I played my flute, taking requests for familiar tunes. Each piece was so emotional for me, my last gift to these beautiful people. I didn’t tell anyone goodbye. We all wandered back and I hugged my friends. I went to bed quickly to keep from sobbing in front of them. I got my book and went downstairs to write, and was soon joined by Claire, who asked, very intuitively, if they would see me tomorrow. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and I said, “probably not.” She was saddened, and sat on the chair beside me, wrapping her arms around me. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t feel that I could walk so far, struggling with my stomach as I was, and she even offered to walk slowly with me in order to keep us all together. Before I went to bed, she promised that she would write in the pilgrim logs to communicate with me. I went to bed so sad, trying not to sob out loud, so grief-stricken to leave these people, and to fall behind again. Before we parted, I asked Claire to not mention our conversation to the others until the end of the next day.
The thought of starting alone again, no familiar faces in each town, was awful. But I felt I was too slow, too tired, to keep pace with them. And tired of trying and failing to keep up with others instead of listening to myself.

***

July 6, 2004
(Carrion to Terradillos de los Templarios)

Today my Camino changed. A death, a transformation.
I awoke after a night of dreams of catching up with my Camino family, a new inspiration, a new energy. Not too late to change my mind. A fitful night of sleep. Sad. Tearful. Everyone gone. I dragged about, one of the last ones to leave. Breakfast of yogurt and a banana. My stomach was still off, but better.
I walked outside to find a heavily overcast sky, very dark and cold. I went back inside, put my rain jacket in the top of my pack, and wandered out. Alone. Alone. Alone.
I wandered toward the river, thinking that the Camino must be near there. Who did I run across by a restaurant? Monica. I asked her about her late start, and it turns out that Bev’s stomach was bad. It seemed clear to me that I’m not meant to leave these people right now. The three of us headed out of town to begin the 17.5 kilometers of unbroken road. No towns, and much of it along ancient Roman roads.
In the afternoon, Monica and I got quite a lot ahead of Bev and we decided to rest and wait under a tree. Walking at a slow pace was making Monica nuts, and she was very frustrated. Bev and I spent the last part of the day walking together, talking all the while. Just when my feet ached, my calf was contracting, my knees were quivering, we saw the town right there on the horizon. We wandered into the albergue, a lovely, peaceful haven in a town with little else.
Once arriving, I didn’t leave the albergue and garden. Matthias came over to me and asked me to play my flute, he even offered to bring it to me. With his lovely, gentle smile and manner, he brought the flute and sat down next to me on the sidewalk and I played. I’m just happier and happier to play for people. A lovely relaxing afternoon.
Just as dinner was beginning, the thunderstorm that had been brewing all afternoon broke loose. After dinner, some conversation about shadows. Monica never notices hers. Christian looks at his all the time. Matthias photographed his, and talked about the shadow being always before you on the Camino, representing your dark side, which must be faced every day. I have noticed sometimes that when staring at my shadow for long periods of time on flat land, it changes visually in its depth, in its place in relation to the ground. It seems to go beyond it.
Today was hard and I was happy. I feel like the sorrow left, the willingness to part with this family was a death, and today, walking on and transcending my mental, self-imposed limit was a rebirth. I was happy. Happy to be here, to have made it, to have crossed my own personal threshold.
Today, geographically, marks the halfway point. I will make it. I will leave in my wake much light and boundless love. I feel completely transformed.

***

July 7, 2004
(Terradillos to Bercianos)

Last night I awoke at 1:40 a.m. to the banging of hail against the ceiling, and the beginning of a phenomenal thunderstorm. Thunder, lightning, hail, wind, rain in torrents blowing sideways. Here in these flat lands, I was afraid that it could be a tornado. Lots of people got up during the night to see the storm, it was so strong that it blew open some of the windows.
I awoke with my alarm at 5:45 a.m. and the wind was whistling so loudly around the building that I decided to go back to sleep until I was awakened by the others. Everyone slept in today. We all decided to follow an alternate route today and stop for the night in Bercianos.
In the afternoon, as I was walking along, I fell to the ground. That’s so much harder a fall with a heavy pack on my back! I scraped my right knee pretty badly. A fellow pilgrim, Alexander from Germany, helped me clean the wound and then we walked on together. We made our way to the outskirts of Sahagun, passing by a tiny church where we stopped for a break. By that time, I was getting tired of his company. He was very dark, negative. By the time we parted, he had already gotten to me. I felt irritable.
I went to the church and went inside. It was nice enough, but there was something strange about the place. I sat down to meditate there, but was overwhelmed by the desire to leave, so I did. Finally, I found the main square, and my companions were all there. As I stumbled over, I was asked about my knee. In that moment, I began to laugh hysterically, and I shared with them my momentary realization: what will be next?! Every day, something else goes wrong, physically, and I just never know what will be next. So far it’s been: a cold, cough, menstruation, feet problems, blisters, headache, heat, cold, cramps, pains, scrapes ... what’s left? It just doesn’t matter. All this body malfunctioning and cleansing.
I began to feel very irritable. Everything began to bother me. My newly bandaged knee, my hat, my hair, my medallion bracelet. I felt so uncomfortable in my own skin, and my left calf began to hurt more. I was very sleepy, too. So upon reaching the split in the road on the way out of town, I decided to try to take a nap. It was so cold I couldn’t sleep. I got up from the bench and walked on.
I began to notice that the benches that line the path were placed every kilometer. Good for having a sense of distance. Bad for allowing me to mentally attach a measurement to the walking. My leg hurt more and more, and I felt pissier and pissier. I began to stab my walking stick into the ground. Hard. I felt like just screaming until I collapsed. I shouted curses a lot, and did scream out loud a couple times. I finally sat down on the last bench before the town, whimpering and crying. The bench was in a grove of trees, surrounded by lots of thistles growing to over five feet high. There was one thistle flower on the bench right beside of me. I took it and put it in my hat, trying to pull myself together.
I mustered the energy to walk into town and finally arrived at the albergue. It was an adobe house, large, on the far end of this tiny, sleepy village. There were huge storm clouds on the horizon. The hospitalero wasn’t there at the moment, so I sat and waited.
Finally, a large man, white beard, appeared and introduced himself, Jakob. He spoke to me in perfect English, registered me and told me that dinner was at 7:00 p.m. Breakfast was in the morning at 6:00 a.m. Not to shut the windows because the house was shared with the birds who flew in and out.
Most days I’m walking for so long that I hardly have any energy left over after dinner to walk around towns and villages. But dinner was extraordinary! Home-cooked by Jakob’s wife (they’re from Holland and are volunteering here). They even made a vegetarian dish for those of us who don’t eat meat. Everything was delicious: salad, fresh bread, lentil stew, and for dessert, ripe, sweet watermelon.
The town church was in ruins, and there was no priest, so Jakob led those of us who were interested in a spiritual ceremony. We all sat in the common room in a circle. Jakob’s wife lit a candle and we passed it around the circle. Each person had the opportunity to say something if inclined, and a few did. It was such a powerful feeling, to do this. I was very close to tears, feeling the intimacy of the moment. I couldn’t say anything or I would have burst into tears, especially after my difficult afternoon. I just took a deep breath, slowly in, then out, and passed the candle on. After that we all went around the circle and read a prayer by St. Francis of Assisi, line by line, in our own native languages. My line, “where there is darkness, light.” Very appropriate for my day, for my entire journey really.

***


July 8, 2004
(Bercianos to Mansilla de las Mulas)

Leaving the village was nice, so pretty with little ponds, sparkling in the morning light. I felt very inspired by the whole village of Bercianos and my experience there.
I headed out with Masako along a long stretch, thirteen kilometers with nothing. I suddenly had a muscle spasm in my upper back and neck, it was a huge, sudden, sharp pain. I found a bench and took off my pack, and it was awful. What next? Back and neck pain! I continued, even slower than usual. I stopped every two to three kilometers. I began limping from the pain in my calf, and occasionally I felt a horrible, tearing contraction of the muscles. It brought tears to my eyes. I felt weak, defeated, pathetic. But I kept walking. I knew I’d get there eventually.
As I continued, I felt completely detached from my body. I passed great castle ruin on a hill. Yet another great thing that I was too tired to appreciate. So many things slipping away, and I felt like I had given up.
I continued to stop every couple of kilometers. Ahead, I saw Masako camped out on a bench. She told me that she had lost the motivation to go on and had been sitting there for at least an hour, even though the town was in full view. We sat together for a while and eventually walked into town together. My body was so exhausted, I could feel a desperate need for rest, to just drink it up.
We arrived at the albergue and I wandered into the garden, since the office was closed. Matthias was there already! I hugged him and he asked how I was, I told him about my pain. He informed me that the old man running the place was a healer and called him over. Wolf, the healer, pulled up two chairs, motioning for me to sit, and put his hands on my leg. He worked on it for a while, until it began to rain. Later, Wolf came over and again worked on my leg and back. Reiki. I could feel the energy in my leg, popping in my toes and causing them to move involuntarily. It didn’t seem to help right away.

***

July 9, 2004
(Mansilla to Leon)

Awoke at about 6:00 a.m. and was toasty warm in my sleeping bag. I didn’t want to move and finally got up at 6:30. My calf was totally healed! Before leaving, we all decided to meet up in Leon at the end of the day. I was walking slowly, but not too slow, and felt a lot more peaceful. Yesterday, mountains became visible on the horizon. The landscape is changing again.
The Camino merged alongside a highway at one point. It was loud and stinky and draining. I felt myself being pulled toward the cars and trucks. I held the guard rail when there was one, and when the option was there, I walked in a ditch to be further from the cars. When the path finally separated from the highway, I sat on a pack to re-center myself.
I once read that if a pilgrim made it along the Camino as far as Leon, s/he would surely arrive in Santiago, and though I had overcome many doubts in my journey, I was glad to finally arrive. Leon was architecturally beautiful. My refuge was one of several in Leon, housed within a convent. Upon arriving at the refuge, pilgrims were invited to a special blessing service offered by the nuns. I had attended many other Masses and pilgrim blessings, and though I rarely understood more than a word here or there, they were usually beautiful rituals. Our curfew was 10:00 p.m., and the pilgrim blessing was scheduled to begin promptly after.
In the late afternoon, I headed toward the famous Cathedral. It was stunning, particularly on the outside. The plaza surrounding it was huge and spacious, which added to its splendor. The stone carvings were endless, depicting both beautiful religious images, and scary, wicked demons and creatures. It was fantastically intricate. Inside, the stained glass was gorgeous, with all variety of images. Nature, biblical scenes, heaven, hell. A gothic masterpiece. It must be amazing to see all the stained glass in the bright sunlight. Today, though, was an overcast day. I was unimpressed with the interior, for the most part. Much of it was gated off, and there was no remnant of sacred energy at all. I spent a bit of time in the Chapel of Santiago, which was designated “for prayer only.” Even still, people were in and out.
By the time Masako and I finished exploring the cathedral, the others were long gone. We decided to go for dinner on our own, and we found a great pizzeria. After dinner, we treated ourselves to ice cream. Somehow we ended up shopping, and it ended up being a strange experience. I didn’t much feel like looking around, I was feeling pretty negative about the whole consumer culture. I could see Masako getting into it, though, wanting to buy something. It’s the way we usually live, buying things because they’re there, or because we can. A very hard prospect while you have to carry everything on your back.

***
Nuns and Gluttony in Leon

By 9:55 p.m., a large group of pilgrims had gathered for the occasion, and we were led through several hallways into the main part of the Convent. I must admit that I have a peculiar fascination with nuns. I don’t remember when it began, but along the Camino, I became more and more drawn to nuns. I longed to be able to sit and talk with them, but my complete lack of Spanish language skills made that difficult. During the pilgrim blessing, I intently watched our Sister’s every move. She wore a traditional black dress, though not a full, heavy habit. Her hair was covered, and her wrinkled face expressed great earnestness as she spoke. She offered translations of the evening’s blessing in German, French, and Italian, but there was no English translation. I began to feel antsy. Finally, when the blessing seemed to be coming to a close, the doors to a small chapel opened. I walked over to Bev, who understood Spanish rather well, and asked what was happening. She informed me that the Sister had been talking about the proper etiquette that must be maintained during the blessing service, which would begin once we were all inside. I couldn’t believe it! The nun had rambled on for nearly half an hour and the pilgrim blessing hadn’t even started! My body was begging for sleep, but there was no escape at that point. The gates of the refuge had been locked and the only way back to the refuge was with this group of pilgrims. I was stuck.
The chapel was beautiful, adorned in rich wood paneling. In the front of the room, the Sisters of the convent were seated in long wooden benches that were divided by tall partitions, separating each Sister from the others. There were perhaps eight nuns in all, each wearing traditional black and white. The youngest ones appeared to be in their fifties, and one ancient Sister began to cough so violently during the service that I wondered if she would survive. I tried desperately to maintain my attention during the service, but exhaustion fought to overtake me. I determined that I must not fall asleep. Several of the Sisters took turns speaking during the evening, and I studied their faces carefully. They were beautiful, having dedicated their lives to service to God and humankind. They must have been equally exhausted, and yet they gave this service at such a late hour. Every day, they offered their blessing to weary pilgrims, and I was moved by their devotion.
In spite of my exhaustion, one thing that struck me deeply that night. None of the nuns appeared truly joyful and radiant. None of them seemed really happy, on fire for God. That stirred questions in the back of my mind, questions that had little chance of becoming coherent thoughts in the midst of my struggle against sleep. When the blessing finally ended, I stumbled back to my bed and fell asleep right away.

***

My alarm went off beneath my pillow, and I rolled out of bed. The room was crowded with about fifty other women, many still sleeping. I brushed my teeth and proceeded to pack up my things. Soon, Claire and Gemma were awake, and Claire began to talk about breakfast. Not pilgrim fare, which was often toast and jam, magdalenas, tea, and cafe con leche, but a real, proper breakfast. In minutes we were all nearly drooling with thoughts of pancakes and maple syrup, eggs and delectable pastries. Claire mentioned that a fellow pilgrim had told her about a hotel that served a huge breakfast buffet, and it was along the Camino on the way out of Leon. The three of us decided to find the hotel on our way out of town. I was thrilled by the idea, and left the refuge to wait for them.
I sat on a wooden bench in the convent’s stone foyer and pulled out my guidebook to prepare for the day’s walk. The route soon split into two distinctly different paths. One path meandered through the countryside and ended in a small village with one tiny refuge. With the incredible number of pilgrims we’d encountered, I figured that there was little chance of getting a bed. The other route was a few kilometers shorter, but travelled along busy highways for most of the day, ending in a village with a large, modern refuge. I read the two options over and over while waiting. Soon Monica and Bev appeared, followed by Masako. We discussed the day’s options, and Monica and Bev decided quickly to take the scenic route, regardless of the sleeping situation. Masako lingered, and Claire and Gemma finally appeared. We discussed the routes, and agreed that the shorter route and guaranteed beds sounded best. We walked out into downtown Leon, following the Camino along the cobblestone streets.
Claire had secured more information regarding breakfast, and the directions stated that the place we were looking for was the last hotel on the right side of the Camino, just before the river. We meandered along, and suddenly a glorious building appeared. I pulled out my guidebook, which spoke briefly about this marvelous structure, Parador San Marcos, which had previously been a pilgrim hospice, a monastery and a palace, but now was converted into a five-star hotel. We all stopped to admire the building’s exquisitely sculpted exterior. Suddenly I noticed that just ahead on the path was a bridge. We simultaneously realized that Parador San Marcos was indeed the hotel on the right just before the river. We looked at each other in disbelief, wondering if they would allow a pack of grubby pilgrims inside the building. Claire was determined, though, and marched boldly to the entrance.
We made our way through the front door and Claire pranced to the front desk to inquire about breakfast. The woman inspected us over the rim of her glasses and told us to leave our backpacks beside the desk. Another woman escorted us up a grand staircase. There were gorgeous sculptures and chandeliers everywhere, and I longed to walk barefoot on the plush, velvety carpet. At the door of the dining room, a snobby woman in a tuxedo told us that breakfast would cost eleven euros each, and she seemed surprised when we nodded in agreement. Pilgrims do tend to be frugal, after all. She escorted us to a table in a remote corner of the room, away from all the hotel guests who were dressed in business suits. We laughed at the dynamic contrast we offered, dressed in our simple, dirty clothes and well-worn boots.
There were five tables piled high with an endless array of delicious food. There was fresh juice, fruit, homemade yogurt, an assortment of meats, every kind of pastry imaginable, eggs, homemade bread, jam and cheese. The peach nectar was divine, the chocolate croissants melted in my mouth, and there were scrambled eggs! I had begun to believe that in Spain eggs were only boiled or fried. The four of us ate plateful after plateful, stopping only when we were nearly ill. Finally, we sat back in our chairs feeling bloated and content. We looked at each other, filled with the pleasure of our indulgence.
As we enjoyed our post-breakfast tea, I began to consider the so-called “deadly sin” of gluttony. Would this feast be considered gluttonous by the Catholic Church? After all, we were pilgrims, wandering ascetics. Was it blasphemous to gorge ourselves with decadent food from a five-star hotel during a pilgrimage? Before guilt could enter my mind, I banished the thought and returned to my tea.
By the time we left the hotel, it was nearly 11:00 a.m., an incredibly late hour to begin the day’s walking. After eating a ridiculous amount of food, we could barely move. Fortunately, we had chosen the shorter route for our day’s path. I stood outside for a few more minutes, taking in the grandeur of the Parador San Marcos, and then crossed the bridge that headed out of Leon.

***

July 10, 2004
(Leon to San Martin)

After an enormous breakfast, none of us seemed to be able to get going. There were constant stops to get this or that from the pack, to shed a layer of clothing. We dragged our way together to the first suburb and sat down for a rest. Even in a short time, walking along the highway had really thrown me off center and I felt very strange. Dizzy, ungrounded, like I would float away.
Often, the Camino was right beside the highway. It was awful, it felt like every car was going through me. After my next break, I tried to take control of my energy. The cars didn’t get to me so badly, but even still, the rest of the day was scattered with cursing and whimpering and crying. The road, the pavement was so painful to my feet. I felt defeated. Destroyed. I knew I could do it physically, but I was miserable. There could be no uglier place, no more negative route, no place more soulless. My mantra, by mid-afternoon, had become fuck, fuck, fuck! Give me beautiful hills to struggle with anytime. I’ll be getting exactly that soon enough, though.
Near the end of the day, the landscape began to change. Mountains appeared in the distance, a hovering blue haze. The walking began to follow a more natural path, and there were trees and fields of corn. A nice break from the endless fields of rustling, dry wheat. Even so, I was totally wasted from the day. Unable to smile, joyless. I wanted to do nothing else but seethe and sulk all alone, in silence.

***

July 11, 2004
(San Martin to Astorga)

I awoke at 5:00 a.m. and the albergue was foul, stinking of feet and sweat and a host of other bodily odors. It made me want to hurl. Left around 6:00 a.m. The morning was cold, and the path continued along the highway for quite a while. There were so many lovely flowers, though. The fragrance was wet and sweet and earthy, so nice after the stench of the highway. Because it was so early, and Sunday, the road wasn’t too busy, and getting away from that town was a moment of good riddance.
During the morning, Claire, Gemma, Masako, and I all walked together, more or less, and stopped briefly in Hospital de Orbigo, a lovely, quiet village with a huge, beautiful stone bridge that led across a wide river as we entered the town. Lush farm fields with irrigation canals, all nearly spilling over with water. Happy farmers everywhere. Soon, a little village appeared. Lots of old people were out and about, whistling and singing and riding bikes, calling out “buenos dias!” as I passed by. Wandering to the next village, the path snaked along hills, meandering through groves of trees, apple and pear orchards. More flowers, all so beautiful. As I entered the village, church bells began to ring. People were out in the main street sweeping away the dust, chatting merrily, greeting pilgrims that passed through. It was a beautiful small village with a clear sense of community pride. There were many well-manicured flower gardens, windows and doors were freshly painted a lovely blue. Just as I reached the town bar, I found Claire and Gemma resting outside. The church bells grew more intense, and then music began to fill the square! Hymns, old movie songs, love songs, all came pouring out of a loud speaker attached to the church. We all looked at each other and burst out laughing, trying to understand the roll of the music in this town’s Sunday morning. Then, as if the morning hadn’t already been puzzling enough, a cow walked right down the middle of the street, followed by a few dogs, one hopping on three legs. None of the people in the town seemed to notice or react in any way to the animals or the music. We reclined on the sidewalk a while longer, and eventually the villagers began to walk by us and into the church, all dressed in their Sunday finest. They were very friendly, wishing us well in our journeys. This was one of the happiest villages I’d seen so far!
I carried on, nine kilometers with no towns. There were orchards, fields of grain, and amazing flowers everywhere. The land was rolling and the soil was dusty red. How glorious it felt to be treading upon a soft, earthen path. It was beautiful; very dry, cracked earth, many flowers and dry, prickly plants, purple, yellow, all colors. I stopped for a short while, feeling inspired to photograph the place.
The day’s walk had some nice hills, ending up at a high overlook with Astorga in the distance. I took a short break there, lying back on a stone picnic bench in the shade. I felt good. The beauty of the walk was so rejuvenating, I could feel myself absorbing it completely. Eventually, I wandered down the hill toward Astorga.
Another crappy highway, truly the only bad part of the day. It was hot, the pavement was hard. The city was perched atop another hill, with the cathedral and a palace clearly visible. Finally, I came to the albergue on the outskirts of town. We all hoped to meet at the albergue inside the city next to the cathedral, but I did need to use the toilet, and I sat my pack down outside. A man came out to greet me, Miguel. He tried to convince me to stay there, invading my personal space, asking if I was travelling alone. He was very creepy! I changed my mind about using the toilet, taking off almost immediately. He tried to help me with my bag, especially the shoulder straps, and I had to push him away from me. I headed off quickly toward Astorga, and after a steep climb, found myself in the center of the city.
Though my companions had all ended up in different albergues in Astorga, we all met at the monastery church for Sunday Mass. It was an amazing experience, being in the Mass with all the locals from town. There were cloistered nuns singing from behind a glass wall. I must say, though, that the more Masses I attend, the less I enjoy them. It all feels like empty ritual to me. The whole idea of communion has become a revolting idea. The priests look ridiculous eating up there. I did sit next to a lovely old woman, though, and she wanted to make sure that I was comfortable.

***

July 12, 2004
(Astorga to Foncebadon)

An incredible day, walked from Astorga to Foncebadon. Walked with a variety of people early in the morning, some familiar, some new faces. I felt light in step, and walked to the first town, finding my companions stopped outside of a bar. I drank some pineapple juice, and looked over my map. I had walked eleven kilometers without any break at all, unusual for me. I was surprised, I felt so light, and filled with joy. I was the last one to leave the bar and fell into step with Simon, a Spanish man from Madrid. He told me about Spain, about the unusual Basque and Galician regions, and the history of the Camino that he had been taught. He wasn’t the first person to inform me that there was significant consideration that Saint James wasn’t the one buried in the grave in Santiago. We arrived together in another small village, El Ganso, and I felt lighter than air. I was floating, not even feeling the impact of the ground beneath my feet.
Most of my Camino family had agreed to stop for the day at Foncebadon so that we could watch the sunrise the next morning from high in the mountains. I followed along behind the rest of them, heading through a steep village and up into the mountains. It was so beautiful, flowers of every color, trees, sky, and the vistas were spectacular! I rested and walked, and just when I felt that I couldn’t go any further, Foncebadon appeared before me.
After registering at the albergue I wandered around the town, taking photos of the golden evening light in the ruins. The few people that lived there had built fires, and the smell of smoke was comforting. There were a few stray sheep and cows on the hillside. Deep silence, the kind that swallows the noise of cars and speech and everything but the wind. Peaceful. Like nothing I’ve heard for a long time. Went to sleep a bit late, but totally happy, serene, feeling whole. This was the first day of my Camino that I felt 100%, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I was all there. It was so great to feel happy, and that I could make others feel better by being joyful and loving, finally.
As I was preparing for bed, I met Matthias and Claire in the hallway. Claire had finally worked up the courage to sing a few songs she had written for Matthias, and she invited me to join them. We left the refuge and wandered over to a secluded hillside with two benches. Claire had a huge presence, usually enthusiastic and uncensored, but that night she seemed small, almost like a bird. Matthias and I sat on a bench opposite her and listened as she began to sing. Her eyes were closed, and at first she sang timidly. Her voice, though clear and beautiful, trembled slightly. She sang songs of love and heartbreak, and with each one her confidence grew.
The evening was cool and the mountain air was crisp. Darkness began to envelop the village. During the third and final song, Claire began to lose her nervousness and the trembling in her voice was overcome by deeply felt emotion. As she lost herself more and more in the music, I began to notice a glow in front of her chest. At first it was just a faint, hazy light, but it grew into a radiant rainbow sphere, and it glowed until she finished singing. I could hardly believe what I was seeing, for I had never before seen another person’s energy field. Once she was finished, Matthias and I showered Claire with encouragement and praise for her beautiful music, and I described to her what I had seen in her heart. In the midst of hugs and tears, Matthias pointed up to the sky. Silhouetted in the fading light were three birds, flying in perfect synchronicity in a pyramid shape. We watched silently as they disappeared into the darkness over the mountains in the direction of Cruz de Ferro.

***

July 13, 2004
(Foncebadon to Ponferrada)
My alarm called out to me from beneath my pillow, shattering the silence of early morning. It was still dark outside, and I reluctantly unzipped my sleeping bag. I was the first person awake. I gathered my things and stuffed them into my backpack as silently as possible, trying not to disturb the others. I been awakened so many mornings at 4:00 a.m. by the vigorous, inconsiderate rustling of plastic bags!
This refugio wasn’t typical. The upper floor served as a simple hotel in addition to the pilgrim hostel in the basement. The hospitalero was already tending to morning chores as I entered the dining room. He smiled at me as I walked over to a large table by the windows. I sat down there to write in my journal, hoping to capture the feeling of being in Foncebadon.

***

Foncebadon and the Iron Cross:
A Sacrifice in the Mountains

Foncebadon is a fabled village of wild dogs and even wilder fear. A village finally back in the mountains, a place of silence interrupted only by the whistling wind gently brushing the grass covered hillsides with her long, gentle fingers. A town higher than any other on the Camino, Foncebadon is little more than a relic. This is the final town on the ascent to Cruz de Ferro, the highest point on the entire path through Spain.
I have no idea what happened in Foncebadon, why this beautiful place is nothing more than ruins. Especially when one considers the tremendous number of thousand year old houses that are still standing, this village is anomalous in Spain. It appears that Foncebadon was never a large village, perhaps twenty houses and a church. Today almost all of those stone houses have collapsed. A stone wall here and there, surrounded by stone rubble and fuschia foxgloves growing wild. Some of the houses are nothing more than piles of stone. Others are partially standing structures with wood frameworks that appear ready to give way in the next strong gust of wind. One house even had a window frame moderately intact, however, it was misshapen from the stones settling over the years and looked more like a funhouse window than one from an ancient village. The few modern houses seemed oddly out of place in this pseudo-gravesite, but the smell of woodfires in July was remarkably comforting as the surprisingly chilly evening breeze settled in with the night.
Foncebadon is a place of great peace, deep silence, and endless time. Nature has returned humanity’s structures to her womb, to be held and weathered and reborn. To have spent time here is a blessing, reminding me that nothing is permanent, that all of life is a sacrifice. With every step, water courses through my veins, washes my eyes and throat, pours out of my body as sweat, and is returned to the atmosphere. With every step, air moves through me, feeding my body and moving me into greater awareness through the aligned rhythm of breath and step. With every step, the earth meets my feet, reminding me that I can’t help coming into relationship with all that is around me, that the earth and I are intricately connected. With every step, I am asked to face my existence now, without any consideration of the past or the future, the fire that is my life force burns on even when my mind is unable to process any more. The cyclic nature of my place in existence, the cyclic nature of earth, the cyclic nature of life in every form, I can’t escape the reality of these things. Every step takes me further away from the notions of my life and closer to the pure current of life that is no different than the foxgloves pushing their way through the rubble of fallen Foncebadon.
As for the wild dogs of Foncebadon reported by Shirley MacLaine and Paulo Coehlo in their books, the only dog I encountered in the entire village was a large tan dog sleeping outside the albergue, a dog who didn’t move from the time I arrived until the time I left the next morning. On the Camino we all have different paths, different struggles, different fears, different demons to face. The wild dogs of Spain didn’t emerge as my experience. I believe that in some way we all created the obstacles we would face on our journeys. Mine didn’t involve devil dogs with gnashing teeth. Mine was a maddening struggle with the sun and the inescapable heat.
In Foncebadon, I began to understand some of the greatest lessons of my Camino. My journey showed me that there is no true escape, though I may often feel that I can escape from one problematic situation to the safety and comfort of another situation. In truth, there is simply one thing, then another, then another. To be cornered by the open sky, to be trapped beneath the bright summer sun, and to be unable to escape was the greatest suffering I’ve ever known. In the midst of such intensity and exhaustion, even my mind was no longer available as a playground of escape. My mind abandoned me on the Camino. I was left holding nothing but another step, another breath. The horizon wasn’t a goal, but a frozen moment of now. I was always safe, the ground was always there to comfort me, and occasionally there were trees to shade the way and fellow pilgrims to remind me that I was indeed absorbed in the flow of life.

***

After I finished my morning writing, I noticed Matthias standing on the hillside to watch the sunrise. I left my pack inside and joined him. We huddled close together in the freezing morning air, watching clouds of breath form. At first a deep, earthen color began to emerge from the horizon, illuminating a few deep gray clouds. A few others joined us, but the sunrise came slowly. I returned to the dining room for a breakfast of tea and toast, enjoying its cozy warmth. I stared out the window and watched the sky transform to a deep amber, then through a sequence of fiery oranges. When the appearance of the sun itself was imminent, I ran back outside to join the others. As I watched the sun emerge from the earth, I felt as if I was witnessing a miracle, the birth of radiance, of light from darkness. As my heart expanded, tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
After the sun had taken its place in the rhythm of the day, I went back inside and gathered my pack. Before harnessing my bag, I stuffed my hands in my pockets, exploring the contents within. In the right pocket, tangerine lip balm, as usual. In the left pocket, two small, smooth stones. Assured that everything was in order, I heaved my backpack onto my shoulders and wandered out into the bright July morning.
I wandered up the well-worn dirt path that led through the town. I passed by the ruined stone houses that I had spent so much time wandering amongst the day before. The foxgloves turned their bright fuschia faces to greet the sun, and I nodded my greeting to them as I passed. A trickle of pilgrims wandered past the church, past the modern houses and up into the mountains. On the outskirts of Foncebadon, I paused between two small ponds teeming with frogs and other wildlife. Delicate grasses grew on their shores, softening the edges and partially hiding smooth stones that were scattered here and there. Before continuing, I turned around to glance at Foncebadon. From that vantage point, it was hard to believe that a village existed there at all. I felt deeply glad that it was there, though, offering pilgrims a peaceful place to rest and contemplate their journey to the Iron Cross. I honored Foncebadon in my heart, and after a few moments I turned and continued walking.
I walked alone that morning, holding a stone in each hand. One stone was mine, the other for dear friends who had asked me to carry a stone for them. I walked very slowly, appreciating every step. I breathed deeply and drank in the morning light. I gathered my thoughts during the walk from Foncebadon to Cruz de Ferro. What do I want my stone to represent for me? What part of my life am I ready to release? What are my prayers? I whispered these questions to my stone as I walked. That morning, I encountered many familiar faces, and while I greeted fellow pilgrims, my attention never left my contemplation. The path wound higher and higher through the sparse trees along the stone-strewn trail.
Cruz de Ferro, the Iron Cross, is an unusual sacred place. A small iron cross is mounted atop a tall wooden pole, which is atop a mound of stones that’s more than ten feet high. The casual passerby would see just another Christian shrine along the Camino. But pilgrims know that this mound of stones is different. For centuries, pilgrims have carried stones to this place. An act more likened to Pagan tradition than Christian, pilgrims leave stones as a symbol of leaving their old lives behind. Some pilgrims pick up a stone along the way, and others carry a stone from home along the path to this place. A variety of rituals surround the surrendering of stones. Some pilgrims meditate in the fields next to the site, others climb instantly to the base of the cross and pray, some jovially take photographs with fellow pilgrims. But few pass this place without taking the time to honor their journey.
My eyes sought the Iron Cross, eagerly anticipating that first glimpse. Around every twist or turn, I hoped that its glorious image would appear on the horizon, but the trail followed the ridge in such a way that the shrine wasn’t visible until a pilgrim is upon it. Upon arriving at Cruz de Ferro, I was flooded with a wave of emotion so intense that it took my breath away. I walked around the base of the stone mound, trembling, barely holding back my tears. I squeezed my hands around the little stones within, taking in as much of the place as possible in those first few moments.
Along the Camino, there were many small shrines. Fields or steep hillsides were frequently covered with cairns, stones stacked in pillars. Fences were filled with twigs assembled in the shape of the cross. Notes were left on guideposts, held down by a stone, offering the finder wishes and prayers, but Cruz de Ferro was overwhelming. The stones were piled nearly fifteen feet high. Big stones, little stones. They somehow managed to remain stacked together solidly and the hill was sturdy enough to handle hundreds of pilgrims climbing it every day. Bigger stones tended to be further down on the mound, toward the bottom, and small stones and personal objects of every kind were offered at the base of the cross. The colorful array was deeply moving.
I walked to the meadow beside the cross and sat cross legged, leaning against my backpack. The dry, brown grass was so tall that it was nearly over my head, but it was soft and cool. The wind rustled the leaves over my head, and the grass danced about, brushing up against me. A faint fragrance of pine filled the air. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the energy of the two small, warm stones that were encased in my hands. My mind was swimming with all the thoughts that had come to me during the morning’s walk. I first placed my attention on the stone I held for my dear friends. I imagined their faces and felt gratitude for their presence in my life. I felt honored that they had allowed me to carry this little stone, along with their prayers, to this sacred place. I asked the universe to bless them with joy, love, and abundance in every way possible as I held their small, greenish stone between both hands. I felt a wonderful warmth in the stone, and meditated as I held it. After a while, the energy shifted, and I placed their stone in my lap.
I picked up my stone. It was so small, so smooth, so round. It was beautiful. A smile spread across my face as I regarded the little stone, and I began to cry. I was alone, and I spoke out loud. I poured my heart out to my stone atop the highest mountain on the entire Camino. It was confession, it was prayer. It wasn’t poetic (or maybe it was) but it was pure and raw. I offered my entire heart and soul to that little stone, holding back nothing. I felt as if a raging river was rushing through me, beginning at the ground where I sat, and leaving through my words. When the words ran out, I sat in meditation for a while longer. Suddenly, I opened my eyes. I was ready to make my sacrifice to Cruz de Ferro. I left my pack in its place and walked in a straight line toward the cross. My pace was deliberate, focused. I felt pulled forward with each step. The tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt myself climbing the mound of stones to the base of the Iron Cross. There were photographs pinned to the pole, prayers for friends and family who were ill or had passed on, letters, jewelry, images of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Some were new and colorful, others were faded and tattered from exposure to the elements. Surrounding these offerings were stones of every kind. There was so much powerful energy on top of that mound of stones. My lips quivered as the salty tears spilled down my face, and I could feel my stomach begin to clench, holding back the sobs. I walked counterclockwise around the pole, feeling slightly self-conscious about the fits of sobbing that could burst forth at any moment. There were three or four other pilgrims there, but I didn’t make eye contact with any of them. I breathed deeply, searching for the best place for my two little stones. I selected a spot on top of a large, flat stone right at the base of the pole and offered a final wave of emotion as I regarded the two little stones. They’re just rocks, I thought. Or are they? I drew in a quick breath and brought the stones to my lips, kissing them quickly. Then, I kneeled down to my chosen spot and placed the two stones there. I arranged them so that they were aesthetically pleasing, making sure that they wouldn’t easily be knocked aside. I nodded my head, and without a second glance I walked back down the way I came. I could barely see through the tears as I found my way to level ground. I walked quickly into the edge of the pine forest and immediately burst into gut-wrenching sobs. I sat down on the ground and cried and cried. The feeling was not merely of letting go of the past, but also of creating a new intention for my way of life. It was a formal dedication. I felt light and serene.

***

The rest of the morning was a blur. Though I felt a little spacey and lost, I found my backpack in the grass and prepared to go, but something about this place made compelled me to linger. Once I began walking, my step felt lighter, the air felt fresher, and my heart sang out with joy as I walked in the mountains. The cloudless blue sky was an intense contrast with the dry, sage-colored mountains. Prickly, scraggly plants grew in the dust in every direction, intermingling with sharp rocky outcroppings. These were the most unusual mountains I’d ever seen, a strange mix of the dry American southwest and the gentle, rolling Appalachians of Virginia. I loved them, and felt their love flowing back to me. After only a couple of kilometers, a few crumbling stone buildings appeared along the trail. Manjarin, whose albergue was rumored to be run by an eclectic Spanish saint.
As I approached, a loud bell rang out, momentarily drowning out the warped sounds of gregorian chant that was being broadcast from an out-of-sight speaker. Manjarin was a beautiful village, even more ruined than Foncebadon. Many dilapidated stone ruins were nestled into the steep hillside, but two ancient structures remained intact. One building was the refugio, a tiny, dark building with mattresses scattered about, all covered with heavy woolen blankets. There was no electricity, and in the center of the room there was a wood stove, the only source of heat. I wandered toward the main building, which was bustling with pilgrims. Again, the loud bell rang out. Next to it stood a wiry-haired, wild-eyed older man, dressed in a t-shirt and flowing pants. He spoke quickly and loudly in Spanish, guiding several young men in various tasks. I inquired about the bathroom, and I was directed to the fields next to the refuge. No electricity and no bathroom.
I sat down at a long, wooden table. This space was protected from the elements by a very basic wooden roof and felt much like a porch. Coffee and cookies were provided, with a box for donations placed in the center of the table. For a while, I simply sat at the table, drinking coffee and attempting to ground myself for the day’s walk. I was snapped back from a moment of reverie as a woman approached me. I had noticed her earlier, and based on her body language and interactions with the odd bell-ringing man, I had gathered that she was his wife. She stopped beside me, smiling beatifically. She gazed at me intensely, looking directly into my eyes. She then bent down and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then turned and left. I was deeply touched by her kind gesture.
As I sat at the table, various members of my Camino family wandered in. Matthias, Gemma, and I went into the main building where there was a small shop. There were various pewter pendants hanging on red string, all symbols of the Camino: scallop shells, images of Saint James, gourds. To commemorate the day, I purchased a large scallop shell pendant with the image of Saint James on the inside.
Manjarin was an oasis in the mountains and I didn’t want to leave, but the day was young and I continued along the path. I quickly developed a headache. Was it from the coffee? From too much crying? It became worse as I walked, and I stopped many times. The mountain vistas were spectacular. I pushed on, walking alone for a while, then meeting friends along the path. After a few kilometers in the high mountains, the path steeply plunged into a small village. My heart kept trying to jump-start feelings of joy and happiness, but my head throbbed. I wandered into town and spotted a row of familiar backpacks outside a bar. I heaved mine onto the ground with the others and entered.
Food. That’s what I decided would cure my headache. They offered empanadas, which looked delicious, but the bartender informed me that they had just sold the last one. I ordered a Coke, paid, and sat down to sulk at a table with my friends. After looking over the menu, I settled upon a bocadillo con queso, half a baguette with slices of deliciously mild Spanish cheese. I ate part of the sandwich, which was dry and bland, and made my way back outside.
I wandered to the next town. My stomach began to churn as my headache pounded. I dropped my pack next to a stone wall that was shaded by an olive tree, and lay down beneath it. The town’s refuge was right across the street. I contemplated ending my day’s walk right there, but decided that a nap would help to clarify my decision. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. I awoke and found two other pilgrims sitting near me on the stone wall, but I was feeling too miserable to engage in conversation with them. I wandered through the rest of the town and found Mette and Brigid reclining in the shade. We chatted for a few minutes, and I continued walking.
My headache continued to pound, and I stopped to relax in the shade of several very tall trees. The grass was soft and inviting, and the glade was perfectly serene. I dropped my pack and leaned back across it. My headache began to subside. Before long, I heard singing. Brigid approached, and she was walking alone. She joined me in the shade for a while, and shared stories from her childhood. My headache gradually disappeared. I lingered in the glade for a while after she left. The next part of the trail meandered through beautiful woods, and I wandered through a stand of giant chestnut trees.
The path emerged from the woods and the afternoon was very hot. My headache reappeared. The earth was red and a trail of dust billowed behind me. The scent of the dry, dusty earth mingled with hot pine, and the trail flanked narrow ridges. I walked with care, for the narrow trail was full of rocks and roots that could easily trip a pilgrim lost in thought. It was a long way down those steep cliffs.
The trail emerged alongside a crystal-clear river, and a charming village appeared. Molinaseca. A picturesque stone bridge led into the center of town, and in the river below, people were laughing and splashing in the water as they swam. A shout rang out from below, and Claire and Gemma waved to me as they waded into the river. The others were sitting in the grass nearby. My mind wandered to the sparkling stream, dreaming of the delight of immersing myself in ice-cold water after a hot day of walking. I met the others on the far side of the bridge. The refuge was completely full in Molinaseca. Even the porches and tents had been filled. The next refuge was in Ponferrada, over an hour’s walk away. I glanced down at my watch. It was already late in the afternoon, and the sun was roasting the dry earth, everywhere except on the banks of that cool river.
Suddenly I knew there was only one rational thing that helps in a moment of deliberation such as this: eat ice cream! I shed my backpack on the sidewalk next to a bar that offered helado con chocolate and as I walked back toward the river, I contemplated my options. I could walk to the next town, following my day’s walking plan, or abandon the plan completely and spend the rest of the day relaxing by the side of the river. Matthias, Tom, and Irina were planning on camping right there for the night. Gemma and Claire wanted to continue to Ponferrada.
In retrospect, I can clearly see that this day was pivotal. It was the day that my Camino family began to fall apart. It was inevitable, really. The fact that we had continued together for so long was extraordinary. I had walked with these people since I had met them in Najera three weeks before. Day after day, we has shared each other’s stories, often over a hearty dinner in a bar or town park. We had embraced each other’s joys and sorrows. We had nurtured and supported each other physically, emotionally, spiritually. The bond that formed between us is difficult to describe. We were bound by our common journey, by walking, by suffering, by laughter, by sweat, by tears, by moments in time that might appear rather ordinary under everyday circumstances. Like gazing at the sunrise. Or placing a stone at the base of an old shrine. With the trappings of modern life set aside, all of life became infinitely precious. Indeed, standing silently beside another human being, simply alive in the light of day was the greatest blessing. To walk in the company of others while becoming more and more deeply aware of this was profound and experiencing this depth of community for weeks along the Camino was a beautiful experience.
There seemed to be two choices at Molinaseca. The first seemed to beckon me to go with the flow, to luxuriate in the beauty of the moment. The second asked me to complete the task I’d set out to complete, to push on at any cost. I hardly noticed the deeper question that was presented to me in Molinaseca: will I choose now or will I choose then? Will I live in the moment or am I bound to the goal? My mind was reeling with heat and exhaustion and a lingering headache. I felt a deep connection with Claire and Gemma and I didn’t want to fall behind, succumbing to my feared role as The Slowest Pilgrim. I listened to my mind, not my heart. Then, I heaved my pack onto my sunburned shoulders and began walking toward Ponferrada.

***
The Om Pendant

Though my eyes were closed, I could feel the morning light seeping in through the edges of the tent. Morning light. That meant that I had slept much later than usual. On many days, I had started walking before the sun was up, and I had seen many spectacular sunrises over the fields of wheat. But I had missed the dawn of my birthday. A sinking feeling of regret filled my belly. My nose was freezing, as it was the only part of my body sticking out of my sleeping bag. I groaned as I thought about getting out of bed. Bed. The cold ground, actually. Happy Birthday.
My hands were curled up around my makeshift pillow, and my hips ached from the sleeping conditions. As I moved, I felt something in my left hand. A cord wrapped around my fingers, with something attached. Suddenly the memories flooded back. I had been awakened at 4:00 a.m. to the sound of singing while a few gentle caresses were given to my feet. Germaine, from Holland, was singing Happy Birthday to me, thinking my head was where my feet were. The night had been very cold, and the others had tried to wake me to go with them, but I hadn’t been able to get out of my toasty warm sleeping bag. Not after five hours of sleep. One by one, my Camino family left the tent. Just before Claire left, she bent down to offer me birthday wishes. She handed me a pendant, the sanskrit symbol OM carved in stone, just in case we were separated and didn’t meet up at the end of the day. I was so sleepy and warm that the notion of being separated from my friends didn’t sink into my mind. I thanked her for the gift, and bade her farewell for the day.
When I finally opened my eyes there were only a few of us remaining in the army tent. A family of five and myself. I packed up my bag and made my way out into the cold morning. It was 8:00 a.m., and most of the pilgrims had already left O’Cebreiro to begin walking. The fog was dense ... or was it clouds? O’Cebreiro was high in the Galician mountains, after all. I brushed my teeth and found a bar that served toast and black tea. The previous day had been tremendously challenging, both physically and emotionally, and as I began to walk, my body creaked with every step. Another day of walking.
The clouds, as I had discovered them to be, were gathered in a thick layer just below the top of the mountain, looking almost as dense and fluffy as from the windows of a plane. For a short while, I was contented by the beauty of my surroundings and as I descended into the thicket of clouds, I walked happily in silence. It wasn’t long before I remembered what Claire had said, In case we don’t meet up at the end of the day. I reached up to my neck and tugged at the little stone charm. Of course I would see them that night. It was my birthday, after all. We would all meet in Triacastela and share a festive dinner. The sinking feeling in my stomach intensified, though. Deep down, I knew that I wouldn’t be seeing them that night.
The day was full of wonderful encounters. For a while, I walked with the two Danish girls, Mette and Brigid, and they sang Danish birthday songs to me. The girls decided to walk faster, but we agreed to meet later in Triacastela. I walked alone for a while, and then I heard two English-speaking pilgrims talking about hiking gear. They walked very quickly, but I was feeling lonely, so I chimed into their conversation as they passed. I walked fast with them for a short time, and I fell into step with Danielle, from Vancouver. The Australian man continued his pace and was out of sight rather quickly, and Danielle admitted that she was quite glad to be walking more slowly. We chatted amiably for a while, and as we began a moderately steep, rocky descent, I found myself flying to the ground. I howled in pain as my knee was torn open. As I rolled over to a sitting position and removed my backpack, I reluctantly looked at my knee. Blood was pouring down my calf, streaming through the dust that covered my leg.
Danielle instantly took her pack off and removed her first aid kit. She gave me antibacterial wipes to clean the wound, and a gauze bandage to cover it. As I was working to cover the gash, a group of French pilgrims walked by and wanted to offer help as well. I waved them on in annoyance. I was embarrassed and ashamed at having fallen again. I managed to pull myself together and walked with Danielle to the outskirts of Triacastela. Instantly upon arriving, I knew that my Camino family wasn’t there. I could feel their absence. They had walked ahead, and I would be spending my birthday alone. I felt sad and abandoned. This was turning out to be the worst birthday of my life.
Danielle and I wandered to the albergue, which was comprised of a couple of flat-looking buildings, surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of tents, as well as several giant army tents. There must have been several thousand people there. I felt my anger building, and as Danielle and I waited in the incredibly long line to sign in at the main desk, I bit my tongue to hold back the tears. When our turns came, we were informed that there was indeed no room left inside, and the army tents were also full. We were told to go to the church if we wanted to sleep inside. “No room at the inn” was suddenly sounding a little less Biblical and a little more realistic. Danielle and I wandered toward the church. Again, the French pilgrims tried to convince me to let them wash my bleeding, dripping knee in the fountain by the church, but I was feeling very cranky and just wanted to drop off my backpack and take a shower. The church was locked, and after waiting for half an hour, I grabbed some clean clothes and left my backpack there and headed to the refuge for a shower.
The courtesy of pilgrims had changed after O’Cebreiro, the first town in Galicia. For weeks, people had been relatively conscientious about keeping the albergues clean. The albergues were our homes, provided as a charitable service by volunteers and churches. Beginning at O’Cebreiro, there were many new pilgrims who were walking only the last 100 kilometers to Santiago. The mood of the Camino had become more like a vacation than a pilgrimage, and consideration for other pilgrims and the path itself had become scarce. In the bathroom, used bandages were tossed in the floor and in the showers, there was trash everywhere, and no one seemed to care. There was hot water, at least. I showered and washed my clothes and carried them back to the church. I draped my wet clothes across a stone wall, hoping it wasn’t sacrilegious to dry underwear in a church garden. I made my way back to the grounds of the refuge to look for Mette and Brigid, who were camping in the army tent. It wasn’t long before I found them and the hot tears I’d been holding back finally made their way down my cheeks. The Danish girls comforted me, and eventually we were joined by Danielle. I was happy that I wasn’t spending the evening of my birthday alone, and we had a lovely dinner together.
Earlier, our bags had been moved from the church for the evening Mass, and when we returned, we were told that our bags were in the bell tower. We made our way up the narrow stone steps on the side of the church. It was difficult to locate our backpacks in the dark room and there were perhaps thirty packs tossed in a heap. Once we retrieved our bags, we carefully made our way back down to the churchyard and deposited them in the choir loft, where there were mattresses on the floor, then went outside to relax where we met several other pilgrims. We all wandered into a field behind the church and sat in the tall grass beside a stream, and I played a few melodies on my bamboo flute. We were all tired, and soon, we all returned to our respective sleeping places.
Upon entering the church, several aggressive and rude Spanish men claimed that we had stolen their mattresses, that they had reserved the choir loft. Though Danielle spoke some Spanish, we pretended that we didn’t understand, hoping that they would give up. However, the spirit of these new pilgrims was not nearly as generous and understanding as pilgrims had been along the way. These men demanded that we move our stuff. To avoid further conflict, we gave them the mattresses and set up our sleeping bags on the floor by a confessional booth. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Danielle chatting in Spanish with the priest, who was smoking and slightly inebriated from drinking red wine.

***


July 19, 2004
(around Samos)

I awoke this morning in an actual bed in Samos. I got the distinct feeling that it would probably be my last bed until Santiago. I got up just before 6:00 a.m. for the Pilgrim Blessing in the Monastery Sanctuary at 6:30 a.m. and I had agreed to play my flute.
The blessing was led by the head monk, and part of it was sung, chant-like. Three pilgrims were asked to read aloud, and then those of us who were in attendance were blessed by name, announced according to our nationality. Just before the end of the ceremony, I was motioned to go up front, and the priest nodded for me to play. I played Amazing Grace three times through. When finished, I put my hands together as in prayer and bowed to my fellow pilgrims. Following the benediction, many people came to me to tell me that the music had made them happy, and it was such an honor. The acoustics in that huge space were amazing. It was also the first time I had formally played for pilgrims as part of a ceremony, not just spontaneously. My heart felt so open as I played, and the sound of my little bamboo flute was just lovely.
Every morning here in Galicia is cool, damp, sweet, misty, overcast. It’s hard to know how the day will evolve. Will it stay gray or will the sun burn through and brighten up the day? Everything is so lush and verdant, many full trees, all covered in vines. Dense forests. Still ponds and streams, many with small stone shacks just beside.
Walked today with Danielle from Vancouver and David from Ireland.

***

July 24, 2004
(Santiago de Compostela)

Arrived in Santiago de Compostela just in time for the Feast of Saint James. I found the town overrun with Europeans, mostly Spanish, all in the mood for fiesta. During noon Mass, the cathedral was packed with people wandering through, looking at the architecture and artwork, chatting amongst themselves in a variety of languages. There were at least 5,000 people inside the cathedral at any time, and the Mass was broadcast over a loudspeaker system. The highlight of the Mass was the swinging of the botafumero, a giant incense burner that required the strength of four men to maneuver. As I sat on the floor of the cathedral, trying my best to understand what was going on during the Mass, I felt completely lost from the pilgrim’s path I’ve been following for so long, stunned that the madness surrounding me was the destination I’d been walking toward for more than a month.

***

July 30, 2004
(Santiago de Compostela)

In half an hour I catch the bus to the Santiago Airport. My Camino is finished. My days of being a sweaty, dirty, exhausted pilgrim are finished for now. But my life as a pilgrim to Santiago will linger.
Hillary, a pilgrim from South Carolina, once said that you can identify a pilgrim by their dirty outer appearance, but a look that’s clean, their energy is clean. And that is true. As I sit here in a cafe sipping black tea, I can sense that I am different. How? Well, that will unfold as I re-enter my regular life. A busy, touristy, consumer-centric Santiago swirls around me. But I feel this inner stillness. Sad and happy. And quiet.
I didn’t even notice how dirty and baggy my clothes were until I went into a store last evening to buy a new shirt. My clothes were so grungy next to this new cotton shirt, even though they were relatively clean, having been worn only twice. But my clothes are deeply stained with dirt and sweat and dust and forty days of hard use. Today, I sit here in my new, clean, pink cotton shirt and blend in with most of those people walking by. But I still have my backpack and scallop shell and walking stick.
I went to the Santiago Cathedral this morning to see how long the line was to get in to hug the statue of the Apostle, and to see the silver casket with the remains of Saint James. The line was very short, and I went right in. The statue of Saint James is right at the back of the altar area, which is all illuminated and golden. At the bottom of the steps leading up, there is a scallop shell imbedded in the floor, and it is deeply worn down by so many footsteps. While I waited my turn, a Mass was going on, lovely music, a man was singing. My turn came and I went up to hug this strange statue, all gold and hollow and encrusted in jewels. It felt odd, a bit empty. And just the same, I felt a pang of emotion when going down the other side. I went down to view the silver casket next, and felt a similar empty feeling.
I had once read that Saint James isn’t in Santiago, that he’s on The Way. I now completely understand. There is nothing truly sacred here. This city isn’t the point. Maybe that’s why people feel the need to continue on to Finisterre, walking to the sea. If I hadn’t continued there, I know that I have regretted it. I am grateful to the universe for being guided here, for the opportunity to wind my line to the sea.

***


After the Pilgrimage

Looking back on my Camino ordeal, there were many things that I was shocked to discover within myself. Fear of abandonment. Anger. Weakness. Negativity. Competitiveness. In fact, I experienced many emotional and mental situations that I thought I had grown beyond. I thought I had overcome irrational anger. I hadn’t felt angry in a long time. But I experienced fierce anger on the Camino. I had been angry at the Spanish Boy Scouts, the groups of cyclists, angry with the heat, and most of all, angry with the charade that overtook the Camino during the final week before arriving in Santiago for the Feast of Saint James. Ultimately, I was angry with myself. I was slow, I felt weak, I was tired, and I used nearly every ounce of energy in my being just to keep walking. The anger came from seeing my own troubles and inadequacies reflected right back at me, from seeing others in a better state than me, one that I wished that I could experience, and I was angry that I couldn’t be more energetic, enthusiastic, or happy.
Weakness. I have almost always felt so strong. I can do anything, I don’t have to ask for help. I am strong. But on the Camino, I was slow, I was overwhelmed. All of my energy was channeled to the talk of the physical, just walking in a straight line. I felt like I was crazy, my emotions running rampant. I had no ability to hold back anything, mentally or physically. My mind and emotions were erratic, freely running the gamut, and after a while I had at least become able to observe them both. Though this wasn’t the process of personal transformation that I had envisioned, I was deeply changed on the Camino, and I returned home a much gentler, more open, and clear-minded version of myself.
I didn’t walk the Camino because of confusion or hardship. I wasn’t looking for any specific experience, or dealing with any certain problems. I had no real agenda. I felt that my life, in every way, had begun to open up in such a wonderful way, and the Camino seemed to call to me as a celebration. So when I went to walk, I made no dedications, no wishes, no goals. I only vowed to open myself to everything and everyone so that I could learn the lessons that I was presented with.
There was no shortage of lessons on the Camino. Every minute of every day gave me the opportunity to become aware of my actions, my patterns, my tendencies, my demons. Everyone I encountered was a mirror to my own darkest and lightest places. I discovered reactions in myself that were shocking, and it was a veritable roller-coaster of thoughts and emotions.
When I arrived back home, back to the comparatively luxurious life that I left behind, the next challenge revealed itself in the form of another question: how do I go back to my life? That’s a question that has haunted me ever since. It seemed clear to me that the spaciousness and openness that I felt on the Camino is what everyone is trying to find. Within my own mind I felt that I had uncovered a secret that I had no way of sharing: They’ll never find it! I didn’t find it at all! “It” was the ineffable feeling that everything was right with the world, and it just arose at some unnoticeable moment along the Camino, I didn’t even know it was happening, not until I arrived home once more.
In my Camino guide, the author suggested that returning home can be a difficult process. He said that there may be various parts of your life that don’t make sense anymore, whether it be work, home, family, or relationships. The process of pilgrimage breaks you down, tears you apart, cleans you out, and reassembles you, all in the process of its endless intensity. Returning home, for me, was both easy and difficult. Easy because I felt so uncomplicated, uncluttered, and open. Difficult because I felt out of pace, out of place, and vulnerable. It took some time, but eventually I adjusted.
Unlike any point ever before in my life, when I returned from the Camino I felt inclined to be open all the time, to talk about my feelings without hesitation, to be vulnerable, to not censor myself. But it was very hard to start rebuilding structures of limited openness in relationships with people. It is clear to me that while I may have adjusted to being home once more, I will never be the same again.
In the months that followed my return from the Camino, I was faced with the same question as before: what now?

***