It felt good to shake off the cobwebs of other people’s experiences, I thought as I began to cram the mountain of stuff into my backpack. By the time I was finished, I had the equivalent of a dead body in weight in the backpack sitting across from me, with more supplies still on the floor, and no more room.
“I’ll never be able to carry this across the street,” I thought aloud, “let alone across the Pyrenees. How the heck am I going to do this with my fragile knee?”
As my assistant, Ryan, had reminded me, I’d recently had surgery to repair a cracked kneecap (which I sustained while kickboxing out my frustrations with my life), and I was still on the mend. I was able to walk well enough, but going up and down stairs was still painful some of the time. Suddenly, I worried that my knee wouldn’t be able to handle the load.
“You’re right,” it chimed in with a sudden sharp pain stabbing me out of nowhere, as if refusing the challenge. “This is too much for me.”
What to do? I knew there were companies that would transport your bag from town to town if you didn’t want to carry it on your back, and I had considered hiring one to carry my stuff for weeks but had not yet committed.
“Is that cheating?” I had asked myself more than once. “Is a true pilgrim only one who schleps her belongings on her back, suffering the journey as she goes?”
“But what if the weight is too much for my knee?” I countered. “Should I power ahead and hope I’ll gain strength as I go, or should I wimp out and have someone carry this 50-pound deadweight of a backpack for me?”
I lifted it up and strapped it on, deciding to give it a test run before I made up my mind. The first few steps around the house were easy enough, especially with my poles.
“I can do this, no problem,” I said to myself, feeling like Xena, the Warrior Princess. “Now let’s tackle the stairs.”
Going down was fine. But when I turned and took a step to go up, my knee buckled in pain and I let out a scream. “Ouch!”
I was on my knees. And it only took three minutes to get me there.
“Now what?” I asked myself. “Is this pilgrimage a bust before I even begin? Am I going to be a fake pilgrim? A designer pilgrim, instead of the real backpack-suffering deal?”
But, then again, I wondered, who I was trying to impress?
“It’s my pilgrimage,” I said out loud to the scoffing, judgmental voices in my head. “Who cares whether or not I carry the backpack myself and break my knee again. Who’s judging me anyway?”
I knew God didn’t care if I carried my backpack or not. Nor did my Higher Self and my guides. Only my approval-seeking ego did, the part of me who feared being judged. She was coming out of hiding along with my inner child like they were best friends or something, and I could see them more and more in plain sight. I thought about something Patrick had said to me before we had yet another one of our “I hate you” arguments recently.
I told him I was going to do the Camino, and he casually said, “Oh yeah? My good friend Tyson and his 81-year-old mother are going to walk it at the same time as you. And she’s carrying her own backpack the entire way! Are you?”
Are you? He knows I cracked my knee trying to kick the energetic crap out of him. What a jerk for asking me if I could keep up with an 81-year-old woman.
I slung the backpack back on and tried again. I walked around the house for a few minutes, my shoulders killing me, and then attempted the stairs once again. Two steps up, and I was down for the count.
“Screw Patrick’s insensitive comments,” I snarled, throwing my pack on the floor. “I don’t care if he or anybody else judges me. I’m not walking to impress a soul, so I’m not going to worry about it if I happen to ask for help. Maybe I need to learn to ask for help. I certainly heard that enough from my daughters and even Patrick over the years. I don’t like to ask for help, but I just may have to.
“That settles it,” I continued speaking aloud to my inner guilt-tripper. “I’m not going to waste any more time worrying about what other people think. No one cares about this but me. The only voice I need to listen to is that of my body. Ask it to decide. Not my vanity and fear.”
“Good advice,” I answered, talking back to myself. (Yes, I do that quite a bit, actually.) “What is good for my body?”
I sat with that question for all of 30 seconds and then came up with a great compromise.
“I’ll carry two bags,” I decided, a backpack and another bag. “I’ll carry the backpack on my back every day, with some stuff in it, but not enough to hurt my knee, and I’ll send the heavier bag ahead with a transport service. I’ll put enough in the smaller one to have it be somewhat heavy, and thus have the true pilgrim backpack experience, but not so much that it trashes my knee and I can’t make it.”
I was quite satisfied with this solution.
“Perfect,” I said to my body, out loud. “Only now I have to go out and buy a second backpack.”
8
Taking the Pressure Off
Early the next morning, having decided to have a transport company carry my bag after all, I got online and began to research various companies that could help me. One was a company called Camino Ways, based out of Ireland. This company would not only transport my bag from town to town, but they could also arrange for simple, private accommodations for me in each town along the Camino.
Knowing I would probably make slower progress than many, given my bum knee and my hiking inexperience, I did worry about finding a place to sleep in the shared dormitory-style albergues along the Camino reserved for pilgrims. From what I had read they were open on a first-come, first-served basis, and often filled up quite early in the day, and no doubt much sooner than when I would most likely arrive. Maybe booking both transport and a private hostel, in lieu of staying at pilgrims’ albergues, would be the smartest option for me, and one that would help ease the pressure I was feeling in so many ways.
I spoke to a guy named Roland who immediately assured me that they could reserve a simple place for me to stay in each town along the Camino, as well as transport my bag to the hostel or inn each day, and even include a pilgrim’s breakfast and an occasional dinner.
It wasn’t very expensive considering the investment I had already made. Besides, it was my emotional peace I was talking about here. The entire reason I was going on this pilgrimage was to find some emotional peace.
“Can I have a day to think it over?” I asked. “I’ll probably go with this, as it makes sense for me, but I want to be sure I’m not cheating by doing so. Some people say not carrying your own bag and winging it from albergue to albergue as you walk the Camino makes you less than a ‘true pilgrim,’ and I don’t want to be that.”
“It’s your Camino,” he replied. “Why do you care what other people think or say?”
“True. Okay, I’ll think it over and call you back.”
A cup of coffee later, I’d made up my mind.
The next day, Roland sent me an e-mail with a full itinerary, complete with the names of the simple hostels where I was to stay in every town, along with downloadable transport tags to put on my bag. It looked as if I would be in very simple one-star accommodations most nights, with the promised pilgrim’s breakfast and dinner (whatever that was) included, except for every ten days. Then I was booked into what appeared to be a three-star accommodation with only breakfast included. Sounded good to me. In the e-mail was a message that said, “We will send you a Camino passport book overnight.”
The e-mail went on to explain that the passport was a small book in which to get stamps from every town along the Camino, showing that I had walked to that place, in order to get the Compostela or pilgrim’s certificate once I arrived in Santiago.
I worried that I might miss the place to get the stamp, but then noticed that Roland had attached the directions to each town’s office.
Sighing with relief, I said to myself, Okay, I guess I’ve covered just about every single base, haven’t I? All I have to do now is show up a
nd start walking.
At the end of the e-mail, I read, “Buen Camino.”
That made me smile. I hoped it would be a “Buen Camino.”
9
Packing Up
I can’t believe I’m heading back to REI, I thought, as I got back in the car to buy the second backpack. Once I purchased my medium-sized backpack, I drifted back over to the shoe department. I had read a blog on the Camino the night before that said hiking boots were completely unnecessary, and that lightweight Merrell walking shoes were more than enough. The writer made it seem as though the Camino was literally a walk in the park (albeit a long one) and suggested that anyone trying to tell you otherwise was exaggerating to no end, and a whiner. Just as I picked up a pair of the shoes in question, a young salesman approached me and said, “Those are really comfortable. Want to try them on?”
“So I’ve heard.” I answered. “Are they good for long hikes?”
“They can be. Depends on where you’ll be hiking.”
“I’ll be hiking across Spain. I read that shoes like this were more than enough for the trail I’ll be on.”
“Well, then you should get a pair,” he said, clearly having a different attitude than that of my first boot salesman.
“Okay,” I said, reverting back to my spontaneous way of deciding things. “I’ll take a pair.”
Once paid for, into the second backpack they went.
Back home, I pulled everything out of the dead-body backpack and started repacking.
I had to decide what would go into my “I’ll carry it myself pilgrim’s backpack” and what would go into my “let someone else carry it cheater bag.”
Just then my daughter Sonia came in and asked, “Do you have long underwear?”
“No,” I answered. “I don’t think I’ll need them. It’s almost June.”
“Take these anyway, just in case,” she said handing me a pair. “They’re mine. Better safe than sorry.”
Next, Debra walked in, with pepper spray ( yes! ) and some information from the Internet on what to do if wild dogs surround you.
I took the spray and ignored the papers.
“What else?” I asked myself out loud as Debra and Sonia looked on.
“Did you pack a coat or a windbreaker?” Debra asked.
“No, not really. I have a very lightweight jacket. I don’t think I’ll need a coat.”
“I’m not so sure that’s all you’ll need. Better take my coat. You never know. You might need it while walking over the mountains,” she said.
“Did you pack a warm hat and gloves?” Sonia asked.
“No, I packed a sun hat and a bandana, but not a warm hat.”
“Take these, then,” she said, handing over a cashmere stocking cap and gloves that a friend had sent me a month earlier to take on the Camino and that I had forgotten to pack.
Glancing around my bedroom, I asked again, out loud, “Anything else?”
Considering the ridiculous mountain of stuff I was taking, all I could see that was left to pack was my bedroom dresser. But then my eyes drifted to my totem, Gumby, sitting on my personal altar, the silly, smiley-faced, rubbery green toy from my childhood.
“Gumby!” I cried. “I have to take you!” I’ve had Gumby with me ever since I was around ten years old. He was small and silly but always cheered me up and made me laugh. In a way, he represented my alter ego, my inner child, my conscience, and my Higher Self, all rolled into one. He had to go.
“I’ll take my pillow, too. Why not?”
Pulling up the final zipper, my daughter asked me, “Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?”
“I think so. I’m as ready as I can be, but I’m sure I’ll think of 20 more things to pack before I actually walk out the door on Monday. Just stop me before I become ridiculously weighted down. I’m supposed to be walking this pilgrimage to lighten my load, and so far, I’m not doing very well.”
10
The Last Night at Home
The weekend before my departure for France, I taught a workshop at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York. My flight from Albany back to Chicago landed at 7 P.M. on Sunday. I had to race home because I was leaving the next day and still had a few final preparations to make.
It was also Mother’s Day, and my older daughter had prepared a lovely dinner for me both to celebrate and to send me off in style. I was so touched by her effort, and happy that both of my daughters were there to see me off. I only wished I were more fully able to appreciate their blessings. To the end I was a nervous wreck.
I was leaving all my responsibilities to my daughters and my business partner Ryan to handle while I was away, as I didn’t want to focus on anything but the walk. While my Higher Self knew all would be in good hands between the three of them, I was still anxious.
Suddenly I was afraid that they wouldn’t be able to manage in my absence. I didn’t share any of these feelings with them, of course, but I did realize how much I drew my sense of security from being in charge of everything.
“Am I control freak?” I asked my daughters spontaneously as I helped myself to mashed potatoes. They both laughed. “Maybe a bit,” they agreed, “at least when it comes to responsibilities.”
“Yet another spark of clarity from the Camino, and I haven’t even left yet,” I observed.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Mom. We’ve got your back and you can trust us,” they wholeheartedly assured me. “And we are really happy you are doing this for yourself.”
“Me too.”
I knew they meant it. I had been so miserable for the past two years that I’m sure they were sick of me. I had tried to weather the storms I had suffered, and a few I had caused, as well as I could, but between the deaths in my family and the death of my marriage, I was swamped with anger and grief. Every day was a major challenge, and they were the ones who had helped me get through it.
I knew they were spent and had their own grief over their parents’ impending divorce to deal with. We all needed this break in order to deal with our private emotions. I was sick over having brought this misery into their lives, and while we were very close and supportive of one another throughout this family nightmare, it was still a personal journey of loss that we each needed time and space to face on our own.
While Patrick and I had endless challenges as a couple, we were both dedicated to the girls. Having our family come unglued like it had filled both of our daughters with heartbreak and anger. And I didn’t blame them one bit. I blamed me, unless of course I was blaming Patrick.
I welcomed giving my daughters a break from me. I felt so guilty about everything that I had set in motion that in some ways I couldn’t get away fast enough.
And that meant letting go of control.
I was ready and, in fact, I wanted nothing more than to turn the reins of all my responsibilities over to others for a time and take a break. It was all just too heavy. It wasn’t my backpack (or two now) that burdened me. It was the responsibility for so many and so much that I felt I couldn’t carry on the Camino. It was my life and its endless responsibilities that needed to be unloaded.
I wanted to walk the Camino more than anything to become free of the guilt and anger and shame I was carrying so deep in my heart. I yearned for forgiveness for having all this guilt and resentment. And for failing to be more loving of Patrick and forgiving of him in spite of the fact that I knew it was spiritually the right thing to do.
I trusted my divine support system implicitly and knew I would always receive their support and protection. It was people I didn’t trust. Except for Ryan and my daughters. But even while I trusted them wholeheartedly, I had hesitated to ask them for more than was necessary.
I prayed to God as I got ready for bed. Hopefully this would be the beginning of another way of life for me. One that would allow me to relax and receive more support. From the earliest age I was conditioned to believe that asking for anything was selfish and a sin. Giving was better than receiving. It was
spiritual. I was to simply be a giver and not complain, and act like a good Catholic girl.
The only place I could look to for help was heaven, and even then I was not to bother too often. I could ask my spirit guides to help me out, and they did, all the time. I just couldn’t ask people to help me. That was imposing, and just plain wrong.
This warped message was proving, more and more, to be the great undoing of all of my relationships, but especially my marriage. It made me believe I didn’t need much of anything, which was actually not true at all and was why I was so agitated, especially with Patrick, so much of the time. I gave and gave as I was trained to do, while burying my own needs deeper and deeper.
I wasn’t aware I was doing that until I would give one ounce too many on any given day and then I would explode, which had happened more and more often since my dad died. His dying sprung open a Pandora’s box revealing a lifetime of neglected and suppressed needs in me. And they weren’t willing to be hidden away any longer.
I guess I’ve always needed a whole lot more than I’m willing to admit, I thought as I reflected on the embarrassing amount of stuff I had felt the need to take on this journey. No wonder I’ve been so unhappy so much of the time. I’m really needy, and I’m pissed off about it.
This was one of the fundamental things about myself that I wanted to change, or calm, or get over, or heal while on the Camino. I needed to. I was so angry with so many people and had ended so many relationships because of my over-giving tendencies and subsequent backlog of resentment that I couldn’t stand myself anymore.
Unless I got this part of my inner life balanced once and for all, I could never be truly happy in my life or in my relationships.
“That much I know for sure, Oprah,” I said, as I headed for bed.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 5