After breakfast, I got out my pilgrim’s passport and had it stamped at the front desk before checking out and heading for the door.
I was greeted with a crisp morning and a bright sun, the first I had seen in several days. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, apparently having followed me from Zubiri, and the sunlight dancing off it across the main square was breathtakingly beautiful. Suddenly I felt inspired.
Holy Mother-Father God, walk with me today, and help me make it to my next destination in one piece.
Just then I stopped praying to make sure I had remembered to put PowerBars in my jacket. I patted the pockets and yes, they were there.
I continued.
Please help me stay in good spirits as I walk, open and mindful of all the blessings the Camino has in store for me today.
Thank you and amen.
Taking a deep breath and setting my intention, I was off, my walking poles pushing me forward. Thank goodness for walking poles. They helped me so much. They guided me around obstacles, pulled me out of the muck, and kept me moving. I almost felt like a four-legged animal as I cruised along with them, and I liked the feeling.
As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to my dream, but the energy was no longer with me. It felt like a distant memory and was now out of my grasp.
I wondered why I dreamed that as I looked for the yellow arrows to guide me.
I intuitively felt that whatever I was revisiting in my dream had to do with the Camino itself and my own past lives on this path, perhaps as a pilgrim or a knight. But even the concept of past lives didn’t seem quite right as I pondered this probability. It felt more like an alternate reality, one that I had reentered since starting the Camino, as opposed to a past one. But I couldn’t say for sure, as these things are never crystal clear.
My mind couldn’t stay focused on my dream for long, however. Once again, the path pulled me into the moment, and I had to concentrate fully on what I was doing. The arrows danced from here to there and if I didn’t watch carefully, I could definitely wander off in the wrong direction. Also, to my utter dismay, the path was arduous and there were more steep, steep hills to climb along the way, which left both my feet and now my legs screaming in agony.
As I walked, the day began to reveal a theme, as it seemed to have done every day since I began. Today the theme that was emerging was anger!
I had woken up feeling scared and then angry, not unlike the way I had been feeling for the last few years. Of course, I wasn’t angry all the time, but I realized that there were a few people in my life who left me feeling particularly irate. I also realized there were some recurring themes, or patterns, that I had in relationship to these people, which also left me feeling absolutely furious.
Apart from the people who made me so angry, the thing that really infuriated me was the long-standing message I had been given, ever since I was a child, that I wasn’t allowed to be angry. Ever.
Whether it was my father or the nuns at school or people I had known along the way, I was told all my life that being angry was unacceptable. If I ever did get angry, I was told that I was out of line, dangerous, unacceptable, and deserved to be shunned or punished because of my fall from grace. And boy, was I punished.
It was as if being female and being “spiritual,” or both, meant forever surrendering my anger and simply becoming some cooperative zombie who accepted whatever crap I was being dished.
“No fucking way!” I shouted to nobody.
Although I had received that message in one form or another my entire life, I never accepted it. I fought back. I rebelled. I refused to comply, to be meek, controlled, and submissive. Instead I was outraged. And if necessary, I attacked those who tried to force me to accept that message, yelling, screaming, raging my objections.
“Do not tell me what to do! Do not treat me that way! Do not act like such a jerk! Do not pretend you are not being a jerk when you are! Do not deny your passive-aggressive behaviors! Do not hit me! Do not ignore me! Do not call me crazy! Do not dismiss me! Do not manipulate me! Do not be a coward!”
And man, do I have a temper! I could become such a loose cannon that it was unbelievable. Maybe it was my Latin blood, but when provoked, I flipped.
I just had a fairly significant row with a male friend only weeks before I left. He had been drinking excessively over dinner and was getting more and more arrogant with each martini he downed. At one point I disagreed with him about something minor, and he jumped up and attacked me at full volume in the restaurant.
So I stood up and walked out. That wasn’t the problem, though. Days passed before we spoke again, and once we did, he accused me of being too angry for him to be my friend.
It seemed it was okay that he let me have it with both barrels, but that I objected and gave it right back was too much for him. He said it made me “unsafe” to be around.
I seethed as I thought about this. Then I thought about my father. I was especially not allowed to get angry around him. If I got angry and talked back, I was silenced by a hard swat across the head, if not more, and sent to my room. He told me to “shut up and disappear.” That thought made me boil inside.
Patrick also accused me of not having my anger under control. He was right. With him, I most certainly did not. He pushed every last button in me, and lately all I did was explode toward him. He was the single-most infuriating person I had ever known in my life, maybe with the exception of my mother. On second thought, he was definitely worse. Before he moved out, he only had to be near me, and I was angry that he was there.
The worst part, however, wasn’t his or anyone else’s judgment of my anger. The worst part was my own judgment and shame for feeling angry. I bought into the angry conspiracy hook, line, and sinker. I felt angry and ashamed of my anger at the same time. I couldn’t win for losing. I was screwed all the way around.
I should have been able to control my anger. I should have been able to stay calm and centered. I shouldn’t have gotten angry in the first place. I am spiritual. I am a teacher. I am guided. Why should I ever get angry? I had tools that showed me how not to get angry! I had gone to therapy and workshops to help me stop being angry. They all failed.
I was a failure and a spiritual fraud for being angry. All the judgment I received from others on top of my own far worse internal judgment buried me in more anger and more shame, creating a vicious cycle that sent me running. That was why I was here now, walking the Camino.
The more I walked, the more these angry feelings rose up in intensity and then subsided. After a long while, they rose up, but then slowly began not only to subside but actually to exit my body, leaving me with quiet in place of my inner rage. I didn’t notice it at first. It happened at some point while I was engrossed in simply getting to the top of the next big hill, then the next, and then the next.
As my outer effort increased, my inner struggle abated. My sense of injustice began to ease up and my hidden shame began to lift a little as I breathed in and out, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, pushing my whole body upward. The muscles in my legs were on fire, melting into the extreme pain in my toes. I had no other option but to stay focused and keep moving, leaving my anger behind for now.
Eventually I started up a very long, steep climb known on the Camino as the Hill of Forgiveness. “What appropriate timing,” I said to myself as I steadily made the ascent. I needed and welcomed this right now. The energy that came from millions of pilgrims over many centuries walking to this very point to be forgiven and to forgive was palpable. And now it was my turn to be here. But what exactly did I want to forgive today?
I couldn’t answer that question because I couldn’t stay focused on it long enough to find an answer. I had to use my full attention to simply get to the top, as it was the steepest climb of the day.
The wind was very strong, almost as if it were trying to push me back. I kept on. It was cold, but at least it was sunny and dry. Step-by-agonizing-step, I finally
made it to the top.
Once I arrived, I looked around and caught my breath. I noticed that several other pilgrims were standing at the top with me, taking photos amidst a group of large metal pilgrim statues. Just beyond that others were looking out over the valley below.
Impressed with my accomplishment, I walked over and stood in front of the metal statues. “I made it, and I’m willing to forgive,” I said to them, too happy at the moment to stay angry with anybody, including myself. “I don’t want to be angry anymore. At least not now.”
I stood at the summit, looking out to the valley below, and felt relieved. The view supported my decision, giving way to rolling hills and snowcapped mountains in the distance. Moving toward forgiveness by getting this far felt soothing to my aching heart. I felt how heavy pain and anger were to carry.
“Please, please forgive me,” I prayed under my breath. “And please by the grace of this place help me fully, truly, deeply forgive the others.” The wind blew directly in my face in response.
Soon my eye caught that of another pilgrim and I shyly asked him if he would mind taking a photo of me in front of the statues with my camera. He happily obliged, and by his accent I could tell he was Australian.
“Wow, you are a long way from Australia,” I said, as he snapped away. I was impressed that he came all this way to walk the Camino.
“Yeea,” he answered in his thick Ozzie accent. “That I am.”
“Well, thank you for taking my photo. Would you like me to take one of you?”
“Sure, why not,” he said, sounding neither here nor there about it as he handed me his phone.
Just after I handed back his phone, another man, who had just arrived at the summit, walked up to him and said, “I made it,” while bending over to catch his breath from the effort. He was apparently his friend and a fellow Australian. They were funny and friendly, teasing one another and me, goofing off in the wind. It felt good to laugh.
Soon enough, we all had had enough of the Hill of Forgiveness and decided it was time to get moving again. It was freezing cold and too windy to stay any longer.
Even though the actual number of kilometers I was walking today was fewer than the previous days, due to the steep decline I was now on, it seemed like twice the distance. It took everything in me to remain grounded as I walked, as my lightweight shoes, unlike my boots, did not guard well against the rocks on the path. Without the strong soles of my hiking boots to protect me, the bottoms of my feet were becoming more and more bruised with each step. The round, smooth gravel that covered the path under my feet slid all over the place with each step I took, threatening to twist my ankle and sometimes succeeding.
“Great, this is all I need,” I lamented, knowing this would only add to the challenges I had already had with my feet.
Thank goodness for my poles. They kept me from what could have been more serious injury. All I could do was take it very slowly, breathe, and concentrate as I made my way down.
Eventually I happened upon a café where the two Australians were casually seated outside, both drinking beers, looking as relaxed as if they were enjoying a day at the beach. It seemed as though they had bounded down the hill without the least bit of effort, like two mountain goats, which made me jealous and insecure. They both had on well-worn cowboy boots and no poles at all. How on earth had they both managed to run down the hill so fast? And why did it take me so long? I’m not even carrying a heavy backpack, for Pete’s sake. What’s wrong with me? Why am I in so much pain? Am I really so lame that I can’t take this without getting beaten up?
A cascade of self-recriminating thoughts flowed through me as I made my way over to the table next to them. They didn’t even have on warm coats, although it was bitterly cold out.
I shook my head at the injustice of it all as I set down Pilgrim and my poles. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30. I had been walking for a little over three hours. I entered the café and was greeted by a little old man who asked me, in broken English, if I wanted a “bocadillo,” which meant a sandwich in Spanish.
“Por favor,” I said, nodding my head enthusiastically, ready for some protein. One thing I’d noticed about the pilgrim’s breakfast was that it was very shy on protein. Thank goodness for my PowerBars.
He pointed to the menu to ask which kind, and after looking it over I ordered an egg bocadillo and a café con leche. Suddenly, I was hungry.
He entered the kitchen and moments later emerged bearing a huge egg sandwich on a large crusty half loaf of bread, and a steaming latte.
“I’ll never be able to finish this,” I said as I took it from him. “And what a bargain.” It was only 1 euro each for the sandwich and coffee.
I wandered back to the little table where I had left my things. The Australians were now gone, and I was left to enjoy my sandwich alone.
My first bite was hot and delicious and really hit the spot. Next thing I knew I had wolfed down the entire sandwich and was still left wanting more.
I finished off my meal with a protein bar and started to wash it down with the last of my coffee when all of a sudden I heard in the not-too-far distance several barking dogs. From the sound of it they seemed to be headed in my direction. I sat straight up and tilted my head to listen closely.
“Crap! I totally forgot to carry my pepper spray,” I admonished myself. “Man, I hope I don’t need it.”
The dogs were getting closer, but at least I could run into the café if necessary, I calculated, shooting a look over to the door. I hadn’t thought about demon dogs since I began the Camino.
I took the last sip of my coffee and held my breath, the barks getting closer and closer. I’d face them now and get it over with. I didn’t want to run away.
Be calm, Sonia, I said to myself. You are safe. Don’t worry. Breathe and just don’t look them in the eye.
I reached for my poles.
“I guess it’s just one of those kinds of days,” I mused, remembering how I woke up feeling threatened in my dream.
Just then, the “wild pack” came running into view. They were two Chihuahuas and an old mangy mutt, no more than 18 inches high. I burst out laughing when I saw them.
My laughter scared one of the Chihuahuas so much that he nearly jumped a foot in the air when he heard me, and took off the other way. This only made me laugh all the harder.
Guess I passed the demon-dog test, I said to myself. At least for today.
Still laughing, I picked up Pilgrim and threw her on my back. I grabbed my poles and put on my sun hat. The wind had died down, and the sky was crystal clear. I did a quick calculation and figured I only had about ten or twelve more kilometers to go. I’d be there in no time.
The path evened out and my feet just whimpered instead of crying. One step at a time.
As had happened at the end of each day so far, a clarity set in that wasn’t there only moments earlier.
As I walked I suddenly felt that I didn’t want to be angry anymore, but that if I chose to be, or needed to be angry, I had every right to that feeling and would allow it without letting anyone guilt-trip me about it. Being denied the right to this feeling felt as though my power was being choked off. Anger signaled that my boundaries were being crossed. To be deprived of anger was to forfeit my right to my own identity.
I would never again feel shamed about being angry. Instead, I suddenly felt great protection of and compassion toward myself and my angry feelings. The angry “me” was the wounded “me.” Underneath all that anger, the truth was that I was feeling extremely hurt. I used my anger to prevent myself from collapsing beneath the pain I was in. It distracted me so I could carry on. I wore my anger like armor, protecting the most vulnerable, needy parts of me. The parts I didn’t like at all.
And I even felt some compassion for the vulnerable me under all the anger. I became fully aware of her. So much so that I felt like crying. Then I did.
And with that I became more calm and peaceful than I had been in my entire life.
Day 5
(21 km; 13 mi)
Puente la Reina to Estella
My hostel should have been called “Hostile,” I thought as I got ready to check out. From the moment I arrived yesterday afternoon, the staff who ran the hostel were, well, hostile.
When I first arrived, I limped in (of course) only to be greeted by a ten-minute wait as the two women at the receptionist’s desk chatted away in Spanish to one another. Finally, one of the two turned to me and rudely said, “¿Sí?” as if I were interrupting her.
Once I managed to get across to her that I had a reservation, she looked at her book, found my name, reached over, grabbed a room key, and handed it to me without saying a word or once looking at me. Then she went right back to her animated conversation with the other woman. Looking around, I didn’t see Cheater anywhere.
I waited for a pause in their conversation, then asked her about my bag, to which she only shrugged. I waited for a few more minutes, hoping their conversation would end, which it didn’t, and then asked again. This time she rolled her eyes at me and pointed to a stairwell leading downstairs from the reception area, still saying nothing.
Guessing that she meant, “Look downstairs,” I shuffled over and gingerly started down, suddenly aware that my knee was now aching like mad. Once at the bottom of what felt like a cave, there, in the dark, stood Cheater, among a group of many other bags. I picked him up and dragged him over to the stairs and lugged him back to the lobby with the last ounce of reserve in me. I then glanced at my key. Third floor again. UGGHH!
I started back toward the stairs, when the receptionist stopped me.
“No!” she said and nodded in the other direction.
An elevator. Hurray!
Smiling profusely as I pushed Cheater, Pilgrim, my poles, and myself into the small space that is a European elevator, I hastily pushed floor number 3 just to get away from them.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 11