When I got into the car, I asked my driver if Cheater had shown up at the hostel.
“Sí. Is there. No problem,” she assured me, smiling.
I then asked her if she would bring me back to the Camino tomorrow morning.
“Of course,” she answered. “What time you like?”
Hmmm. I had to think about it. “Is eight okay?”
“Is perfect,” she said, smiling. This time I trusted I would get the promised ride back to the Camino, so I relaxed.
“Thank you. By the way, what time is dinner?”
“When you want,” she answered, in an easygoing manner.
“How about 6:30?”
“Okay. No problem,” she said, eager to please.
I was happy it would be early. I didn’t think I would last much past that.
“Can I wash my laundry?” I asked.
“Sí. I will wash it for you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I argued. “I can do it myself.”
“No, you are peregrina. I wash for you,” she insisted.
I was happy for the help. Once again, the dirt and mud and sweat from the road had settled into my clothes, and they really needed to visit a washing machine. Bathtubs and sinks just weren’t doing the job, and I was embarrassed by how badly I stank.
My driver told me that the hostel was new, and that she and her daughter lived there and ran it. She treated me as if I were a guest in her home and I was grateful for her kindness. It felt good to be so warmly welcomed.
After a sound night’s sleep, I woke up the next morning to a hazy day, but there was no rain in sight. The caretaker had breakfast ready: three hard-boiled eggs, fresh orange juice, and toast. She then asked to stamp my passport. As I took my last sip of café con leche, she motioned to the door and told me that Cheater was already sitting in the backseat of her car and she would drive it to the next hostel. That, too, was a relief. Some days I worried that he would get lost because other pilgrims had told me their transported bags were lost for almost two days. I hopped in her old dusty car and settled in. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the Camino, Gumby riding up front with me.
As I took my first steps, the sun was starting to come out, but there was a stiff, freezing-cold wind blowing directly into my face. It got stronger as the day unfolded, and soon I was barreling into such strong headwinds I felt as though I would be blown away.
This was a first. I had been met with snow, rain, freezing cold, and now an arctic gale. Lucky me.
“Okay, Camino,” I said, shaking my head, “bring it on.”
It was time to pray.
Holy Mother-Father God,
Help me face this cold wind with strength and keep me moving forward. I am open to all the gifts the Camino brings to me today.
With gratitude,
Amen.
While I knew I had no choice but to put one foot in front of the other and just keep following the yellow arrows and blue Camino shells on the path, it was not easy. The wind was so intense I had to fight it each step of the way. It did, however, silence my thoughts, and I welcomed that. It felt good to focus only on the moment and be free of all thinking. I felt weightless and peaceful when I fell into those spells while walking.
Eventually, though, my mind became accustomed to the wind, so my thoughts drifted back to the circumstances of my life, and suddenly I was overcome with deep sadness. Up until now I was too angry to feel my sadness, or even allow it. Today it took me by storm. My defenses were dropping away, and my vulnerability was coming through. I also felt ashamed for feeling vulnerable, because I was taught by my father that being weak was not acceptable. Still, I couldn’t stop. I started to cry.
As I did, I realized how defended my anger had kept me and how it actually blocked my deeper feelings of sadness and grief. I always considered Patrick to be the defended one. Now I realized I was just as defended as he was. I had wanted him to drop his defenses while I kept my own in place. That’s unfair—like asking a knight to shed his armor while his opponent keeps his on.
I was afraid of Patrick’s moods and how they controlled things. I was so sensitive that I absorbed his feelings like a sponge, and that brought me down and left me feeling as though I would suffocate. In response, I tried to fend them off so I wouldn’t have to experience that energy. My efforts to please him were self-serving. I wanted him to feel better so I could feel better. It didn’t work. And that left me feeling frustrated and angry. That is why I traveled so often. I never admitted it to him, but I did feel better when I was away.
The longer I trudged into the cold winds, the more confused I became. I felt a complete sense of failure. I have always carried high ideals throughout my life. I was in love with developing people’s inner gifts, and had devoted my life to bringing their potentials to fruition. Seeing clients’ lives transformed for the better was the joy of my existence. In my personal relationship, however, these very same high ideals created unrealistic expectations that left me feeling disappointed and rejected.
My mind drifted back to my recurring dream: the rituals, the heaviness, and now the despair and grieving feelings related to the Knights Templar. Could the demise of my very existence in this other life have occurred because, then too, I adhered to high ideals that were not shared by those I loved or served? As I walked, reflecting on how I had just ended so many relationships all at once, it felt as though I had re-created this entire story all over again.
I had to clear and release this energy. I had to let go of everything with love and forgiveness and compassion in order to be truly free. I had to stop believing that my noble ideals were the “right” way to live and allow everyone their own best way. That is exactly what “Buen Camino” means: Have a “good way,” each one finding what that means for them.
I had to let go of the rigid standards I had not only set for myself but expected others to uphold, as well. Not consciously, of course. I had thought I was being loving and giving, when in fact I was imposing my version of noble living onto others. It was too much maybe—for them and for me. It was time to let these high ideals and dreams die. I needed to find a more compassionate, more allowing, gentler, and more accepting way.
Maybe I was tuning in to my soul history, maybe I was making it all up. It didn’t matter. The message was still the same. Let the past go. Ease up. Relax. Allow. Forgive. Move on.
My mind traveled back to the natural surroundings. The path was captivating today, with bright green fields as far as I could see in every direction. I saw signs that said that before the Camino, this was an ancient and well-traveled Roman road. I wondered just how many people had walked it before me. Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?
I could feel the energy of pure love coming from nature as I walked. I did not feel as if I were observing nature from the outside, as I so often had. I felt, instead, as though I were a part of the beautiful energy surrounding me. I was nature, too. With the next breath, everything came alive. The few trees were alive and watching me. The tall green grasses were alive and watching me. The birds flying overhead were watching me. I wondered, did they enjoy me as much as I enjoyed them?
The sun cast long shadows across the path, and for some reason when I saw this I suddenly felt my entire ancestral lineage on both sides of my family walking with me. I also felt the spirits of endless streams of ancient pilgrims walking alongside me. I could almost hear their footsteps and sense their breathing. I had entered some sort of alternate state where I was no longer bound by present time and space, even though I was still aware of it. I wasn’t looking down on myself from above, but it also didn’t feel as if I were in my “Sonia” body. Then, as if waking from a dream, I was back in the third dimension, back in the moment, back to me.
The Mesata was definitely having an effect on me. A previously darkened space within me was now filling up with light. It was remarkable to feel the ancient pain shaking loose and then falling away. I was almost afraid to notice or acknowledge what was happening, fo
r fear it might stop. I was starting to feel the first rays of compassion for myself.
I recognized how all that striving served the development of my soul; it also caused me to disparage my natural human vulnerability. Keeping up my rigidly high expectations had worn me down.
I also knew in my heart that the reason why Patrick and I came together in this life was to find unconditional love and compassion, for ourselves and for one another. There was no alternative for either of us, and no escape. This joint destiny was the only real thing between us that mattered. Only I hadn’t found it yet.
Eventually I entered the tiny village of Castrojeriz, realizing that the wind had all but disappeared.
Day 15
(25 km; 16 mi)
Castrojeriz to Frómista
I woke up early and was ready to leave by 7 A.M. It was to be a long day and I had been told there was a long, steep climb ahead of me, once again, with few rest stops along the way. So I packed three PowerBars in Pilgrim for added fuel, even though I was now down to only 12 bars. I didn’t know what was going on with my feet, but unless I wrapped medical tape around my arches, I couldn’t even take a step anymore, as they were on fire with pain. I was only halfway to Santiago, so I hoped the tape and my feet would last. Once I got going, the pain subsided somewhat, but if I stopped for even a few minutes, my feet went into flames of pain all over again. “Penance,” I told myself. “This is penance for all my past sins. I am being forgiven bit by bit as I walk, but I clearly have to earn it.”
Gumby looked at me from the nightstand, as if to ask if he could ride up front on Pilgrim today. I looked at him and said, “No problem. You’re in.” He made me smile. He made others smile, too, when they saw him. He was definitely earning his passage. He was a good little totem, and I was glad I’d brought him along for company.
Stuffing the rest of my belongings into Cheater, I headed downstairs for breakfast. When I got there, I met a young woman from Canada named Rita who was suffering with the same cough and congestion as Camino Patrick had. She was miserable because she wasn’t at all dressed for the weather and couldn’t seem to get warm, which is why she’d spent the money to stay in the hostel instead of the pilgrims’ albergue.
I understood how she had come to be so underdressed. Who would have thought we would have needed to layer up like we did? After all, it was nearly June and yet it was still so cold it felt like it was no later than March (in Canada). As she shared her misery with me, the waiter piped up, telling us it was the coldest spring since 1816, and all of northern Spain was just as upset over it as she was.
I couldn’t bear to see her so miserable, so I ran back upstairs, opened up Cheater, and grabbed one of my long-sleeve wool shirts, some thick wool socks, and an extra jacket I had with me, and gave them to her, hoping to bring some relief. At first she hesitated to accept them, but I insisted, so she gave in, putting everything on right away, as she was only wearing a light skirt and a thin top, a thin jacket, and sandals without socks!
Her cough sounded serious and her eyes were bloodshot, so I asked if she wouldn’t rather take a day of rest and walk tomorrow, as it looked as though she might have a fever. She shook her head and said she was meeting her boyfriend in Frómista and there was no way to contact him, so she had to go on. I shook my head. The things women do for love.
I wished her a “Buen Camino.”
I took a few more minutes to finish my breakfast and then went back to my room. I closed up Cheater, took him to the front desk, and got a stamp for my passport before I set out.
Once under way, I found the sky was clear and the sun was shining, but it was still freezing cold and windy. Ugh! Oh well, the only thing I could do was put one foot in front of the other and follow the yellow arrows.
In spite of the cold, my spirit felt calm today. The heaviness I had carried into the Camino was starting to lift a bit, and with it, I started returning to a happier state.
Holy Mother God,
Thank you for helping me clear the past.
Amen.
As I followed the Camino shells and arrows to the edge of town, I started singing, “I’m Off to See the Wizard,” making up words to match the moment, laughing at my own silliness as I did. I even managed a skip or two, although it hurt my feet.
A little way out of town, I noticed an old man who was running, rather than walking, the Camino. He had on nothing more than runner’s shorts and a tank top in spite of the brisk cold, looking as though he weighed no more than 75 pounds at most.
A Dutch couple walking near me noticed my reaction to seeing him and volunteered that he had been running on the Camino since France. They said he’d made a bargain with God when his 28-year-old son was diagnosed with cancer. He promised God that if his son lived, he would run the Camino 100 times. His son lived, so he was keeping his part of the bargain. This was his ninth time.
I had never seen such a skinny man in all my life, but I did notice that as he ran he had a huge smile on his face, as though he were in some sort of meditative bliss. The Camino does pull you into an alternative Universe filled with grace and magic if you are open to it. I’m sure that once he committed to his pilgrimage, he left planet Earth and was in another realm entirely.
Seeing him gallop along like a skinny racehorse was humbling to my aching bones. I wished him a “Buen Camino” when he passed by, but he was long gone before he could respond. Impressed as I was with him, I was fine with walking the Camino at my own slow pace. I’ve been pressured to rush ever since I was six years old and started school. Every morning was like fire drill at my house, as I rushed to get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, clean up my dish, grab my book bag, find my shoes and coat, and pile into the car, fighting my brothers for who got the window seat, all in the space of 20 minutes.
And if that weren’t bad enough, when I dashed from the car and into school before the bell rang, I was met with fearsome, scowling nuns who rushed me through the rest of the day, with the threat of eternal damnation over my head if I fell behind.
The ability to go slowly was healing for me right now. Rushing around the way I often did at home didn’t allow me to acknowledge my feelings. As a result, so many had been shoved aside and archived for another time, hidden beneath my conscious awareness.
Like things thrown into the basement that are not wanted or don’t seem useful, my discarded, wounded feelings mounted until I reached a point where there was no more room to stuff them away. Now I had to clear out this old stuff in order to fully heal and grow as a soul.
As I walked, I remembered as a teenager watching a horror movie called Don’t Look in the Basement. It was quite possibly one of the bloodiest, goriest, most god-awful movies I have ever seen in my life. Laughingly, I said, “This is my real-life encounter with ‘don’t look in the basement.’” I had to look in the basement, as the ghosts of my wounded emotions were now creeping into my conscious life and were not to be denied. I had to address these ancient feelings so they could heal. I couldn’t hide them away anymore.
Maybe that is what transformation is all about. Feeling one’s feelings then allowing them to naturally move on, rather than covering them up or pushing them away. It certainly was transforming me.
My mind drifted back to the moment, and the path.
It was demanding, as usual. I first walked across a plain and then up the promised long climb. It seemed as though I would never arrive at the summit. But by the grace of God, and having no other choice but to keep going, I finally made it. As I crested the peak, I saw a local man to the side of the road sitting by a little makeshift stand, selling coffee, water, and bananas. Since there had been no cafés along the way, he was a welcome sight. I ordered a bottle of water and a banana, both for only 1 euro, then sat down and looked around. Spring was bursting forth in a bountiful array of colorful flowers as far as the eye could see.
When I finished eating my banana, I stood up again. “OUCH!”
My feet were screaming. I caught my breath an
d sucked up the pain before starting to move again, gently easing forward with my poles. After a few minutes I was moving along, the pain subsiding into a dull ache. The path led downhill, and as I said before, that wasn’t necessarily good news for my knee.
I started traversing the path from side to side as opposed to going straight down. The sun was getter hotter as it got closer to noon, and I starting peeling off layers of clothing, as I was now in a full sweat. I was grateful for my silly sun hat, which covered my entire face in the front, and for my sun gloves, which I picked up at the last minute before I left because someone told me you can get a sunburn on your hands when walking with poles all day long.
As I walked down, I eventually came to a village called Itero de la Vega, where I entered a 16th-century church just off the plaza. It never ceased to amaze me how beautiful these little medieval churches in the middle of nowhere were. What impressed me most was that in almost every church I entered I didn’t find the traditional “Jesus on the cross” on the altar, which I was so accustomed to seeing in other Catholic churches around the world. Instead, a statue of Mother Mary stood there, emanating a much warmer presence. I found this both surprising and a paradox, as the medieval Church was anything but loving and warm.
Once I learned to time my days so that I could enter the churches during open hours, it was becoming a big part of my daily Camino ritual to go into at least one church a day and say a rosary, which, for me, was form of meditation. As I prayed today I noticed my heart was beginning to soften and calm down. I found my anger had subsided somewhat, giving way to a quieter energy. Perhaps after having the chance to be heard, a lifetime’s worth of rage had now run out of fury. I was walking through it and was seeing the other side.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 20