The journey itself was long today, and because my feet were on fire it seemed endless. Yet, though long, it wasn’t difficult once over the hill, and there were parts that were so peaceful that I actually didn’t want them to end.
I especially loved walking along the canal leading into Frómista at the end of the day. It was such a calm, peaceful path, and the weather had settled into one of the first nice days since I had begun nearly two and a half weeks earlier.
As I walked, I thought about the two men I met last night at dinner in the hotel. One was a 72-year-old man named Colum, from Vancouver, and the other was named Alan, from Rhodesia. Colum had a dignified look about him, almost as though he were a retired actor of some sort. He wore a pressed white shirt, a neat ascot around his neck, and polished boots. Alan was robust, tall, muscular, and casual, wearing a T-shirt, baring his muscled arms, and leather sandals. Both were extremely friendly.
I soon learned both were Irish born. Alan was walking the Camino for the first time, and Colum was doubling back, as he had walked the last two weeks of the Camino to Santiago a few years earlier. Now he wanted to walk the part he had skipped over to complete the full journey.
I also thought about the group of women who were at the hostel last night, all of whom decided to stay at the hostel because so many people in the pilgrims’ albergue were getting sick. Everyone was coughing all night long.
One of the women I met, Charlene, had started out in Arles, France, another of the many different starting points for the Camino and had already walked almost 1,100 kilometers in a little over two months. She was having the best time of her life and after a lifetime of service to others, she was now enjoying the peace and quiet of her journey more than she could possibly explain.
I asked her if she had ever gotten lonely on the Camino, and she said, with great vehemence, “No, never! I wish I could make this last forever! I am alone. I am free.”
She made it clear that she had spent most of her life taking care of and suffering the abuses of alcoholic men, beginning with her father, then her husband, even her male boss, and on to her sons. Now, she said, she was done with all of them. This was her emancipation journey. She honestly didn’t even know if she would ever return to France once she completed the Camino.
“I have my pension now,” she said. “I don’t have to go back. I may stay and live in Spain. I am liking it very much, so far.”
She sounded as if she had just escaped from prison, and I could appreciate her sense of liberation in getting away from her miserable circumstances at home. I listened carefully, as I felt certain that this, too, was part of what I was to complete in my own soul’s journey as I made my pilgrimage to Santiago. I didn’t want to take care of any more adults who failed to take care of themselves either.
In spite of the lovely path, the last few kilometers into Frómista seriously challenged me. I had to sit down every 15 minutes because my feet were throbbing. I got out my iPod and started singing along with it in order to make it through the last three kilometers. Kundalini yoga chants had the most “oomph” to them and were the easiest to sing along to.
With that extra help I shuffled into Frómista around five o’clock and headed straight to the center of town, looking for my hostel. As the town was so small, there was no missing it, right across from the church on the main square.
As I found my way across the plaza, I noticed a group of pilgrims sitting in the warm sun having a beer, and among them was Camino Patrick!
I shuffled up and gave him a big hug and asked where he was staying. He indicated the pilgrims’ albergue, which was right next door to my hostel. He had a few beers under his belt, as did the others at his table. Up until then I had been drinking copious amounts of red wine at the end of my days, but today, in the delicious and welcome sun, a cold beer sounded fantastic.
I quickly registered for the night and got a key to my room, happy to hear that the caretaker had already taken Cheater upstairs. On the Camino you are on your own with the bag, so extra assistance like this was rare.
Then I went directly back outside, plopped myself at the table with the others, and ordered a large, cold beer. That first sip tasted so good! What a thirst quencher. No wonder everyone was drinking with such gusto.
I asked Camino Patrick how he felt today and he said “somewhat better,” but he was still coughing and fighting a chest funk that was threatening to take him out. He had also developed some sort of extreme pain running along the nerves in his legs. They felt as if they were on fire. He said it was almost impossible to sleep it was so painful and even a sheet over him was too much to bear. For just a moment, he with his legs on fire, me with my feet on fire, I wondered why we were doing this. Were we crazy?
Sitting with him were two young Americans, John and Alexia, both from Cleveland. They were friends on a post–college graduation trip across Europe, and this seemed like the most affordable way to do it. John had arrived in Frómista by bus today, as he had pulled a tendon and injured his knee two days earlier, so he was unable to walk at all. This was his second day taking the bus from town to town, and he said he might do it again tomorrow depending how much pain he was in.
Shortly after I arrived, Colum came strolling up to the table and, like me, was truly spent and ready for a beer. He checked into the hostel, while Alan went to the pilgrims’ albergue next door and joined us ten minutes later.
Pain aside, we were all in good spirits. It was an instant “Camino party.”
I sat with everyone for a while, watching beers disappear as fast as they were served. Everyone got drunk under the table, as stories flew around at an ever-increasing volume, only to be drowned out by gales of laughter.
Eventually it started cooling off a bit, so I decided to go to my room to take a hot shower and a short nap before dinner. Since the only restaurant in town was at the hostel, I agreed to meet Camino Patrick and the others in the dining room at eight. That gave me an hour and a half to rest.
I went to lie down but found I didn’t need a nap today, unlike the past two weeks when, at the end of the day, I all but passed out. I was definitely getting stronger and, apart from my crazy sore feet, I felt pretty good. I was especially grateful not to have the “Camino funk,” as the coughing, chest-cold thing was being called among the pilgrims. More than half of those staying at the pilgrims’ albergues and many of those staying in the hostels had some version of it. In fact, it was the main talk of the Camino.
I relished the hot shower in my room and the nice warm blankets on my bed that made up for the absence of heat. I also cherished my privacy. At least I wasn’t sick.
I decided to close my eyes after all, and the next thing I knew it was morning.
Day 16
(19 km; 12 mi)
Frómista to Carrión de los Condes
I woke up to another freezing-cold but sunny day, and looking out my window, I could tell the wind was blowing, but not as intensely as it had been the past two days. I was tired today and didn’t feel like walking at all. “I wish I could take a taxi to Carrión,” I said out loud. But Gumby was staring me down, as if to say, “You wouldn’t.”
“Fine,” I snapped back at him as I threw off my sleeping bag. “Don’t guilt-trip me!”
I stood up and tested my feet. They hurt all along my arches. The hostel I was staying in was fairly modern and for some reason I had been checked into a handicapped-equipped room (Camino humor, no doubt). So I shuffled to the shower, where I was able to sit down on a chair placed in there and relax under a stream of hot water until I woke up.
I dried off, still feeling tired, but resigned to keep moving. I then peeled my socks, underwear, and wool shirt from the luxurious towel heater on the wall where I had placed them after I rinsed them out last night. They were toasty warm and felt wonderful, helping me shake off the final remnants of resistance I had been feeling.
Before my socks went on, I doctored my feet with medical tape and downed extra arnica pills to ease my
pain. That did help some. I put some ibuprofen into my pocket to take with my breakfast for added relief. I threw everything into Cheater; grabbed my little purse, which held my passport, credit cards, my pilgrim’s passport, my list of hostels and phone numbers, and some euros; threw it into Pilgrim; and took everything to the front desk.
While I’d had a great time at the party last night, I looked forward to my solitude and silence once again today. I wanted to listen to my heart and to God instead.
Holy Mother God,
I am listening. Please guide me this day.
Amen.
Over the past few days, I’d begun noticing a significant difference in vibration between my ego mind and my spirit. Whenever my ego was reflecting on my life, I felt like such a victim, so isolated, rejected, alone, and unloved. It roared with indignation, taking offense at so much and so many, some of whom I had not even seen for years. It found fault with everyone and blamed all who were in my path for my unhappiness. It was amazing, actually, to observe my ego in action.
I knew my ego was not my true spirit, but never before had I recognized how destructive it was. It didn’t want resolution. It didn’t want to be peaceful and filled with compassion. It certainly was not forgiving. Quite the opposite. My ego wanted to feel hurt, to suffer, to see others as enemies, and to retaliate.
Fortunately, the more I walked, the less interested I was in my ego. In fact, I was getting to the point where I could only listen to it for a short while before I got bored with it, noticing it sounded more like a broken record than anything else.
I saw how it prevented me from moving forward and tried to suck me back into drama and suffering. I saw how it sabotaged my effort to reach more peaceful ground. As I walked I also observed my ego trying to regain control, as it knew it was losing its influence on me fast.
It was trying to do everything in its power to seduce me back down the rabbit hole of pain. It threw negative thoughts, like poison darts, into my head, telling me that Patrick wanted to hurt me, that my divorce was going to be awful, that I had better watch my back, that I would be the laughingstock of so many people who would call me a failure. It wouldn’t give up in its desperate attempts to have me in its fearful grips once again. But unlike when I first began walking the Camino, these thoughts simply didn’t stick anymore. They rose and fell away, at first like exploding fireworks in my brain, but now more like weak fireflies at dusk. They were there, but they had no power over me anymore.
I breathed deeper and felt more alive than ever. The air was cold earlier this morning, but now it had warmed up quite a bit and I had to take off my jacket, then my wool shirt. I ended up walking in only a T-shirt, as I was in a full sweat.
The path was gentle and flat. I thought about my brother Bruce for the first time in a while. I felt his presence all morning long. He wasn’t a traveler like I was. He often thought I was crazy for traveling so much and told me so. I almost bought him a T-shirt from a shop a few towns back because that was my tradition with him. He liked the T-shirts I brought him and he looked forward to getting them from me. I was already at the checkout counter when I remembered that he was dead. I couldn’t believe that I had totally forgotten. I missed him and was sad that I couldn’t give him that T-shirt.
I enjoyed the walk and sang hymns and songs, and talked to my Higher Self and my ancestors, as I felt they were close to me. I knew I was being escorted on this pilgrimage, and I was grateful for their unseen support. I was recovering my spirit. I was releasing what was not serving me and felt my difficult karma with relationships was coming to an end. I wasn’t there yet. But I knew I was well on my way.
Eventually I entered a town known for its Templar cathedral. I could see it in the distance. It was a massive structure, and I could feel the power that built it. I paused and looked at it for a few moments. I remembered this place somehow. Not as a place where I had lived. But as place I nevertheless knew well.
As I got closer, I noticed a plaza directly in front of the cathedral filled with pilgrims eating lunch and drinking coffee. I walked over to the wall surrounding the cathedral, set down Pilgrim and my walking poles, and began to ascend the stairs.
It was an eerie feeling, a complete déjà vu experience. I was overwhelmed with a strange sense of nostalgia as I looked at the carvings all around the entrance. My heart was pounding. I walked in and looked around. It was an immense structure but not necessarily an impressive or beautiful one. There were not many adornments; it felt cold and severe inside.
It was not a place that felt alive. I took a seat and closed my eyes. I wanted to feel it rather than see it. Instead of opening the door to the past, as I had expected it would, I suddenly felt the door was closing. I shook my head to check and see if I was registering the energy correctly.
I was. I prayed, under my breath, to be free of the karma associated with this place and with the Knights Templar. It was all just so heavy. I prayed for all the souls in my life who were connected to this history, and for their freedom and peace. I prayed for my parents, my brothers and sisters, those relationships I had just ended, and for Patrick. I also especially prayed for my daughters that they would forever be free of this soul story or the family patterns that both Patrick and I had brought to them. I prayed for forgiveness from everyone, as well. I yearned with all my heart and soul to be forgiven for any pain I had caused anyone, but especially my precious daughters, whom I knew I had hurt with the ugly drama between Patrick and me. I was so sorry and told them so.
The cords were breaking. I was slowly freeing myself. Something big inside me was shifting. I felt less caught up in the past. I was feeling freer to go forward in peace.
I sat for a while and said a rosary. Then I got up and walked around. In the back of the cathedral was a place in which to put my own stamp in my pilgrim’s passport book.
I walked outside into the blinding sun. I reached over to pick up my poles and Pilgrim, then turned around and saw Camino Patrick sitting at a table at the café, in the sun, smiling brightly at me.
“Hi, Patrick. How are you today?” I asked as I plopped down at this table.
He said he was starting to feel better. He had met two young people from the Hungarian basketball team in the pilgrims’ albergue last night, and they doctored him up with some strange natural remedies that surprisingly worked.
I asked if I could join him, although I already had, which he gladly welcomed, then I went inside the café to order my favorite, an egg bocadillo and a Coke.
I wandered back outside and sat down, asking Camino Patrick if he had gone in to see the cathedral yet. He hadn’t. He didn’t even seem that interested.
I was surprised. My connection to this place was powerful and this was a highlight of the Camino so far for me. He seemed to have no connection to it at all.
We sat for a while, not saying much, and then he asked if I would watch his backpack while he went to visit the cathedral.
He walked off and was back less than five minutes later. I asked what he thought of it, to which he said, “Eh. It’s okay. I wasn’t all that impressed.”
I laughed. To each their own Camino.
We sat for a while and watched as other pilgrims came and went. Soon I saw John with Alexia, as he hobbled down the cathedral stairs. Apparently he had decided to walk today after all, though he looked as though he were in pain. When they saw us they came over to say hi, but said they were moving on. Camino Patrick asked me if we could walk together to Carrión. I hesitated because I really preferred to walk alone and in silence. But we weren’t that far away, so I broke my rule and agreed. A few hours wouldn’t make that much of a difference. Besides, everything on the Camino happens for a reason. I felt walking with Patrick was part of that reason today.
It did help me forget my burning feet to be distracted by his company. We were soon on our way. As we walked I asked him more about his life. He told me that he loved to pray and that it was a big part of his life. He had originally wanted to be a p
riest, but that plan got sidelined and he ended up becoming an engineer instead. He lived on a small island off the upper peninsula of Michigan, and the parish priest there had ruined his experience of going to church with his caustic energy and rotten, angry attitude.
He decide to do the Camino because he had seen the movie The Way with Emilio Estevez and Martin Sheen a few years earlier and wanted to have the same life-changing experience as the people in the movie had. Then he asked me if I had my rock to carry to Cruz Ferro. I told him I didn’t know about the rock or Cruz Ferro. I hadn’t seen the movie.
“Oh, Sonia, it’s a big part of the Camino,” he said. “It is the place where all the pilgrims leave their burdens behind. You have to find a rock that represents your burdens and carry it to Cruz Ferro so you can take part in that tradition.”
“How big is the rock you are carrying?” I asked him.
He said, “Not too big.”
“I’m going to find a big rock,” I said. “I want to leave all my burdens behind.”
He laughed. “Are you sure you want to carry a big rock?”
“Absolutely! I am transporting my bag, so I can carry a really big rock.”
I looked around as we walked and my eye was soon drawn to a big rock alongside the road. I bent down and picked it up. It was fairly hefty. This was it. This was my rock, and it needed to be from this place on the Camino, at the point of my letting the past go.
“Yes, that is quite a big rock. Are you sure it’s big enough, Sonia?” Patrick asked, amused.
I thought for a moment as I held it in my hand. “Yes, it feels right,” I answered. “This is the one.”
I put it in Pilgrim and we continued on.
We walked and talked—it was a nice change to enjoy Camino Patrick’s company. But not too long after I found the rock, I started feeling lousy, like I had a fever coming on. I started to cough. In no time a massive headache descended upon me and I lost all my energy.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 21