I woke up in Herrarias at 5:30 for an early start. Clive and Jerique were in the bunks next to me but had decided to take it easy- they didn’t have to be in Compostella until 2 days after me, and I knew I had to pick up the pace if I was to, in the end, make my flight out of Madrid back home. So I got up quietly and left in the dark alone.
There’s something about walking through a small town early in the morning, before anyone is up. No sound, not even the faint crow of a rooster yet. The words that come to mind: ephemeral, elusive, eternal. It was very peaceful, untilI I ran into some crazy French woman who insisted that La Faba, the town I was headed towards, was in the direction of Herrarias, the town i had just left.
Now, I don’t consider myself any Chingachgook (“Last of the Mohicans”- look it up) but I had just barely gotten out of Herrarias, in fact I was only about 200 meters from the last cafe in town. Besides that little fact, at this point in my journey I usually had a general feel for what direction I should be headed. And that would be west.
After trying to tell the French woman (obviously neither of us had taken the Rosetta Stone course in each others language) that I was pretty sure I was going the right way, we parted and within a few steps I saw one of the painted yellow arrows thanks to Don Elias, the can paint carrying Citroen driving mad monk of the camino (alluded to in an earlier post) and followed it.
An aside about the mad monk- apparently when he was confronted while painting his yellow arrows (this was back in the ’80’s), he would explain that he was ‘planning an invasion’. Gauging by the number of new pilgrims clogging the camino every new day I’m out here, I would say he did his job well. Btw, I don’t even think he was a monk, I just like the sound of “mad monk”.
After another kilometer, the path left the paved road, and there was one of the traditional way markers so i knew i was headed the right way. It was still dark and i walked though a forest and over a stream (it seemed a little like a Grimm’s fairy tale) and ran across a little abandoned way station in the middle of the woods. The path headed uphill and I entered La Faba to a chorus of roosters. It was a beautiful little town and I found a welcoming bar/restaurant where a few pilgrims were setting out for the day, and finished my previous post while eating breakfast. This had become a favorite ritual, getting the meat of the blog posts done the night before, but refining them the next morning when my brain was fresh while sitting alone in a cafe, feeling the morning creep up my spine and begin to comfort me with it’s warm breath and a kiss. A brand new day.
I left La Faba and began to climb…
and climb…
After climbing awhile, I came upon a significant sign post- the border of Castilla y Leon and Galicia. Galicia is the final region (sort of like a county) in the journey. Campostella (my final destination) lies within Galicia.I met Stephanie (from Cologne) at the way-marker and we took pictures of each other and walked together for awhile, climbing out of the Valcarce valley amongst pines, oaks and chestnut trees.
Stephanie was the first person I had walked and talked with this day, and it made me think about my journey, and the solitary nature of it. Not that i haven’t been with others along the way, but you can only share so much with them. Sort of like life.
When you’re experiencing things with those you care about, those that you love, you reveal more, you become more intimate. And those things are the seeds that lead to friendship, and love. And well, in the end, how much more is there, really, to life than that?
I got to the top and hit a paved road, pausing to look out over the verdant valley I had just climbed through. I threw out a thank you to the people in my life and it floated out over the great expanse and hopefully into their hearts. Did you feel it?
The view was gorgeous. I paused and took some pictures. Susan Sontag had an interesting take on, well, taking pictures. She said that most tourists feel compelled to put the camera between themselves and whatever is remarkable that they encounter. It gives shape to the experience. She goes on to apply this thought to our modern world: “…the method especially appeals to people handicapped by a ruthless work ethic—Germans, Japanese, and Americans. Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work-driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to be having fun. They have something to do that is like a friendly imitation of work: they can take pictures”.
It’s kind of funny, I’m a big picture taker. My dad had a darkroom when I was a kid and I was in it all the time. But when I’m out with friends, it almost never occurs to me to take photos. I’m the one who pretty much always forgets to take a picture and post to Facebook. Hopefully it’s because I’m too busy experiencing the moment…
Yeah, that was supposed to be ironic. The camino went through a small town (O’Cebriero) that sat on the edge of the world, overlooking the valley. It seemed like the towns economy was dedicated to selling camino trinkets. I picked up a few things for a few of those people in my life that I’ve mentioned in earlier posts. My leg was still shooting pain to my brain with every step. At this point I had re-diagnosed myself as having a sprained ankle, or possibly a fracture, but after 650 kilometers or so and only another 130 to go, I didn’t care.
O’Cebriero in fact is the final resting place of Don Elias the mad spray painting monk of the camino. I gave thanks to him and, reluctantly, to Brierley for both of their guidance during my trek. Cormac jokingly contacted me via Facebook IM that he was aghast that I was dissing Brierley. I have joked about the man, but his guide book is the definitive tome on the subject, in my opinion. I joke about him because his book has become like a good friend- at some point in the relationship, you get to know the other so well, you start needling them about their idiosyncrasies. Fortunately for me, the book can’t hurl sarcasm back…
The camino headed downhill for a little while, which was tough on my ankle. O’Cebreiro is a jumping off point for a lot of pilgrims who are walking the final 100 k- If you want to get a stamp at Compestella you have to walk at least 100 meters. I wished to see some of those I had been traveling with but there were none of the gnarled, weather beaten pilgrims I had come to know. They had been replaced by mostly younger, cleaner, less piquant pilgrims. After a little while I passed by the “monumento de peregrino” (monument to pilgrims). The statue shows a pilgrim with his hand over his forehead, like he’s about to faint. Sort of how I felt, with my damned ankle.
The camino then led me through a piney forest… before traversing the top of a windy hill. Then it led downhill again along the side of the road, through some small towns. At the first one I found a fountain, one of the ones that provide water for pilgrims. I put my ankle under the cooling stream hoping for some healing. I got wet socks. Hmm…was this a sign? I’m pretty sure It was the camino telling me I should so some laundry next stop.
I continued on. The path ran by the side of the highway. It was10 feet wide, pretty flat, the pain was still shooting through my leg with every step, and I still had over 100k to go. I started walking backwards on downhills which seemed to help. But whats funny is, just as taking this sojourn implanted itself in my brain and became a fact a few moths ago, there was no question I would simply grit my teeth and complete my journey, no matter the pain. The “spiritual” reasons for me finishing were more powerful than a little physical discomfort I suppose.
The final 10 kilometers or so were pretty much a downhill slog that seemed like it would never end. I hit the valley floor but still had several kilometers to go before getting to Triacastela, my final destination for the day.
As I walked into town, an old toothless woman standing in a doorway spoke to me in Spanish and was gesticulating, beckoning me up the hill (I think), to the auberge on the street above. It was comic, I wondered if she was on their payroll. I was kind of in that place where pain and exhaustion collide, where all you can do is laugh, or cry.
But the place was close so, sprained ankle and all, I slouched up the hill to a brand new 3 story auberge obviously built specifically for pilgrim traffic. It was sort of antiseptic, but damn it was nice.
When I got to my room, I met a French woman, Juliette, and we were comparing injuries. Her leg was messed up too, and she told me there was a pharmacy up the street that was open. I showered and walked up to the pharmacy and stocked up on ibuprofen, some tape, and even splurged on a new pair of reading glasses (my old ones had been held together by a paper clip for a few weeks).
A block off the main street I found a cool little section of town that seemed to cater to the locals. At least there was food, singing, merriment. I sat down for a late dinner (it was already 830, but still blazing hot). I hadn’t seen anyone in town that I knew, until about half way through my meal Asia happened to walk by. As with the times before, we had to laugh, as we were both shocked to run into each other again.
She said she could only stay for 5 minutes but I poured her a glass of wine (I had plenty to share since, as usual, an entire bottle had come with dinner) and we talked for an hour. She left, I finished eating and went back to my place and sat out on the balcony, which had a great view of the valley and the old town.
It reminded me of one of the first times I went to Amanda’s place. She made dinner and then we sat outside under a blanket, gazing at the lights of Los Angeles below and sipping (or maybe guzzling) wine. We may have nodded off for awhile.
On the way home I got pulled over by the cops. It was late, probably a weekend. You may think I was pulled over for driving erratically, or maybe for being drunk. Or perhaps one of my tail lights was out.
After being grilled by the woman cop, she handed me back my license and registration and admitted that she pulled me over because I had had my windows open, was playing music a little loud, and singing. Now, I can see her busting me for my singing which is admittedly pretty bad, but come on!
I guess I was being a little child like. Probably because I felt like a kid. I was happy again. Happy that I had just spent time with someone who appreciated me, who made me feel whole, someone who wanted to hold me in their arms and not let go. If I had gotten a ticket, I suppose it would’ve read: “Music playing above an acceptable volume level, and failure to sing on key”.
I drove home laughing to myself at the experience and looking forward to the next time I’d see Amanda, and how I would tell her about being busted, how much I appreciated her, and whether she knew it or not, how much she had already given me, in the short time I had known her.
-“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”
-Winston Churchill
It was dark when I left Triacastella. After a few kilometers I went through a another little village that looked storybook-like. We’re talking the shire. Well, with modern appliances and wifi I’m sure. After crossing a small bridge, the path climbed out of the village and turned into a dirt road. I caught up with some other pilgrims and passed them by, even with my throbbing ankle. One guy was on his cell phone to someone back in the states, going on about his blisters, so I nicknamed him Mister Blister. Hey- you gotta do something to entertain yourself when you’re walking 785 kilometers across Spain by yourself.
The sun started to peak around the hill it was hiding behind and began to warm things up. The day crept in as it always does, the universe giving us crazy humans another chance to maybe, just maybe start to get it right. I could see the valley below shrouded in fog. It was beautiful country, and the fog was keeping things cool.
After another kilometer or two the path went back into an idyllic little forest and I expected to see Bilbo and Frodo knocking back a few pints. Hobbits could be Irish if they were just a bit more caustic, depressed, and ate more potatoes. Hell, they would probably be even be a little bit more melancholy if their weather sucked as much as Irelands’, or if they understood a little better how life can break your heart.
I passed up a cafe and then had second thoughts, so I turned back and decided to grab a bite and write a little. Partly due to my injury I decided to diverge from my usual routine (I figured I could use the assistance whether it be physical, spiritual, or caffeine induced), so I got a chocolate croissant washed down with a red bull, and finished with a cafe con leche. Uh huh, that’s what Im talkin’ ’bout.
As I was eating, writing and getting my buzz on, who should show up but Asia, along with the California Girls (mentioned in an earlier post). We laughed at, once again, the serendipity of it all. And even though the California girls were young enough to be my daughters, we started cracking jokes and trading sarcasm right off the bat. After speaking less and less with native English speakers, it was kind of funny to meet and talk to fellow Californians. Its almost like you have your own language- Californiaese. Since you have common ground you can communicate at a deeper level without even knowing the person, or so it seems to me.
The girls left while I was finishing my writing. I packed and was probably about 5 minutes behind them. Funny thing, Asia and I had always just stumbled across each other by chance, and as I mentioned earlier, I thought I would never even see her after the bus ride from Pamplona at the very beginning of my journey. Since I was right behind her and the California girls, I figured I would soon run into her again. I never did.
The camino continued out of the hills. The fog was still out, but off in the distance i could see Sarria, the end of the day for many (if you were following the Brierley itinerary) but not me. The camino traveled along the side of the highway for awhile as the fog dissipated, so I stopped and converted my long hiking pants to shorts. I saw this funny sight- a farmer with his little tarrier trotting along side of him:
After another few kilometers I was in Sarria. There was no reason to stay in this town- it was another small but “modern” Spanish town, kind of dirty, at least the part I walked through. But things changed after I crossed the river on the outskirts of town.
I sat at a cafe on the river and had a Nestea (a cold and caffeinated option to the Cokes I had become fond of) and finished the breakfast sandwich I had wrapped up earlier. I nursed my throbbing leg at a table while I watched the river roll on, not even stopping to notice the folly that was going on around it. I was moving on, just wasn’t sure how far.
After leaving Sarria, the path moved along the side of the highway for awhile. Not the most picturesque walk, but easy on my throbbing ankle.
After a kilometer or two, that path moved away from the highway and through small corn fields bordered by tall trees (not the wide open fields of the Meseta back around days 10-13, just after Burgos) and the day warmed up. That question of how far I was going to walk today was answered pretty quickly, in fact after about 3.6 k.
It was when I came across Casa Barbadello. The sign only had to mention one thing- swimming pool! I tarried a bit, knowing my goal was to crawl another 5-7 k or so, but…well…did I mention it had a swimming pool? And it was getting hot. Oh yeah, and my leg was fucked up. So I stopped.
The place occupied a little rise above the camino, with a sort of terrace that commanded a view. I checked in, met an Aussie couple in my room that I had ran across a few times (I referred to them as the Australians, they referred to me as the American) , washed my clothes, soaked my feet in the pool, and then sat down and wrote, and had the best paella thus far on my journey.
I felt so far away from everything I had known, but I didn’t feel alone, which is one of the main reasons I was here. To remind me of something I used to know about myself but, somewhere along the line, I had lost track of. It was reminding me of how to stand on my own two feet, and reconcile the past with what I had set out to do (fumbling and tripping along the way) so many years ago.
Early in my journey, I met an older gentleman from England. We waked together for a little while, really just a brief cup of coffees worth in the grand scheme of things. Typically, to further the conversation (after introducing ourselves) I asked what had brought them here, to walk the camino.
He told me he was there to think about a friend of his, who had recently committed suicide. He told me he had no idea that his friend was despondent, and that he would ever think of committing such an act. I asked him if he had figured anything out yet. He smiled and said, “not really, but I wish I could’ve brought him here, I think it may have helped him understand a few things about himself and maybe…well…
His voice trailed off and we walked in silence for awhile. Not too long after our conversation, we separated and I never saw him again. I thought about his friend. Some say that suicide is a selfish act. I don’t think I could ever do it. I’m too selfish for that. That may be the first joke written about suicide ever.
Suicide is typically seen as a decision made out of hopelessness, isolation and loneliness. But maybe it can be seen as a great sadness at the very core of one’s emotional being. Is it due to a slow building, gnawing sense of hopelessness that at some point overwhelms you? Or maybe it can be traced to an event, or a series of events. To something that wants to change that emotional core. And let me tell you, the brain don’t like change.
Maybe it’s when something you believed to be true with every thread in the fabric of your being has irrefutably changed forever, has been disrupted, overturned. Or maybe you finally concluded with certainty that something you thought was going to become a reality (a dream, love, finding Sasquatch) was just not going to happen. Maybe it’s when hopes, dreams and wishes die.
So, that voice in the back of your head knows that you’re life will never be the same. And that voice doesn’t like change. Change, even if your capable of it, takes a hell a lot of work, especially if it’s changing the very essence of your being. So if your being, soul, whatever you want to call it, tells you it’s not up to the task (and that voice can be very loud) there aren’t too many options, especially if you’re incapable of reaching out. Unless you can live with the pain every day. But is that really living?
In this proud land we grew up strong We were wanted all along I was taught to fight, taught to win I never thought I could fail
No fight left or so it seems I am a man whose dreams have all deserted I’ve changed my face, I’ve changed my name But no one wants you when you lose Don’t give up ‘Cause you have friends…
Got to walk out of here I can’t take anymore Going to stand on that bridge Keep my eyes down below Whatever may come And whatever may go That river’s flowing That river’s flowing
-Peter Gabriel
Does your relationship with your wife leave you feeling bad about yourself? Do you frequently feel misunderstood, rejected, vilified and devalued in your relationship? Do you feel trapped or stuck? Do you believe it’s possible for men to be emotionally abused by women?
Believe it. It happens all the time. The stereotype of an abusive relationship is that of a man physically beating a woman. Society has yet to acknowledge the vast number of women who emotionally abuse men.
In fact, the men who are being abused oftentimes don’t realize that their wife’s behavior is abusive. If you walk on eggshells around your partner because you’re afraid she’ll flip out on you for minor transgressions or simply because she’s in a bad mood, you’re experiencing emotional abuse. If nothing you do, no matter how hard you try pleases her, you’re experiencing emotional abuse. If she regularly puts you down, criticizes or demeans you through name-calling and humiliation,you’re experiencing emotional abuse. If she shuts you out, gives you the cold shoulder or refuses to have sex with you in order to control your behavior, you’re experiencing emotional abuse.
Emotional abuse is like a cancer that eats away at your psyche until you’re left feeling powerless, worthless, anxious and/or depressed. Most of the time it happens so gradually that you don’t notice it. You explain away the first few tantrums, emotional outbursts and rage episodes. You take her criticisms to heart because you want to please her.
You can’t fix this. You can’t make her stop. You can’t make your relationship better. You can go to all the therapy sessions in the world and read all the How to Understand Women books on Amazon, but you won’t be able to change her behavior. Why?
First, it’s highly unlikely that your wife will see her behavior as abusive because “everything’s your fault” and, most importantly, her abusive behaviors are how she gets what she wants. It’s a learned and highly effective behavioral technique, which, even if she gains awareness about it, will be terribly difficult (if not impossible) for her to break. The goal of an abuser is control and the way they control you is through emotional abuse.
I had spoken with Amanda the previous night before dinner (here’s the shot of last night’s paella for those who missed it) and had another, rousing, spirited conversation with her. One of the reasons I came here was to think about our relationship (amongst other things), maintain some distance from her (for both her and my sake) and think about what we had mistakenly dove into a year before (not the fact that we got together, but how we proceeded with reckless abandon). But damn, I just loved sitting at the Casa Barbadello overlooking the pretty little valley, and kibitzing with that woman. After we hung up, I realized another thing she has shown me- how to start loving myself again. It started out by her gently commenting about my appearance.
I used to not care what I looked like, the clothes I wore, etc. I wanted everyone to form their opinion of me, care for me, love me based on what was inside. Maybe that’s being self-absorbed. Maybe this is the bane of a hopeless romantic. Maybe it’s what it takes to be insightful about yourself, and human nature. Fuck I don’t know.
For the most part (and maybe even the whole part) how well can anyone really know themselves? And, so how in the hell can anyone else really know what’s inside us? How well can we ever really know each other? And why in the hell do I keep on bringing up these existential questions?
For me, this idea that external appearance was superficial and that all that mattered was inside probably stems back to when I was young, another defense mechanism to keep me from getting hurt. There was a time that I thought of myself as being pretty worthless (I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one). To keep my balance, the voice in the back of my head told me “Hey, it’s OK. They don’t really know you. Once they do, then they’ll see, they’ll understand, they’ll come to love you”.
Unfortunately they needed to learn some of these things about me before they got close. It’s kind of a Catch-22. Speaking of Catch-22 (the novel) like Yossarian, I’m here partly to regain control of my own life.
And so, when you don’t care about yourself, you demonstrate this to the world by, well, not taking care of yourself both externally and internally. You write off your appearance, what you wear, what you look like. Maybe you forego going to the dentist and doctor for regular checkups and cleanings. You really don’t care how you treat yourself. Because, well, you don’t give a fuck about yourself.
And let’s face it, your external appearance is the first barrier of someone getting to know you, the first thing thats going to signal to another whether or not you want to communicate, interact with them. So if no one is going to bother to try, you’re protected, and you can’t get hurt. Mission accomplished. Over the last few years of my marriage, I learned not to care much about myself.
We all live inside our heads, and how well does anyone ever really know us? Maybe what love is (or even life for that matter), is spending a lifetime really trying to give, trying to communicate, trying to hand over that ephemeral piece of your heart, your very being to others. And if you’re lucky, to hand over all of your heart to the one person you find that makes your heart flutter, and a smile creep over your face when you see them, knowing that they care for you.
From what Ive seen, it’s probably the best part of life. Well, maybe behind sex and chocolate. And when I think about it, the stubborn insistence that people judge me, or like me, or love me due to what I knew was inside was all just a smoke screen to keep me from getting hurt.
Before I took this journey, with the help of two people who’ve shown me my worth, who know me better than anyone, I’d began to see myself as a different person, and began to invest my external self with the same worth I know is inside me (the same worth that is in each and every one of you, by the way). And it feels good, and right.
Sometimes it’s just hard to remove oneself from the walls one builds around oneself (that our society and culture have a strong hand helping with), to see the beautiful creature that’s just waiting to be shown to the rest of the world. Do me a favor. Don’t wait any longer.
I woke up at Casa Barbadello at 5:30. After I came out of the bathroom from brushing my teeth, everyone in the room was up and packing for their walk. At this point, packing and getting out of the auberge was pretty much automatic, which helps when it comes to not leaving stuff behind. I guess the chaotic bag of fuck that I was when I first stepped foot on the camino has been somewhat refined, although I still have some steps to take.
I threw the last few things I had yet to pack into my bag and headed out just behind a couple from New Zealand I had met briefly. As we walked in the dark, the road split at a house. They immediately took the path to the right. After a little investigation, I saw the way-marker on the path to the left and took it. I yelled softly to let them know but they were already too far away.
The path was quiet, flat, and dark, and it ran through a light forest of deciduous trees. The wind whispered softly, my footsteps forming the only sounds. It was tranquil, peaceful. I imagined my friends going about their daily lives as I tripped lightly down this centuries old path, half a world away. Would I be changed upon my return? What about my epiphany? I hadn’t even received notification via text yet, although maybe I’d gotten an email- I haven’t been checking it regularly.
Finally the path emerged into a corn field, than hit a highway. There i saw the father and his son that I had met briefly the night before in my room checking out their GPS. I must say, near the beginning of the journey, I had referred to my gps twice. But I think that due to my newfound independence and reliance on myself, I had more or less chosen not to consider it anymore.
I simply had chosen to go with my instincts (I told a story early on about looking at maps vs. using instinct). Intellect is awesome, but I think it can sometimes overshadow the other side- the crazy, emotional, burning part of each of us. As Springsteen wrote “…mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun. But mama…that’s where the fun is”. We just might be denying ourselves a part of life, and ourselves, that’s worth checking out…
I had walked through a small town and then entered into farmland again when I spotted a familiar gait, and a water bottle dangling from a right hand. When I got close enough I blurted out a cheery greeting that had to do with the stench of the cowshit we had just passed (the camino provides!). Aviva turned her head and smiled.
We walked together for awhile under light clouds and the dawning of the day until we came to a small town where we sat down at a little place outside for breakfast. It was still cloudy and cool as we downed our cafe con leche. Aviva hadn’t been able to sleep so she had left Portomarin at 430 which is why she had caught up to me, that and my slower pace due to my friggin ankle. The father and son I had met earlier joined us at our table.
Aviva and I left together and after a few kilometers we hit a milepost- the 100 k marker. We stopped for a few minutes, as other pilgrims were there and we all switched phones, taking pictures of each other. To diverge from the path (so to speak) for a moment- a pilgrim is a traveler who is on a journey to a holy place. Typically this is a physical journey (often on foot) to some place of special significance to the adherent of a particular religious belief system. “In Christianity, the concept of pilgrim and pilgrimage may refer to the inner path of the spiritual aspirant from a state of wretchedness to a state of beatitude”.
Well, I don’t really adhere to a particular religion, but like many I consider myself spiritual, which means either you’re too much of a chicken-shit to be an atheist or agnostic, but you still believe the world (and by extension your life) has some sense to it, and you prefer to see the world as having some magic and grace. I guess it’s simply about attitude, and how we were taught to perceive the universe. To quote Einstein again (for those who missed the earlier post, or just need to be reminded): “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is”.
And before you go laughing at my naïveté, let me say that I think what he was getting at was that consciousness and existence itself are miracles (as a scientist, he appreciated the odds of us humans coming into being. (Hmm… interesting… human+being), and so every moment of our lives should be considered a miracle, even if we don’t appreciate it, or are able to understand it in that light. Just the fact that human beings came into existence much less have intelligence, consciousness, half a brain (although sometimes I question that- just look at a certain presidential contender), is a miracle.
Again, the quote is about attitude, and how we perceive the world. Previously I wrote that we had a choice. I’m not sure if we do, but we can make the choice to try and change our minds to perceive the world differently through things like meditation, going on a spiritual quest that pushes the mind and/or body out past the normal confines of ones existence, or in my case, drinking wine;).
I think my attitude has changed while being out here, and I certainly can lay claim to being somewhat in a state of wretchedness when the spirits pushed me to the camino. And as I’ve mentioned before, I’m still confounded as to how the universe conspired to embed this walk in my soul, making it impossible for me to ignore it. I swear the ghost of Einstein had something to do with it.
Aviva and i continued to walk together, we walked through a town- Ferreiros. It was still early, nothing much was going on. We traveled across a bridge and large river. Then the camino paralleled an asphalt road for awhile. Off in the distance I could see Portomarin, where Aviva would rest for the evening.
I had to move on even with my throbbing ankle, if I was to make my flight back to LA in a few days. It’s kind of strange to think of getting on a plane and heading back to Los Angeles after being out here with nothing but the soles of my shoes between myself and the ground.
The path diverged from the road and went through a forest, then became a deep little crevasse, bordered by stacked stone walls for about a half kilometer. I could see that this was probably a wash when it rained- the path itself was rutted, stone filled, about a 30 degree grade downhill. I stood at the top as Aviva went ahead, knowing this would wreak havoc with my ankle. And it did. Aviva politely waited for me, or maybe she sensed that I was hurting, due to the fact I had been bitching about it and was groaning now and then.
After emerging from this chasm of pain and torture that was like the path leading to the the Ploutonion at Hierapolis, it was a short walk to a long bridge over the “Embalse de Belesar”, a reservoir that harbored the town of Portomarin. As I reached the far end of the bridge, I saw another sight that thrilled me and my ankle to no end- about a hundred steep steps to climb into town. I looked at the 100 or so steps and winced, knowing my ankle wouldn’t be happy. It wasn’t. In fact it was pissed off. At the top of the stairs, the camino went left but the auberges were right, so I left Aviva probably for the last time.
I walked through the town looking for an ATM. There was an outdoor farmers market going on. I like the feeling of walking through these, peeking into the daily lives of those in a different culture. They are simply going through the experiences of every day, while I was…well…walking across Spain with a screwed up ankle carrying everything I needed on my back. I found a quiet cafe and sat down to rest my ankle and check out Brierley, and where I might end up for the day, although these days I was kind of playing it by ear.
Sitting by myself once again, I felt a certain sense of freedom. Freedom can be a scary thing. Freedom as in “…nothing left to lose…” (Kristofferson). Freedom as in having to take full responsibility. The freedom that provokes a “dizzied anxiety”, a challenge, the ultimate test of human failure and success” (Nietzsche). And who wants that? It’s easier to sit down and binge watch “Game of Thrones”. And by the way, when have you seen Kris Kristofferson and Fred Nietzsche quoted together in the same paragraph?.
Freedom is being brave enough to let others be what they truly are, and do what they must do, while you do the same. It takes fearlessness. And to be fearless you must cast away doubt. Doubt is just another defense mechanism. But it stops us from acting. Doubt is a pause between kisses. It’s a bullet in the chamber of a .45 in a game of Russian Roulette. Doubt stops us from waking up in the middle of the night and looking over and seeing a beautiful silhouette glowing in the moonlight and whispering “thank you”. Doubt stops us from feeling joy, pain, laughter, tears. And from living.
Accepting to be truly free does present a certain amount of uncertainty. I know uncertainty well, it’s what contributed to the pit in my stomach every morning for the year prior to walking the camino. Someone once said: “Madness is the result not of uncertainty, but of certainty “ Think Marlon Brando, at the end of Apocalypse Now.
One last thing about freedom. When someone loves you freely it gives you a better chance of being loved freely in return. True freedom to allow others to be what they are, and do what they do. And us to do the same. Try and give the best of yourself. Love, encouragement, devotion, and hope that the other gives all their best as well. I’ve learned that you have to do your best to throw away your insecurities (that’s a whole other thing that I think fucks up a lot of us and takes a lot to rid ourselves of) and not be afraid of losing someone else’s’ love by expressing your freedom. If they truly love you, and have dealt with the emotional issues that life has hoisted on them (as you hopefully have), then both of you can be free, and live and grow together. Maybe this is what defines a mature relationship. But then again, as I’ve stated before, what the fuck do I know?
“And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. and we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh” -Fred Neitzche
I walked out of Portomarin following a few pilgrims who seemed to know where they were going. I ambled through a forest for awhile, then the path flattened out and I was into fields of hay, some with hay bails, some mowed. I reasoned that after leaving Aviva, I would no longer run across any of my recent traveling companions, as I was having to walk longer and further to make my flight.
After a little while, I left the wheat fields and was traveling through the edge of another forest, a road to my left. After a few kilometers, the camino moved into open fields. There were still clouds out so it remained cool. I was pretty much traveling alone. A little cross reminded me of the religious significance of this pilgrimage for some, although mostly for, it seems, some of the older pilgrims I had met.
After awhile, the camino moved into small fields bordered by trees and it got windy. I had walked 35 k and so I stopped in Ventas de Naron. There were 2 auberges, both with a bar/restaurants and tables and chairs outside and that was pretty much it. I checked into the one place where a bunch of cyclists were outside having lunch. By the time I was settled, I went outside to find the place empty.
So I wandered over to the one other joint in town, got a cafe con leche, and sat down to write. After a little while, who should come and sit down but my friend Michael the polish dude/writer/etc. His wife Miciaj eventually joined us, we talked some and they gave me some recommendations of where to go on the last few days of my journey. and then they went inside, as they were staying at the auberge I was writing at.
I worked a little more and glanced over my shoulder and saw a face I thought I may have seen in passing a few times on the camino. As he walked up to me I realized I was wrong: it was actually Pascal, the laughing Belgian. it was such a joy, and a surprise to see him since it had been some time since our last running into each other. I so didn’t think I would ever see him again unless I made it over to Belgium.
I would usually see him as he plodded along, and I passed him. In addition to him walking slower than I, he had had a leg injury early on. But there he was. And he was smiling. And we started laughing. We had dinner together and talked about where we had been, the people we had walked with, and those we both knew (Cormac, the Portland girls et al), smiling and laughing at the sheer craziness of it all. It’s funny too, I truthfully felt that I was a different person at that moment than at the last time I had seen him. It was as if he was a constant moving through the universe, that in relation to him, I could notice changes in me.
I walked back to the auberge I was staying at and lie down on my cot. It was a cool night so I pulled up the wool blanket that been had provided me around my neck, and drifted off. It reminded me of that night at Amanda’s, a blanket wrapping us in the warmth of each other, gazing at the stars and the lights of the city, and me, uttering the words that slashed a gaping lacuna into the core of our life together.
Remember that bench at Starbucks from the first post? Well, we’re back there. Amanda and I sat there, out on the sidewalk away from the busy coffee shop. We talked about the things we used to discuss: mostly her kids, our failed marriages, a project we had been working on together. She was doing her usual: laughing, crying, screaming at life. But then for me, it wasn’t the same as it used to be.
When your talking to someone you were emotionally involved with, someone you loved, and they don’t love you anymore, there are places you don’t go, things that theres no point in talking about. Like a fallow field where nothing is growing. No reason to go inspect the crop, water the field. I wanted to jump in, be engaged, but what was the point? We got up, hugged, she going off to a lunch meeting, me to therapy.
Near the end of my session I got a text from Amanda asking if I could meet her for lunch. She was having a working lunch with Jillian, a friend who Amanda was doing some work for and who I had met on previous occasions. She texted that Jillian wanted some business advice. I wasn’t sure what that meant, what advice Jillian might be looking to wrest from me. She was a writer, steaming full speed ahead on a novel about sex addiction. She had completed several drafts after working intensely with a writing coach for awhile and it just seemed like a matter of time before she got published.
I texted back, agreeing to meet them. I liked Jillian and enjoyed her insightful, albeit unfiltered view of the world. She’s witty, intelligent, sometimes keenly aware of things. I also liked having a writer friend who was serious and really pushing herself to be successful. I had learned a lot from her. And of course I had loved Amanda but was ambivalent about seeing her again. I hurried out of my therapists, quickly stopping by to snag my favorite white linen shirt. It didn’t cross my mind that it was the shirt I was wearing when I first met Amanda.
I arrived at the restaurant and the host led me to their table and let me know they were both in the restroom. I felt good, imaging that the host and waiters wondered what I had going on- having lunch with two beautiful, intelligent women. In fact, the waiters knew Amanda- she had lived close by, frequenting the place with her ex, in laws, and kids.
I thought about the coincendence of them being in the restroom at the same time. I had texted them and let them know when I was 10 minutes away so they knew when I would be arriving. Maybe I was stereotyping what usually goes on in women’s restrooms. Maybe it was my ego, imagining they were discussing me.
You know, like when you’re double dating and the two women excuse themselves and go to the powder room. The woman who has the relationship with the man on the date coaches the other woman, asks her how she feels about the guy she’s been set up with, etc. But I don’t really know. No man has ever been allowed to peer behind the curtain. And for the most part, most men who know whats good for them wouldn’t really want to. Maybe they both just had to go. Shit happens.
After a moment or two, Jillian and Amanda returned to the table. We made small talk, and then Jillian launched into what, in retrospect, seemed to be the reason I was called up to meet them. She told Amanda and I how she thought we were meant for each other, that we were good together, etc. While she laid out her case, I had to assume that her and Amanda hadn’t spoken about the state of the union.
As far as I was concerned, It was over. Thats all I had heard from Amanda for the previous few weeks, and everything that had happened over the past month indicated that it was. I interjected here and there, trying to clue Jillian into this fact, waiting for Amanda to tell Jillian that what she was saying was nice, but that it was over. Jillian finished, we all sat, a little uncomfortable and finished our lunch. Fortunately wine was involved.
Jillian had to go. Amanda asked if I would like to go outside and sit at the tables out back in the sun before we parted ways. So we did. And we talked. I don’t remember exactly what was said. I do remember talking about ourselves, our past, or feelings. We were both evasive, not wanting to hurt each other. What would be the point? Then she asked me a question. It was vague, it seemed like she didn’t want to say too much, give too much away. Several times during the conversation I asked “what do you mean by that?” I couldn’t quite make sense of her questions.
Finally, she asked another question. Again, I wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at. After a long pause, a few words implanted themselves in my brain, coursed through my nerves, and passed through my lips. It was not an answer to her question (as far as I could tell since I didn’t really understand the question anyway) but a statement.
And just like my decision to walk the camino (which wasn’t really a decision, it just was), these words spilled from my lips: “If you’re asking me if I ever stopped loving you, the answer is no”.
She started to cry. I moved over and we embraced, holding on to each other for a long time, feeling like the same lost souls that had crashed into each other 10 months before. We talked about all we had been through (suffice it to say we’d been through much more than this blog has allowed for), she told me she had always loved me, and that maybe we could see each other again. And we discussed how we had gone about it wrong before, and that maybe we could fix those things, as long as we took things one day at a time.
I was elated as I walked her to her car. But if you know anything about the hero’s journey, you know that the hero doesn’t triumph at the plot point 2/3 of the way through the movie. I knew that I still had some dragons that needed to be fought, and some lessons to be learned. But at least now I knew that there was a beautiful light holding a lantern helping show me the way, as long as I could keep my eyes and heart open enough to see it.
“Mr. X has made some progress in beginning to understand that his wife had some part in the martial strife. In the past year, Mr. X has made significant progress in that he has mostly come to terms with the idea that his wife was emotionally abusive toward him during their marriage. This was a huge step forward in dealing with his depression and feelings of failure. His understanding and (near) acceptance has allowed him to limit self-blame, experience anger, and move towards healing. The single biggest improvement has been Mr X increased positive attitude and level of optimism about the future.” -psychiatric evaluation, May 2016
Random notes from the period covered by the above psych evaluation:
We were in it together I thought. At some point I realized we weren’t. Its so sad, the loss of that.
Called myself a writer for first time.
Janice probably tries to get what she thinks she needs by using what she has learned from her past, and her upbringing. I don’t blame her.
Concerned that wife will turn daughter against me more, as money issues get challenged.
How does being a twin fuck me up?
Feel like I’m taking up more space. Flashes of how I used to be. In the moment. spontaneous.
Hannah. Ill always be there for her. I love her.
Met Amanda
Being busy is the opiate of the masses.
Cried when I wrote about looking into her eyes.
Not sleeping. Long runs. I think I’m in love with Amanda. But thats not gonna last. Things are happening for a reason. Abandonment at root. Wife stole my opportunity to care for another soul. Sad, because I was instrumental in giving life to that soul.
I feel therapy is helping. Am already introspective. Thoroughly convinced that neuropathways have changed, that some emotions are unwarranted reactions to stuff from the past. Have the feeling of I can do it, I can change things.
I have to stop looking at myself as a victim before I can take responsibility for my life again.
When I look into your eyes I can see a love restrained But darlin’ when I hold you Don’t you know I feel the same
Nothin’ lasts forever And we both know hearts can change And it’s hard to hold a candle In the cold November rain
And when your fears subside And shadows still remain, I know that you can love me When there’s no one left to blame So never mind the darkness We still can find a way ‘Cause nothin’ lasts forever Even cold November rain
I woke up in Ventas de Naron and packed quickly. I was a little later than usual so I began my day walking in the light for a change. The “town” was in hilly terrain, and the camino continued uphill for awhile towards the highest point on todays trek- 700 or so meters in altitude. It was still a little windy so I had on my pullover. There were no other pilgrims out walking, and I passed by a nice house with a brilliant display of hydrangeas out front. I smiled at the riot of color and gave thanks, something I was doing a lot of these days.
I walked alone, luxuriating in the morning as it grew warmer. After a short time I entered into woodlands again as the sun rose higher in the sky. I realized I hadn’t heard from the VITBOMH (voice in the back of my head) for awhile. You know, the guy I’ve rambled on about some. The one who sometimes informs you with bad recommendations, who chatters endlessly when you’re trying to make decisions (refer to Alan Watts “Choice”). He’s a cross between Columbo and Camus, Louis C.K. and the Angriest Dog in the World.
I know how he works. He’s like a private investigator. He analyses and assess every detail of every decision you’re trying to make. He is only searching for the truth, but through borrowed glasses that needed cleaning about 50 years ago. He takes every word, every action of others (these are the clues he uses to inform your decisions) and tries to poke holes in their story. He questions everything, and implies a sinister motive. He hates to be tricked, tripped up, made the fool. He doesn’t deal much in laughter. He is insecurity.
He knows me well, my weak spots, doesn’t care about my strengths. He’s working with me, but against me at the same time. His tactics can be underhanded. He’ll take things he’s not sure of, things that there probably isn’t a grain of truth to, and spin them so it seems as if they’re real. So real that you’re willing to believe them, to act on them, to use them as weapons to protect yourself. Sometimes you use those weapons wisely, but oft times you use them to hurt someone, maybe someone you love.
As I’ve said before, he’s just trying to protect you, from the fear you felt when you were lost from your mother for two minutes that seemed like a lifetime. From the sadness of that day when she, gnarled hands and perfume, floated off for the last time. From the heartache you endured when the first beautiful spirit that gazed into your eyes said goodbye and broke your heart.
I wondered if I’d hear from him again when I got back to “civilization” (I use that term loosely). I’d had many conversations with him early on, but had less and less of them as I walked. Maybe it was because I was moving on, filling in the void that he regularly inhabited. Maybe it’s because we’ve come to some sort of truce. Maybe it’s because I’m growing up.
After hitting the highest point of todays trek- Sierrra Ligonde, the path headed downhill into the town of Ligonde. Apparently Charlemagne loved this little hamlet. Charlemagne was a dude ahead of his time. He didn’t believe in the contractual marriages, popular in his day. Of course this was the way you became more powerful, adding other families and lineages to yours, bound by marriage. You could rely on each other when the going got tough, sort of like Theoden in Lord of the Rings, when the shit is going down some other king shows up with his daughter in tow, ready to marry one of Theodens’ sons (I think, my memory is a little fuzzy).
Apparently Chalamagnes’ daughters did get hitched in arranged marriages, but they screwed around on their arranged husbands with the men they were truly meant for, and Charlie tolerated his daughters’ extramarital relationships, even rewarding their common-law husbands. He also treasured the illegitimate grandchildren they produced for him. I guess Charlemagne believed in love.
A half a kilometer later in Eirexe I had an apple tart and cafe con leche for breakfast and sat down to write. I had been a little down- I was now certain I had left everyone I had walked with up to this point behind. There were plenty of new pilgrims walking the last 100 kilometers, but I felt more alone now than I had for the first 650 kilometers.
Not that I mind being alone. Again, it’s one of the reasons I’m here. But I think one of the points of life is, well, sharing your life with someone (hmm…where is that cynical motherfucker that would’ve laughed at that remark only a month or two ago?). I finished my danish and put on my headphones to write, watching the mad swirl of fresh, new pilgrims around me, happily joking with their friends, out for their day hike. As I whipped out my laptop a song by Colin Hay (Men at Work) came on:
I drink good coffee every morning
It comes from a place that’s far away
And when I’m done I feel like talking
Without you here there is less to say
Don’t want you thinking I’m unhappy
What is closer to the truth
Is that if I lived till I was a hundred and two
I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you
Your face it dances and it haunts me
your laughter is still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
between the laughter and the tears.
I got some writing done, but after not too long I packed up and moved on. I caught a glimpse of a guy as I put on my pack outside the cafe. I thought maybe it was Kento but I had trouble with getting my pack on so by the time I turned around he was gone. Sort of like Abraham Martin and John.
The sun was out, but I still had on my windbreaker to break the slight chill in the air. The path turned into hilly, small fields of corn, hay, rolling hills. I began to hear more and more rings from the bicycle bells of the many cyclists now racing by.
The camino passed through Palais de Rei, a more modern town than most I’ve seen. A big small town with a business district, newer apartment buildings. I followed the camino through it without stopping. By this time, I had no reason to stop in these bigger towns. I could find everything they offered (except maybe the cheap hootch- I just wanted to use “hootch” in a sentence) back home.
After traveling through the town, the camino went up a hill through stone houses, and then into a forest. It was peaceful and quiet. The wind was cool as I walked through a forest of mainly red oak. My ankle was throbbing, knowing I still had 20 kilometers or so to go. It’s funny though. Like the decision to walk the camino (or lack of decision, if you will), it was never an option to stop, maybe rest for a day, have my ankle checked out. Maybe it was a rash decision, something I would pay for it when I got home, but my gut told me that it was nothing to worry about, just a little pain. But still, it was a constant, throbbing reminder of the past.
I came across one of the little home made shrines one sees along the camino, usually made from rocks, twigs, debris. Many I had seen were messages for others who were walking the camino (“Only 340 kilometers to go Tomas!). This particular one was a homage, a prayer for a 52 year old woman from Holland who had died in her sleep in Santiago after completing her second Camino. Perhaps a reminder to you and me: Don’t wait too long to throw a few things in a pack and go walk your own Camino.
Across the morning sky,
All the bird are leaving,
Ah, how can they know it’s time for them to go?
Before the winter fire,
We’ll still be dreaming.
I do not count the time
Who knows where the time goes?
I know you’re in a hurry, but maybe you have time to listen…
After another few kilometers, I stopped at a place to use the restroom. A sign said “bano sólo para clientes” (bathroom for customers only). It seems as I get closer to the end of my journey (and more pilgrims clogged the camino), more signs like these were popping up, making it clear that many were not here to lend a helping hand, but to make a buck.
So I bought a Nestea (which had become part of my triumvirate of liquid energy, along with Coke and Red Bull) and waited, and waited. I checked the door twice but it remained occupied, so I gave up and went outside to finish my drink and thought about the Pilgrims of yore and wondered whether or not they had to buy a Nestea to get permission to take a leak..
It used to be that many of these places were around to help pilgrims, lend a hand, maybe give them some sustenance on their journey (after all, the reason they were walking was to seek some sort of spiritual “sustenance”), and others respected that, even revered what they were doing). At the very least I doubt it was insisted they buy something for the privilege of pissing in the shops fine facilities.
Back in the day (that would be a few centuries ago) these places existed as a support system to assist those on their religious journey. Pilgrims were seen as something special, and everyone respected their decision to walk across Spain to go visit the tomb of a dead saint, and were typically given a meal, a place to stay.
What would make a pilgrim decide to walk a few hundred kilometers across Spain? I would guess it was something like what had happened to me. As I’ve explained, I’m not religious, but I also know my journey was not some calculated, planned out trip I had always wanted to take. It was more like a calling. As mentioned, I had heard of the camino a few years prior but never thought about it much, but when I was at a cross roads in my life, it reappeared, not only reappeared but attached itself firmly to my breast and wouldn’t let go.
I would imagine the olden-day pilgrims’ circumstances were akin to mine: they had reached a point in their lives where they needed a chance to remove themselves, reflect on their lives, and reestablish some sort of connection between themselves, the earth, and the heavens. Maybe to help them understand where they had been, what it all means, and figure out where they needed to go with what was left of their lives. The difference is, I’m thinkin’ they left their cell phones at home.
“-Just put whatever device you have down and live your life”- Louis C.K.
I left the town, and walked a cool, shaded path. Cows grazed off in the distance. It was an Idyllic scene and reminded me of my grandparents farm in Iowa where I experienced the wonders of their simple life: fishing in a pond, riding on my grandpas’ tractor, using the outhouse. I’m pretty lucky to have grown up the way I did- my parents were pretty even-keeled, hard working, “normal”, no skeletons in the closet. They had their usual fights and disagreements, but all in all they were awesome. They did their best.
After awhile the path ran along the side a town, and I sat down at a little cafe that was more like a snack shack at a southern California beach. I purchased a red bull and pulled out Brierley, still firmly entrenched in my front pocket. OK, I’ll come clean. Ever since I left Cormac many moons ago, Brierley had become my trustworthy friend and servant, my Sancho Panza (I’m not trying to imply that Cormac, like Sancho Panza was my servant, although like Sancho he did provide humor on our journey via his donkey jokes, perhaps in lieu of riding a donkey).
I was trying to figure out where I was and how far I had come that day. My head was a little foggy, I had pretty much just put my nose to the grindstone and pushed myself forward, mostly due to my pained ankle, focusing only on “getting there”, wherever “there” might be.
I ascertained my locale by having the proprietress point to where I was in the guidebook. I smiled when I found out I was further along than I thought and raised my red bull to toast life, and the proprietress raised her coke in celebration.
As I slogged on (this was to be a 40 K day, somewhat unexpected), at least I had the beautiful day, and the fact that in this moment, I still had only a few simple things to worry about (if you could call it worry). I wouldn’t have to confront the dragons that had brought me here, at least for another few days. And hopefully I will have learned a new way to look, understand, and maybe love them, as well as myself.
Usually, in these later days, when walking I would run into a group of people and would look for someone I knew, maybe someone to share the road with for a while. But now no one presented themselves. It was usually a group of younger kids that I would run into. During the first part of the journey, it seemed like I always ran across someone to walk with for awhile. I realized that these are the things that make the days out here special, and by extension, that make life special.
I was on auto pilot when I walked through Melide, barely stopping in front of the two famed places that Michael (the polish writer) had told me about that feed every iteration of octopus under the sun to hungry pilgrims. I had to move on.
Out of town, the street I was walking on turned into a dirt path bordered by fields, and the the pain of my ankle really started kicking in. It was the afternoon, the light was beautiful (afternoon light, or “magic hour” is always the best). There were layers of hills beyond the hills. It had been cool most of the day but now it was approaching the afternoon (I was usually done by now) and getting hot.
I finally reached a little bridge that would lead me into Ribadiso de Baixo, where I hoped to stay for the night. Pilgrims were soaking their feet in the river as I crossed over the bridge. There was a small hotel that I considered but they were sold out of rooms so I trudged on.
After the bridge, I walked next to streets, mostly uphill into Ribadiso de Baixo, asking at every auberges that looked promising for a bed, but there were none. Now I kind of know how Joseph and Mary felt. I had now walked 40 kilometers with a throbbing ankle, and was a little concerned that maybe the camino wouldn’t be providing.
Finally after another few kilometers, in Arzua, I stopped at the last place just heading out of town, and they had a bed in the basement. It was a two or three story modern (well, by Spanish standards) building run by one woman named Isabel. She was a whirling dervish of energy and wise-cracks (even though I couldn’t understand some of what she said, she always ended her sentences with a warm cackle). She would check you in, take your money, and then take you on the tour, showing you the showers, laundry, etc.
After I found a bunk in the sparsely appointed basement (hey, I was lucky to have a bed) I went next door to grab a coke and write a little, to the showers, and the laundry. At each place, I would see Isabel who would greet me with a “Ahh, Marco!” like we had known each other for years. Her place was a bit understaffed and under-equipped, but she made up for it with her attitude. When I wandered to the laundry (a corridor sized room with four washers stacked in the corner and clothes lines running the length of the room, and a sink on the other end) Isabel was showing some new arrivals the laundry room.
I asked her if there were any dryers (it was later in the day and getting cooler and I was worried that my stuff wouldn’t dry by the next morning). She said no and then, after thinking a split second, went on to say “but Marco, it’s so much better to dry your clothes on the lines, naturally, in the warm air!”. She was simply making the best of the situation. I had to laugh. Maybe we should all take a cue from Isabel- all this stuff we make into such a big deal, it’ll pretty much all come out in the wash. Yes, that was intended.
I went back to my bunk and laid down, knowing I had to wake up early. A poem I had written earlier as I was walking, for Hannah, floated into my head as I drifted off:
What happened to the girl I knew
Not too long ago she had the sun in her eyes
And she laughed and held a butterfly in her hand
And coaxed the bees from the flowers to sit beside her
And asked me to sing her another song.
Now the song has ended, and a new one has one begun.
I hope you’ll sing it with me
As the days grow shorter, and the nights long.
“If it’s never our fault, we can’t take responsibility for it. If we can’t take responsibility for it, we’ll always be its victim.” Richard Bach
After someone tells you for the third or forth time to stop being a victim, you take notice. Even if it’s at a drunken family get together in Reno Nevada. A roundtable discussion about who knows what had devolved into, it seemed to me, an attack on me. But I realized afterwords (several days, after the hangover had slunk off ever so slowly) that they were right. And that the reason it happened (not that it was planned or even consciously recognized as such) was that they cared for me, and felt I wasn’t happy with the person I’d become. Maybe this is why families exist, and why we participate in these rituals, greeting each other like old friends, even though we may have nothing in common, bound only by a few errant chromosomes from the gene pool.
Before I left for Spain, I was stuck. I wasn’t able to improve things, make things better in my life no matter how hard I tried. I began to realize that this crappy place where I lived that I thought was going to be transitional had become a prison, and a metaphor for my life, a piece of shit one bedroom of fuck, with no escape.
My previous life had taught me to look at myself as limited, stuck, worthless. Like I didn’t deserve to live anywhere else, drive a nicer car, take up more space. Maybe it was being scared of throwing away the old me, of facing the unknown. Or maybe it was admitting I had failed.
I truly feel that we all imprison ourselves, by our own doing. I think that while Janice loaded the gun and pulled the trigger, I didn’t do enough to evade the bullet, and when I did get hit, to tend to my wounds. No, I played the victim, felt sorry for myself, licked my wounds. I didn’t stand up and fight back. I didn’t know how. I guess the marathon fights I had with my brother when we were young didn’t even teach me that.
Finally, after that festive bacchanal of food and drunken relatives I alluded to and the invocation of the “victim” word by my cousin (who incidentally could have painted herself as a victim due to recently losing her husband) started me wondering if it was really true. That is, several days later after the effects of the get together had been laid to rest.
The upside to being a victim is that people feel sorry for you, and they try and help. You don’t have to take action (Hey- I’m curled up in the corner over here in the fetal position feeling sorry for myself. You cant expect me to do anything, can you?). Also, you don’t have to risk anything. The biggest thing is, you don’t have to take responsibility for your own life.
One of the things I’ve learned from the camino (it actually started with my therapist, but the camino has been the ideal place to practice it) that has helped me stop playing the victim card is to practice gratitude. I mean, shouldn’t just the fact that I’m lucky enough to be able to fly to Spain and have the incredible experience of walking across it provoke some sort of gratitude from me? I’ve also wrote about others who have it worse on this planet. Isnt that enough to give thanks? Gratitude, or giving thanks sounds a little hokey, but it works. There’s actually science to back it up. Check out this video.
Another way to stop being a victim is to forgive. Forgive yourself, and those who you feel have done you wrong. Until you can release the resentment you have towards another, you will be bound to the negative emotions that created that resentment. It’s as if the event(s) that led to the resentment has become an albatross, and the resentment is the rope that ties it to your heart. Cut the rope and you’ll set it free. If you don’t forgive them you are always bound to them, and those negative emotions.
“When you think everything is someone else’s fault, you will suffer a lot. When you realize that everything springs only from yourself, you will learn both peace and joy.” ~Dalai Lama
I emerged from the shower with a hard-on. It came out of nowhere. What am I, 12? For me there are some thoughts that come up and smack me right in the face, vying for my attention immediately. Other thoughts just sort of seep in, like a leaky faucet. It takes awhile for the sink to fill up, but eventually it does. I realized I had been thinking about the last few nights with Amanda. For the first time in a long while, I had felt like I was just in the moment, and the moment was exhilarating, joyful, beautiful, out of control and exhausting, all at the same time. It felt like LIFE. And I was sharing it with someone I loved.
The afternoon in the shower happened a few days after Jillian had brought Amanda and I back together. After that day, we spent several nights together. And it was like it had been before. Maybe better. I remember lying next to her awake, as she slept, examining the musculature in her back. Even that was beautiful, perfect. It felt good to just be there, existing for the moment, both of us simply feeling good. Despite the self defeating messages and hatred we all constantly feed ourselves maybe, just maybe, we actually deserve moments like these.
As I dried myself off from my shower, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen next. Amanda and I were both still dealing with old wounds, and knew we couldn’t pick up where we had left off. But judging from the previous few nights, it seemed like there was something there, something we both still wanted. I guess we’re all just battered souls living lives of confused intent, not knowing which way to turn. We head out every morning ready to do battle with the world. It’s sad that we don’t realize that the only fight we have is with ourselves. Why in the fuck are kisses so fleeting, while the wounds we suffer leave scars that can last a lifetime?
I got dressed and sat down at my desk to write. I thanked the Universe for everything that had brought me to this place, this point in time. I thought about Janice and Hannah, and if my relationship with them would ever return to some sort of normalcy. I thought about my friends, the ones I had left behind when I chose to give most of my time to Amanda. And I thought about Amanda, and what she had given to me, what she has taught me.
And I spoke to the voice in the back of my head, and we made a tentative pact to set all our defenses aside, to let my heart lead the way, and to try and give back to those who had been holding me up, and showing me that I did have a place in this crazy dance of tears, laughter, and love. As Robert Frost said:
“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on”.
With train rides and flights and schedules to meet clouding my dreams, I was up early and left Azura in the dark. I was out the door in no more than 10 minutes. I guess I have acquired a little grace somewhere along the way.
I ran across three guys who were heading out of town so I followed them, asking them if they knew the way. It seems like they did (communication was somewhat compromised due to the language barrier) so I followed them only to ascertain… that they didn’t. I should have known- they kind of reminded me of Moe, Larry, and Curley- confiding in each other but you get the feeling that they were all just in agreement about their own misanthropic adventure, but had no idea what the hell they were doing.
So, before any eye-poking or hair pulling commenced, I stopped and checked in with Brierley and saw that it seemed like the camino left Arzua back towards the center of town, so I turned around. Pretty soon I met another guy who spoke only Italian who looked lost. He followed me and sure enough, In another half K we ran into a group who were heading down the street Brierley had guided me to, and all was good in the world, at least on the camino at 630am in Arzua Spain.
And so it went. Another morning walking with new pilgrims, most of them younger, probably mid 20’s to 30’s. For all my caustic, curmudgeonly comments (meant to be taken jokingly) in the past, I was glad to see all these “kids” out here. For whatever reasons they were here, at least they were getting out, throwing a pack on their back, and walking what was now 40 or so kilometers to Santaigo de Compostella.
Most of them probably had at least become familiarized with the religious and cultural significance of the walk, if not being here for reasons like my own. In fact I hoped they weren’t, they should be out here having a good time with their friends, having the light breath of youth carry them along on their way to the journey that is adulthood. I offered up a “buen camino” often, and had a few brief chats as I walked by.
To get an idea of who’s walking the camino, the friendly folks at the Pilgrims’ Welcome Office/24 hour convenience store in Santiago de Compostela have provided the numbers for us. In 2014, 237,886 people completed the pilgrimage. Of these, 89% arrived on foot, 11% arrived by bicycle and a few hearty souls rode horseback. Pilgrims came from Spain (48%), Italy (8%), Germany (7%), France and the U.S. (5% each), Portugal (4%) and over 150 other countries. About 28% were 30 years of age or younger, 55% were between 30 and 65 years old, and just over 16% were older than 65. These 2014 pilgrims included students, salaried employees, technicians, retirees, teachers, blue-collar workers, civil servants, homemakers, artists, farmers, unemployed people and priests.
In short order I was out of the city and walking through small fields as the sun began to peek over the trees that bordered the fields. Then I walked over a river, and back into farmland and forests. It was clear out and fog sat over some of the fields where livestock grazed. There wasn’t really anyone to talk to. I kept looking for some of my fellow pilgrims from days gone by but I saw mainly younger folks I didn’t know, and a few old guys powering through who looked like they were on a mission from god. And maybe they were.
Speaking of missions, I guess some people think that being out here, for an American, far away from his home, is something kinda extraordinary. I never looked at it that way. I guess in Spain walking the Camino is seen as special, even something to put on your resume.
But I guess in America, many of us settle for the ordinary in our lives. And I guess for a lot of us thats OK. For the most part, we don’t know any better, or maybe we just can’t escape the walls we’ve built for ourselves. That probably goes for everyone in the world. Just a reminder to you all- it’s out there. Or here. Or wherever. Maybe even in your own backyard. Or maybe on a beaten path, in Spain.
I know it’s not easy. Work, schedules, relationships. As I’ve mentioned before, I had no choice. If I’m in any way to be admired for walking the camino, remember that I’m a reluctant hero, sort of like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. And I’m not out here saving anyones life except my own. But, I thank you all for the comments and encouragement Ive received on this journey. I hadn’t been the best friend/ lover/ father/ man before I left. I wasn’t keeping up my end of the bargain. Hopefully I can set my life straight and get better at living upon my return.
For awhile I walked through fields and “forests”. Well, if a forest could be planned by an engineer anyway. Trees were lined in perfect rows, with the same exact space between each tree. Maybe they were being grown to harvest and sell, but they didn’t look like they would produce much lumber.
After awhile the path came out to the main road, and there were a few busy cafe/ bars, with tour busses out front letting off pilgrims for their day’s walk into Santiago. I stopped for a break and got a little something to eat, and a Red Bull, since it was a little later in the morning. There were a lot of pilgrims sitting outside, having a grand old time. They were in their own world, and I in mine, the gnarled, grizzled veteran of a whole 30 days on the camino, as compared to their sweet smelling, smiling selfs with day pack in tow.
The camino travelled along the side of the road for awhile, and then moved into a forest, and some small fields. I have to admit, at this point in time, I was probably already moving back into the “real world” since I have a time and place I have to be. Yes, soon I would have to confront the biggest reality of them all: time. The time of schedules, deadlines, death, taxes. The time that waits for no one. The time that is on my side. The time that, in the end, renders us helpless. The time that once, not too long ago had stopped for me.
Like the time I was sitting next to Amanda in her backyard, not too long after we had gotten together, looking out at the city below and the mountains beyond. Inexplicably at first one, then a few, then about a hundred birds congregated on a phone line above the hill running down from her yard. It was like they were gathering to see this new thing happening, a new light that was being born in the universe, a new spark of hope in the darkness. It was before we both had reasons to look away, as we stared into each others eyes.
The birds gathered, and tittered and tattered, as we discussed the things you talk about when everything is new. I joked that it was my animal magnetism they were attracted to, but I knew they were there for her. Maybe to look over her. For all her strength, resilience, and fortitude, and my scars and open wounds (mostly self inflicted) she needed them more than me. She had told me a few of the things that had scarred her, from her marriage, and her life. It explained why she would often get close to me, then retreat when she got too scared. She had good reason, and a lot of it had nothing to do with me.
I think a lot of us want to be close, but because of the past, we’re afraid of it. The closer you get to it, the greater the chance at getting hurt again. And so you get anxious, fearing the possibility of experiencing pain, and you stop. And the voice in the back of your head convinces you to retreat.
But still, we yearn for intimacy (maybe the intimacy we had with our mother and as a child) so we seek it physically (although there is nothing wrong with that, I think it’s often the first step towards real, emotional intimacy). But if that’s as far as we go, and we mistake physical intimacy for emotional intimacy, we let it fool us into thinking we’re being intimate, close, in love.
And just being physically intimate is fleeting. It’s probably a cover up for the real issue- that we are trying to avoid the pain that could be caused if someone doesn’t return our advances towards being truly intimate- laying ourselves bare to another, throwing shit out there that you wouldn’t tell any one else about yourself, and expecting the other person do the same.
And the closer we get to somebody, the greater potential there is for pain. Which is why we construct the walls, put on the armor, and arm ourselves with the weapons necessary to do battle with the ghosts that haunt us. Unfortunately, the same walls which keep others out, also keep us inside.
I walked over a river and into A Calle, a little village where good ol’ American style consumerism had taken hold- a short half wall that ran along the camino displayed a line of “Peregrina Cerveza Premium”, a local hooch. A bunch of pilgrims sat behind the low wall quaffing the stuff, whooping it up. I smiled as I passed, knowing that in days gone by I would have stopped to down a few, but that was then. I didn’t have time and, well, I guess it was just another indication of me leaving my past behind.
After another 2.5 kilometers I got to Salceda and had some lunch and knew that I had to get serious about…schedule, and the future, beyond simply putting one foot in front of the other. Specifically, I needed to think about where I was going to stay. I was a little worried based on my experience from the previous night, not being able to find a bed. It felt kind of strange as my mind edged back into the hyper speed, pumped up, goal oriented dollar chasing mindset that I had forgotten, at least for the previous 30 days or so. So I decided to book a cheap hotel a few kilometers off the camino, and Salceda, the town I was in, was the place of departure.
I was a little concerned. I mean, the hotel looked fine on booking.com, but I was in a strange country, didn’t speak the language much, and worst off, I wouldn’t be able to confer with Brierley for fucks sake! But I guess at this point in my journey, especially since I had been traveling alone, I had become more self reliant. It hadn’t really occurred to me but, like most lessons in life, I guess you don’t notice them taking hold, informing you. They just slowly envelope you like a fog creeping in off the sea, and become ingrained.
After conferring with my GPS, I finished my bocadillo and moved on. Not too long after I left I found myself rambling along a road through a eucalyptus grove and the strangest thing happened. I was walking quietly by myself and all of a sudden I was amongst the soft fluttering of wings of a bunch (herd, flock, swarm?) of Monarch butterflies. I’d had a similar experience decades ago, jogging amongst another grove of Eucalyptus trees during lunch at a place I worked at in Irvine, CA.
And in fact, it’s kind of funny. The monarch makes several appearances in something else I’m writing and represents the rebirth of the main character (caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly) and in fact, is based on me. Something else about butterflies- many cultures associate them with our souls, and around the world people view the butterfly as representing endurance, change, hope, and life. Enough said.
I could only stop and look up as they made their way down the camino (flying instead of walking!), taking their time, darting from side to side, as monarchs do. I watched them for awhile until they floated out of sight. I looked around but there was no one to share my experience with, so I moved on.
Pretty soon the road veered off the camino and I was in farm country- smallish fields interrupted by groves of trees now and again. I walked through several small towns with no signs of life although I did see (and hear!) one guy on a moped whine by.
I was truly alone, off the camino, reliant now only on my GPS and mediocre sense of direction. Speaking of moving on, a brief history of this pilgrimage and why so many have taken the steps that I am now following: After Jesus’ resurrection, St. James became the leader of the church in Jerusalem. Apparently, he traveled to Spain to spread the good news, then returned to Jerusalem where he was martyred. Not so good news for him. Following his death, his followers took his body to Spain and buried him in northwestern Spain. Time moved on, people forgot about ol’ St. James.
Then, around 815, a Spanish hermit had a vision in which he saw a bright light shining over a spot in a forest (hmm…sound familiar?). The hermit told the local gentry, they checked it out, and found St. James tomb and body. The bishop of a nearby town had a church built on the site of the tomb. After awhile, the shrine began attracting pilgrims, who steadily increased in number until by the eleventh and twelfth centuries, a half-million pilgrims a year were making their way to the church, which grew into the town of Santiago.
For many centuries, the pilgrimage drew both the wealthy and the poor. A pilgrimage was seen as an enactment of the spiritual journey of Christ, and the hardships along the way were welcomed as tests of faith. Apparently they did it without ipods, cellphones, or Deuter backpacks.
After a few more kilometers I made it to my hotel. Nice, clean accommodations for 35 euros. A room to myself. I washed my clothes in the sink and walked a kilometer to a truck stop and got some Nestea and a bag of chips, walked back to the hotel and sat down at the small desk in my room to write. As Bob Dylan once said “It takes a lot to Laugh, it takes a Train to Cry”. Don’t know what that really has to do with anything, I just always wondered what that meant.
As I sat at my little desk, I couldn’t help but think about this crazy, fucked up, excruciatingly beautiful world (the one Dylan often sings about, in fact) and how lucky I was to be sitting at my little desk with my Macbook Air, a bag of chips and a Nestea, writing down my thoughts after just about completing a 30 day walk across Spain.
Kind of puts things in perspective. I was a little melancholy- I thought about those I had left behind- My good friends who had put up with me in my sorry state back home, a resentful daughter I was trying to reconnect with, and a smart, insightful, beautiful woman who had taught me more about myself than I’d ever cared to know.
I thought of everyone who had carried me on their shoulders, and deposited me to where I was at this very moment at a hotel in O Pino, Spain. It was then that I knew that it was up to me, and only me, to figure out where I needed to go next.
For the time being, the answer to that question was the restaurant downstairs. Somewhere online I had ran across a good review of the place so I decided to sit down and have a good ol’ fashioned proper meal, like back in the states, with a menu and everything (the typical pilgrim meal was usually posted on a chalkboard, or piece of paper).
The restaurant was nicely appointed with white linen tablecloths. I was the only one in the place. I ordered chicken and vegetables over rice. Unfortunately, the waitress pointed out that the four dishes that were served with rice had to be ordered for two, and hence you had to pay for two people if you wanted to order the dish. Really, all cause of the rice? I felt kind of like Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces. So I got the clams and pasta, and didn’t tell the waitress to hold the chicken between her knees.
[Bobby wants plain toast, which isn’t on the menu] Bobby: I’d like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee. Waitress: A #2, chicken salad sand. Hold the butter, the lettuce, the mayonnaise, and a cup of coffee. Anything else? Bobby: Yeah, now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven’t broken any rules. Waitress: You want me to hold the chicken, huh? Bobby: I want you to hold it between your knees.
I went back to my room and packed up for my last days walk. My ankle still throbbed and looked a little like the elephant mans’, but as I mentioned before, there just was never a question that I wouldn’t trounce into Santiago on the appointed day and finish my journey. I laid down to the sound of the wind softly blowing through the window where the last few remnants of my laundry dried. Dylan floated into my mind as I drifted off:
Now the wintertime is coming, the windows are filled with frost I went to tell everybody but I could not get across Well, I wanna be your lover, baby, I don’t wanna be your boss Don’t say I never warned you, when your train gets lost – Bob Dylan, “It takes a lot to Laugh, It takes a Train to Cry”.
So, in the week following Amanda and I getting back to together, we kept in touch, her doing her thing, me doing mine, trying to right our “professional” lives, get some stuff going, and not be too dependent on each other. She had to make a trip to San Francisco with her kids, driving up and back in two days. It was kind of strange, and beautiful. I wasn’t sure how to proceed, since we agreed that things couldn’t be as they were before, when we had become too dependent on each other.
We talked during the trip, we made plans to attend a concert Jillian had invited us to over the weekend at a beautiful venue overlooking the ocean. Amanda’s kids would be with their dad and we would have the chance to spend the night together and wake up in each others arms, something we hadn’t been able to do for awhile.
The weekend rolled around and I headed up to Amanda’s. We picked up her friend Cara and her date and headed over to Jillian’s and got her and her boyfriend Chuck and headed to the concert. It’s funny, I destinclty remember feeling like a different person, my “new self”. I wrote in my journal afterwards: …that place I’m able to go, more and more. A good place. I’m strong, confident, feel good about myself. I walk taller, think clearer. Negative emotions are not clouding my mind, my thoughts…
I’ve probably already gone on way too much bout what Amanda had brought to my life. But Jillian and Chuck were yet one more thing. Not just them, but also the other friends she had introduced me to. Like Don and Karol, Mark and Kat, Tina and MIck. Maybe it’s just that I was thrust into a group of completely new people, but, I don’t know….anyway, it seems they too have taught me about myself- who I am, reminded me of the man I used to be. I guess were all just reflections of what others see, I mean, how else do we get to know ourselves, except through our interactions with others? Well, besides what that voice in the back of our head keeps telling us.
We settled in on the lawn with a few glasses of Chardonnay (hey-it was hot out!). I sat down next to Chuck and discussed the vagaries of the world. Chuck is a lawyer-surfer. Lawyering is his job, surfing is what gives meaning to his life. Well that and Jillian. I’m sure there’s some other stuff too, like the Dead. And he probably even gets a little something from lawyering…
You probably wouldn’t guess he’s a lawyer by talking to him- he’s laid back, easy to talk to, funny. Not that lawyers can’t be funny. I mean, they can be funny, especially if their the butt of a joke- Q: Why to lawyers wear neckties? A: To keep the foreskin from crawling up their chins. Insert chuckle here. Chuck is one of those people you meet who you instantly like and are comfortable with. Why in life are there people you meet and they always seem like strangers while others, it seems you’ve known them all your life?
Speaking of lawyer-surfers, I have a friend named Norma. She’s a rocket scientist-pole dancer, or at least was anyway. No joke. She’s an engineer in the defense industry, works on some top secret stuff. I think pole dancing (not strip club pole dancing mind you-look it up) gave her meaning in life (empowerment, kept her in shape, etc) and helped fill a void. She poured herself into it when she was alone. I understand that. I turned to writing. Norma is awesome by the way. She’s been a great friend. Its funny though how life works out. She was never married (tied up with her career), never had kids.
At one point she hooked up with a guy and poured herself into the relationship. The relationship didnt work out, but the guy had a troubled son. And even after they split up, Norma tried her damndest to help the kid that had been thrown into her world. She finally met a great guy (another lawyer!), they bought a house together and moved away from next door. She closed the pole studio she had ran while she spent 50 hours a week rocket scientisting. Fred has 3 kids and Norma’s become an awesome mom.
Anyway, after awhile, Amanda got a call from her ex who was supposed to have the kids. He had decided to drop them back at her house. No warning. She finally got ahold of him and he said he had a meeting. On a Saturday afternoon. After that, Amanda got a migraine and became anxious. I walked over to the hotel and got her a double macchiato and three types of aspirin. Besides the double macchiato (pretty sure she had no idea Id be able to score a double macchiato- her favorite) I tried to help her. I held her and massaged her neck. We went back to Chucks place and had dinner and wine around the fire pit while talking and watching a beautiful sunset and moonrise over the Pacific Ocean.
We finally left and went back to Amanda’s place. I didn’t know what to expect. I found out soon enough. A peck on the cheek, and that was pretty much it. Maybe I was being selfish, but I guess I expected more, especially after the previous weekend. She was retreating again.
Intimacy seems to have several levels. And it seems to me, men aren’t very good at recognizing them. And of course one thing that clouds it for us is a hard wired biological urge to, well, you know. So, I propose that we are not too keen on the nuances. So, how do men gauge intimacy? Well, by the physical manifestations, it’s all we got. I don’t think our emotions are nearly as complex and nuanced as women’s’, part of the reason for them being from Venus and us from Mars, or visa versa whichever it is. So when men are roadblocked by one of the few signs they can understand, they may get frustrated.
Putting it in context for me (this is all about me anyway, isn’t it?) suffice it to say: We had spent three nights together the previous weekend just enjoying each other, intensely and intimately. And we had both discussed this weekend with excitement and anticipation. We’d made plans. And then, everything came crashing down, to a sudden halt, seemingly due to a phone call from Amanda’s ex-husband. In addition, I thought (as many might think- there i go thinking again) that this might be a time when Amanda could use my emotional support more than ever. Instead she pushed me away.
This is not to say that she didnt have good reason. Amanda had a lot of good reasons, harbingers of the past, some of which I knew, others which she hadn’t told me. The older I get, the more I see that were all just trying to transcend the wounds hoisted on us by others, many of us just doing the best we can, struggling to get by ourselves and dealing with the sins of our fathers. Like me. Like Amanda. Like (I’m guessing) Amanda’s ex. But it’s like trying to get rid of an old tattoo you don’t want anymore.
So there we were, me trying to assuage her fears, and at least find something, a little bit of that closeness from the previous weekend. Maybe thats what scared her. The level of intimacy we had reached was good. Great. Awesome. At least I thought. I mean when someone tells you 2 or 3 times over a few hours that they love you so much you can only think one thing: that they love you so much. Especially when you love them so much.
After awhile though, there was nothing left to say so I got in my car, drove home, and sat down and wrote for a few hours. Thinking about it, I was probably being selfish and not taking what she was going through into consideration. I guess it was yet another thing that she was had given me, was teaching me, another lesson. Whether she knew it or not.
I was only walking through your neighborhood Saw your light on, honey; in the cold I stood Anywhere I go there you are Anywhere I go there you are
I been getting used to waking up with you I been getting used to waking up here Anywhere I go there you are Anywhere I go there you are
You’re the fire and the flood And I’ll always feel you in my blood Everything is fine When your head’s resting next to mine Next to mine You’re the fire and the flood -Vance Joy
‘It takes strength to forgive” said Heather. Way back on day 10 or so, she told Cormac and I her story of forgiveness, forgiving her husband many years after her divorce. We discussed this as we sat in front or the old church sipping a glass of wine, waiting for the clothes we had washed and dragged out to into the sun to dry. Heather told her story and then walked went over and showed a few young Italian guys how to waltz. Not sure why that happened, it just did.
Heather realized the only person she was hurting was herself. We get comfortable with our anger, and it takes a lot more work to forgive someone that to hold on to the comfort that anger gives you. You have to make a concerted effort to kick it’s ass out of your life. Anger just lays there as it grows and grows, waking up when you call it, contributing to that knot in your stomach when you wake up on the morning.
I made a promise to myself at the beginning of this journey. With every step, every little piece of my boot thats worn as I walk, I will try and shed the sins of my past, fix the results of the bad choices i’ve made. And as I walk, I will look down the path of all the pilgrims before me, and see a future of hope. I know someone who went through hell, and hope was the only thing that saw her through. I don’t know if I’ve lived up to that promise I made. I suppose only time will tell.
In life we make choices all the time. We often don’t even see them as choices, because they cut deeply, and hurt us so much we dont even want to confront them. But if it’s emotional things, we do have a choice. Cause it’s all “in our head”. And those things can be changed. Only problem is, by virtue of the fact we can’t touch them, they’re the easiest to shove aside and ignore, and the hardest to deal with. How do you fight a ghost you cant see?
And yes, studies even show that forgiveness is good for us. Just like with anything in life, there are costs to your choices. Staying angry, resentful, and vengeful comes at a price. All these feelings can have a detrimental impact on our physical and emotional health. Those studied reported decreased depression, anxiety, and anger when they were able to forgive. So, as Heather might tell you, don’t allow yourself to go through another day feeling angry about being wronged. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and dance!
These times are so uncertain There’s a yearning undefined And people filled with rage We all need a little tenderness How can love survive in such a graceless age The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness They’re the very things we kill, I guess Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms And the work I put between us, You know it doesn’t keep me warm
I’ve been trying to get down to the Heart of the Matter But my will gets weak And my thoughts seem to scatter But I think it’s about forgiveness Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore
There are people in your life who’ve come and gone They let you down, you know they hurt your pride You better put it all behind you, baby, ’cause life goes on You keep carrying that anger, it’ll eat you up inside, baby
I’ve been trying to get down to the Heart of the Matter But my will gets weak And my thoughts seem to scatter But I think it’s about forgiveness Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore -Don Henley
here, I would say he did his job well. Btw, I don’t even think he was a monk, I just like the sound of “mad monk”.
The path headed uphill and I entered La Faba to a chorus of roosters. It was a beautiful little town and I found a welcoming bar/restaurant where a few pilgrims were setting out for the day, and finished my previous post while eating breakfast. This had become a favorite ritual, getting the meat of the blog posts done the night before, but refining them the next morning when my brain was fresh while sitting alone in a cafe, feeling the morning creep up my spine and begin to comfort me with it’s warm breath and a kiss. A brand new day.
The view was gorgeous. I paused and took some pictures. Susan Sontag had an interesting take on, well, taking pictures. She said that most tourists feel compelled to put the camera between themselves and whatever is remarkable that they encounter. It gives shape to the experience. She goes on to apply this thought to our modern world: “…the method especially appeals to people handicapped by a ruthless work ethic—Germans, Japanese, and Americans. Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work-driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to be having fun. They have something to do that is like a friendly imitation of work: they can take pictures”.
before traversing the top of a windy hill. Then it led downhill again along the side of the road, through some small towns. At the first one I found a fountain, one of the ones that provide water for pilgrims. I put my ankle under the cooling stream hoping for some healing. I got wet socks. Hmm…was this a sign? I’m pretty sure It was the camino telling me I should so some laundry next stop.
We’re talking the shire. Well, with modern appliances and wifi I’m sure. After crossing a small bridge, the path climbed out of the village and turned into a dirt road. 
l.
There was no reason to stay in this town- it was another small but “modern” Spanish town, kind of dirty, at least the part I walked through. But things changed after I crossed the river on the outskirts of town. 
rambled on about some. The one who sometimes informs you with bad recommendations, who chatters endlessly when you’re trying to make decisions (refer to Alan Watts “Choice”). He’s a cross between Columbo and Camus, Louis C.K. and the Angriest Dog in the World.
As I slogged on (this was to be a 40 K day, somewhat unexpected), at least I had the beautiful day, and the fact that in this moment, I still had only a few simple things to worry about (if you could call it worry). I wouldn’t have to confront the dragons that had brought me here, at least for another few days. And hopefully I will have learned a new way to look, understand, and maybe love them, as well as myself.
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