Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed

by Choquette, Sonia

  Stop judging yourself, Sonia, I admonished myself. Take your time. And accept your feelings. Ignoring them is why you are in the mess you’re in. So relax and receive the help you’re being given.

  “I like these boots. Thanks for your help. I’ll take them,” I answered, still trying to make it quick in spite of all my mental coaching.

  No such luck. He was going to make sure I got the right boot for the hike, and I had no choice but to slow down and cooperate with him.

  “Now stand up and see how they feel,” he said, and as I did I couldn’t help but notice how unrushed and genuinely interested in helping me he was. I took a breath and attempted to slow down and become as genuinely interested in helping myself as he was.

  I did as he said. “These still feel fine.” I answered, trying to convince him.

  “I’m not sold just yet,” he said, shaking his head. “Walk around for a few minutes and see how they feel.”

  I agreed and walked in a fast, self-conscious circle around the store. Actually, they didn’t feel that great once I started walking. They were stiff in the front and hurt my bunions.

  “How are they when you walk?” he asked.

  “A little tight,” I said, “but once I break them in, they’ll be fine, I guess,” I answered.

  “That’s not a good start. When are you leaving?” he asked.

  “In two weeks,” I answered.

  “That’s not enough time to break them in,” he said, shaking his head, “and believe me, you do not want to break them in on the trail. Let’s try another pair.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “You may be right.” He was, because the longer I had these boots on the more uncomfortable my feet felt, especially around the front of my foot, where they suddenly burned.

  The next pair didn’t look as nice as the ones I had just tried on, but they felt a lot better.

  “These feel much better,” I said, moving my toes. “These are far more comfortable. I’ll take these instead.”

  “Hold your horses,” he said and laughed. “Getting the right boots is the key to your success, so slow down and work with me. Now, walk around and see how they feel after at least ten minutes.”

  I strolled through the store this time, feeling silly as I did. I never quite saw myself as a hiker, spending far more time buying designer shoes at Neiman Marcus, so I felt like a bit of an impostor. But I liked the idea of being a true outdoorswoman, so I slowed down and gave the boots my full attention. After all, I really did want the right boots. And I was in no actual hurry. It was just my habit to be in a hurry. A very old stress-inducing habit.

  As I strolled I began to think about the other things I needed to do for the trip besides buying boots and supplies. I also had to show my daughters how to pay the house bills while I was gone. Suddenly it seemed as though I had a mountain of things to do before I left and no time at all in which to do them.

  I was responsible for so much. I took care of so much in my home, in my business, for my friends and daughters … and to walk away from all of that for nearly six weeks felt risky.

  I knew I needed to do it in order to heal. I wanted to, and was ready to in every cell of my being. Still, walking away from so much was so out of the realm of my life as I knew it that it left me feeling vulnerable. I had to trust everyone and the Universe and myself to a degree that I hadn’t in a long time. I had to let go of control and let things unfold on their own.

  Hmm. I think that’s the point of this Camino. Trust and let go. At least that’s the point for me, I thought as I looked at wool socks near the shoe section.

  The salesman walked over to me. “Well?” he said, “how do these feel?”

  “Actually, they feel a lot roomier,” I said. “I’ll go with these.”

  “Before you do, how does the front feel, around your toes?”

  “Not stiff like the others. I don’t feel any pressure there at all.”

  “How about the heel? Does your heel rise when you walk?”

  “A little,” I answered, “which is probably why they feel so good.”

  “That’s not good,” he said, shaking his head. “If your heel is slipping around, you’ll get blisters. Here, put on another pair of socks, and see if it still slips.”

  Another pair?

  “Yes, it helps to wear two pairs of socks when you hike. The first pair is called a liner. It’s thinner and prevents your foot from getting rubbed raw by the boot. The second one is thicker, and you wear it over the first one. It absorbs the sweat and the shocks to the foot as you walk.”

  “I see,” I said, as I took off the first sock, put on the liner, and then put the thicker wool sock back on, before slipping back into the boot.

  “Does that make any difference?”

  “It’s tighter,” I answered, standing up, “but comfortable.”

  “Now, walk up this incline here,” he said, pointing to a small wooden ramp a few feet away. “You want to make sure that the boot still feels good when you walk uphill.”

  I took a few steps up on it and said, “Yes, it feels fine.”

  “Are you slipping in the boot?” he asked.

  “A little. Not too much.”

  “That’s not good,” he answered. “If you slide, you can bruise your toes. And that would be a disaster. Let’s try another pair.”

  I surrendered. “All right. I’m open. What do you have in mind?”

  “Give me a minute,” he replied, looking at all the models on display. “Okay,” he said, as though finding what he was looking for. “I’ll get another and be right back.”

  He then brought out the ugliest-looking hiking boot I’ve ever seen, as if any were a fashion statement. It was black and gray, and looked big and heavy, and more like a man’s shoe than a boot, not at all “trekker-like” in my opinion. Yet once I had it on, it wasn’t heavy at all, and felt better than the other two for sure.

  I did the obligatory walk around the store, and then walked up the mini-ramp and down, and still they felt pretty good. I put on the two pair of socks and repeated the process, and they still passed the test. “Okay,” I said, now sure myself, “these are it. I’ll take them.”

  “What else do you need?” he asked, looking around. “Socks? Liners? Other gear?”

  “I need everything,” I said, pulling out my list. “I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t done a thing to get ready, and I’m leaving in two weeks!”

  “Did you just decide to do this?”

  “No. I decided three months ago, but just haven’t gotten around to doing the things I need to do in order to get ready until today. I’ve been so busy, I just let time slip by. I don’t really know how it got this late.”

  “Well, you aren’t the first beginner to approach a long hike like this. No worries. We’ll get you fixed up and ready to go.”

  I got socks, hiking pants, hiking shirts, a rain poncho, and a white sun-blocking shirt to protect me from sunburn.

  From clothing we moved on to other things I would need on the trail.

  I got a water bottle, and a backpack that could carry all my stuff. I also got a tiny green sleeping bag that rolled up into nothing, and a liner for that, as well. I was getting into this.

  He gave me the thumbs-up, and kept on moving.

  Then he showed me a soft plastic funnel-like object and said, “You might want one of these. It comes in very handy on the trail.”

  “What is that?” I asked, as he folded it back up, put it in a small pouch, and handed it to me.

  “It’s a pee cone for when you need to pee,” he answered. “You don’t have to squat to pee with this thing. You just place it firmly over your privates and pee into it. It funnels it out, like a guy, and you’re on your way just as easily.”

  “Huh. That’s interesting,” I said. “That’s another thing I hadn’t thought about, but I guess there are few bathrooms on the Camino, and I’ll need to go in the woods. Well, why not? I’ll take the pee cone, too.”

  “Power
Bars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Soap?”

  “Yep.”

  “Walking poles?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hat?

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind that will keep the sun off my face,” I answered.

  “This is the best,” he said and tossed me a floppy sun hat that looked like a combination French-Foreign-Legion-meets-burka hat, complete with a neck flap, which wrapped around the front of my face and that I could seal with Velcro.

  It covered nearly every part of my face and neck, and was perfect. It was a little intense but then again, so was everything about this trip.

  “I like it.”

  Glancing around the store as if to see if there was anything else I might need before I checked out, he said, “I think you’ve got it all. Let’s have a final look at the list.”

  I handed him back the now seriously crumpled-up list, not realizing that I had been holding on to it for dear life as we worked our way through the store.

  Looking it over, mentally checking items off, he looked up and smiled. “I believe we’ve covered everything!”

  We continued to chat as he rang up purchase after purchase, handing me a bill at the end. “That’ll be $869.42,” he said.

  I gasped. “Oh my God. This is so expensive!”

  He paused. “Do you want to put any of it back?”

  Looking over everything I had just pulled off the shelves, all in hopes of insulating me against the rigors and discomfort of walking across an entire country alone on foot, I said, “No. I can’t—I’ll need it all.” I handed him my credit card.

  Man, this was expensive! I thought, lugging my five very heavy bags to the car, throwing them into the trunk one at a time. Suddenly it occurred to me that I would have to carry everything I had just purchased.

  “Arrgghh! How am I ever going to do that?” I asked myself out loud, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity and weight of what lay ahead.

  “Well,” I answered, “one foot in front of the other, just like the boot guy said … that’s how.”

  7

  Two Backpacks and Counting

  It was just days before I was to leave, and I found myself becoming increasingly nervous about going. I had planned to start at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, a town in the foothills of the Pyrenees in southwestern France that was a historical starting point for pilgrims walking the Camino route. I didn’t know much beyond that, and I chastised myself for not learning more. At the last minute, I decided to buy a few books to see if I could glean some useful information that would ease my anxiety and help me feel more grounded before I set off.

  The first book I read was The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho. It was mystical and mesmerizing, and I couldn’t put it down. He endured many spiritual tests on the long journey from France across Spain, but he had one thing going for him that I didn’t: a guide.

  At one point Coelho was attacked by a demonic dog, which sent chills up my spine. I had never considered the possibility of being attacked by wild dogs, and I became sick with anxiety thinking about it.

  The next book I read was The Camino by Shirley MacLaine. She, too, had her fair share of out-of-this-world challenges, including nearly freezing to death, and to my horror was also met by demon dogs along the way. Crap, I thought. Now I don’t want to go.

  The idea of getting attacked by wild dogs was enough to stop me dead in my tracks.

  I think it’s because when I was six years old, I was attacked by a rabid dog while walking home alone from school. I was minding my own business, only three blocks from my house, when this insane animal, foaming at the mouth, lurched at me from out of nowhere. He cornered me with his vicious growling, barking and repeatedly lunging at me as I screamed for my life. I was trapped for what seemed like an eternity as I wildly fought back, swinging my schoolbag at him and screaming my head off every time he got too close, keeping him far enough away to not bite me.

  Miraculously, my older sister Cuky happened to walk by on her way home from high school and saw me cornered by this crazy beast. Dropping her schoolbag, she ran across the street and started screaming and lunging back at the dog with all of her might. As soon as he backed down a bit, she yelled at me to run for my life, which I did.

  Home less than two minutes later and thoroughly traumatized, I sat shaking with relief on the front porch, my sister right behind me, equally shaken, saying, “It’s okay now. We’re safe.” We both shuddered in disbelief that we had made it home alive.

  That episode burned into my bones a fear of wild dogs. Reading about the likelihood that I would experience one or more of them on the Camino sent me into a tailspin.

  Shit! I thought. Now what? How am I going to protect myself from wild attacking dogs? And of course, knowing full well from my metaphysical training that we attract what we focus on, and especially what we fear, I was elevating my chances of this happening by the minute.

  I needed protection. That was all there was to it. I wasn’t about to be caught off guard by a rabid beast as I had been years before. No fucking way!

  I was looking online for ways to protect myself when my dog-loving friend Debra, who was staying with me at the time, came in and asked if there was anything she could do to help me prepare, as she knew the hours were counting down before I was to leave and she could sense my rising tension.

  “I need pepper spray to ward off wild dogs,” I said. “Apparently this pilgrimage is going to be a series of spiritual lessons and tests, and wild dogs will be a part of that because they scare me so much. So can you get me some pepper spray to ward them off?”

  “Pepper spray?” she asked. “Are you sure? I don’t think that will do you any good.”

  “It probably won’t,” I answered, not hiding my irritation, as I was certain that attacking dogs were going to get me no matter what. I knew pepper spray was a pathetic attempt at believing I had a fighting chance against them. But it didn’t matter. I wanted it anyway.

  “That will only make them mad,” Debra continued. “You just have to avoid eye contact and carry a big stick.”

  “I don’t plan on looking them in the eye,” I snapped, agitated with her dog-attack prevention lesson. “And I won’t have a big stick. Only my walking poles.”

  “Well, that will work, too,” she answered, missing my agitation entirely.

  “I need pepper spray! If you don’t want to get it, then don’t offer,” I shot back. She was clearly missing the inevitable bloodbath I was facing ahead.

  “Okay,” she said, sensing it was time to back off. I had worked myself into such a state of anxiety over the upcoming dog ambush that I was in no frame of mind to hear her out. She wasn’t going on the walk, so how dare she tell me how to handle wild dogs, anyway?

  My Higher Self was watching me as I found myself tumbling headfirst into the lowest possible vibration I could sink into: fear. It was sucking me in like quicksand, and I struggled to stay afloat.

  “Why are you suddenly so afraid?” I chastised myself. “People all over the world have walked this pilgrimage for centuries,” I reasoned. “And I haven’t read any recent accounts of unsuspecting pilgrims in Spain getting ravaged by dogs.” I checked the Internet.

  And yet, because my fear of meeting up with wild dogs was so intense, I was convinced that it would be one of the first tests I would have to face while on the path. Coelho and MacLaine were spiritual students, and they both met up with vicious dogs. I’m a spiritual student, so why wouldn’t I meet dogs as well? Maybe it was part of the Camino curriculum. Of course, none of this made any real sense. I tried to get grounded and took a breath.

  All my life I have prided myself on being a fearless warrior. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel fear. It was just that I didn’t pay attention to it. Feeling fear was a luxury I couldn’t afford to indulge in because if I did, I would relinquish my ability to take care of myself and meet my responsibilities. I felt fear standing in front
of large audiences when I spoke in public. I felt fear before meeting new clients for the first time. I felt fear whenever I gave interviews. And I certainly felt fear over my upcoming divorce. But, in true warrior style, I ignored my fear. I trusted my spirit, my own wits, my Higher Self, and all my guiding helpers in the subtle realms to watch over and help me, and so I knew I’d be protected. Because of that, I managed to either deny my fear or bury it so deep I could pretend it wasn’t there at all.

  As a result, the only thing I overtly feared was, well, wild dogs.

  So, of course, they would be there to greet me. More and more I could see that this pilgrimage was going to be about facing and feeling all the emotions I had run from all my life. Clear back to when I was six years old. Or even younger.

  Fortunately, I had too many other things to focus on to continue to indulge this fearful narrative any longer.

  I had to get health insurance in case something went physically wrong (like being attacked by demon dogs), and I had to get trip insurance in case, for some reason, I couldn’t make it all the way to Santiago and had to change my flight back home.

  These were obtained easily enough, with the help of the Internet and my American Express card. “Wow,” I exclaimed as I clicked on the purchase button again and again. “This is becoming one hell of an expensive pilgrimage!”

  Another $1,000 later, both travel and medical insurance secured, I sat back and took a breath.

  “I need to get on my way. The longer I’m here, building this whole thing up, the more difficult and costly it’s becoming. I just need to stop thinking about it, pick up my bags, and get going!”

  I didn’t like all this precaution and preparation. I was turning into Patrick, preparing for the worst. This was so unlike me. I needed to get back to my spontaneous and trusting self.

  “Screw Paulo and Shirley. I don’t need demon dogs to teach me lessons either. That was their experience. It won’t be mine. I’ve already had my dog lesson, when I was six. My Camino will be a much more peaceful and healing experience,” I insisted to the Universe. “I don’t need the drama!”