The ancient pilgrims carried scallop shells and used them as their main tool as they made their way to Santiago. The shells served several purposes. They were used as bowls for food and a means of collecting drinking water from the rivers. They also worked as a mini shovel if the pilgrims needed to dig their way out of trouble.
It then dawned on me that my favorite French dish, “Coquille St. Jacques,” a scallop dish in cream sauce, was actually named after the scallop shell of St. James.
As I walked I also noticed to my relief that there were plenty of other soon-to-be pilgrims strolling up and down the street. At least I am in the right spot, I reassured myself.
Then I remembered my pilgrim’s passport book, which I needed to get stamped while here in Saint-Jean to mark the beginning of my journey. I ran back across the street to the hotel and up the four flights of stairs to retrieve it, finding myself completely winded and out of breath once I got to my room.
“Boy, that’s not a good sign. I hope I’ll be able to do this,” I said to myself. “I’ve only walked for five minutes, and I’m ready to pass out.”
Walking back at a much slower pace, I once again crossed the street and found my way to the pilgrim’s office to get my first stamp. When I walked in, I had to sign a paper declaring the purpose of my pilgrimage. I had the choice of spiritual, religious, or adventure. I chose spiritual.
A skinny, bald, bespectacled man behind a large desk placed a stamp in one of the little squares on page one and handed me a map. He then said he wanted to show me the two ways to get to my first stop on the Camino, which was a town 31 kilometers away in Spain called Roncesvalles. He said that it was supposed to snow tomorrow and he thought it would be better if I took the path along the highway instead of over the Pyrenees, as it could be dangerous traversing the mountains in bad weather.
I had not considered that. I read that the hardest part of the Camino was going over the Pyrenees on the first day, but that it was truly magnificent and that I should just go for it, knowing it was worth it. Now I was hearing that it could be dangerous and I was being encouraged not to go.
I took the map and thanked him. I would decide what to do in the morning, when I had more energy. I then asked for directions to the beginning of the Camino route. The man told me to follow the main street out of town, then just keep following the yellow arrows all the way to Santiago. The last thing he said was, “Buen Camino!”
I walked out of the pilgrim’s office, map in hand, greeted by a sheet of pouring rain and a blast of freezing-cold wind in my face.
“Man, this stinks,” I said as I tightened the strings on my rain poncho around my face. “I hope it dries up a little tomorrow.” I then started to wander around the charming little town, seeing what might be interesting. I happened upon a gourmet chocolate shop, which thrilled me. I treated myself to a small bag of dark chocolate–covered orange jelly peels, which were my favorite, and decided I would allow myself one chocolate at the end of each day, as a reward for all that walking. I had enough for at least the first three weeks, so I was happy. I then wandered into a sports store that featured a pair of rain pants hanging out in front. Given how hard it was raining and how wet my pants already were because of it, I knew I would get soaked if this kept up, so I bought them on the spot.
Feeling very tired and hungry by then, I found my way farther down the street and into a tempting French delicatessen filled with salamis and cheeses, and all sorts of delicious jams and cookies. Still feeling too overwhelmed to focus, I asked the shopkeeper to make me a little cheese sandwich to tide me over until dinner.
Sandwich in hand, I then braved the rain once again and in just a few minutes found my way to the beginning of the path. Great! Now I knew where to start in the morning, if I decided to go over the mountains. I felt grounded with that discovery and started to relax.
I can do this, I said to myself as I headed back to my room, now feeling the full impact of the travel and the pace I had been keeping leading up to the trip.
When I entered the hotel, the same woman who registered me was waiting at the front desk. She said the pilgrim’s dinner was included in my hotel reservation and would be served at eight. Looking at my watch and seeing it was only four o’clock, I knew right then I would never be able to stay up long enough to eat dinner. I told her I would not be coming for dinner, glad that I had my sandwich, and that I would see her for breakfast.
“Okay, if you wish,” she said, not believing I was passing up dinner.
I slowly walked up the four flights, switched on the light in the dark hallway, and opened the door to my room. It was still raining outside, and inside my room, it was still freezing. I wasn’t worried, though. I opened Cheater and found my long underwear and cashmere hat and gloves, as well as my tiny down sleeping bag. Bundled up in all of this, I promptly fell asleep until six the next morning.
Day 1
(26 km; 16 mi)
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles
Once awake I got dressed. Given how wet and unseasonably cold it was, I was grateful for the long underwear and heavy coat that I had thrown in my bag at the last minute. Without those things, I would be in big trouble. Next I put on a long-sleeve wool shirt and a down vest, then turned to my boots, the most important piece of hiking equipment of the day. Since it was so wet outside I had no choice but to wear the heavy boots. My lightweight Merrells would be soaked and useless in this weather. So they were out. I threw them aside and picked up my heavy hiking boots, remembering the salesman’s instructions on how to avoid blisters. I first put on my liner socks, making certain there were no wrinkles in them before putting on my heavier wool socks. Then I slid my feet into my boots. It was a tight fit, but I remember the boot fitter telling me that I didn’t want any movement in my boot because that was what caused blisters. I had no chance of getting a blister today, that’s for sure.
Next, I packed up Cheater and Pilgrim, and headed downstairs (or rather struggled downstairs) with both in tow. I think I woke up the entire hotel as I clumsily pushed Cheater down the stairs, making enough racket to wake the dead, but he was just too heavy to carry. I met the receptionist at the bottom, glaring at me for all the commotion I was making. Meekly smiling, I asked her if Cheater would be picked up as promised. She assured me that, yes, he would be, at 9 A.M. “Just leave your bag here,” she said, which I had no problem with, as I was done moving Cheater for one day.
Greatly relieved to walk away from that heavy burden, I tossed Pilgrim over my shoulder and went into the dining room. There I was I met with a modest buffet of cheese and ham, some warm croissants, and several open boxes of processed orange juice. I ate up and had two cups of coffee; then for good measure, I had one of my own PowerBars as well, which I pulled from Pilgrim, so I was certain I had enough protein to face the day. I had six more with me for later on, so I was covered. Then I drew in a deep breath. It was time to go.
The rain was coming down in sheets, sideways, as I made my way down the Rue de Citadelle, toward the Route de Napoleon and the beginning of the Pyrenees route of the Camino. I wondered if it would be even more difficult to climb in the rain. “Well, I’ll soon find out,” I said as I headed straight for it. While yesterday I had debated whether or not to walk over the Pyrenees, this morning my body just pointed in that direction and started walking.
I was in such a great rush to get going today that I almost forgot to take a moment to set my intention. This was a true spiritual pilgrimage for me—one that I deeply wanted to heal my body, heart, and soul—and I didn’t want to start without acknowledging that truth for myself. I could already see how easily my ego could hijack that awareness by creating a sense of urgency, intimating that if I walked in the rain faster I would get less wet.
But my inner voice nudged me to slow down and remember what I was doing and why before I got under way. I walked over to the ledge of the bridge leading to the path and closed my eyes to pray.
Holy Mother God, creator of the
known and unknown Universe, and the Divine Light that oversees this most ancient and holy pilgrimage, watch over and guide me as I make my way this day across the Pyrenees and into Roncesvalles.
As I proceed through this and all the days ahead, help clear my life of all that no longer serves my soul. I humbly ask that my Higher Self oversee this entire journey, and my lower mind release and let go of all that has injured others and injured me as I have traveled this and all my previous lives.
I set my intention to ask for forgiveness and to extend forgiveness to all to whom I am in karmic debt as I journey this way of forgiveness, and to transform my pain into understanding and gratitude now and into the future expression of my being.
Amen.
It was a big prayer. Sometimes that is how it works with me. Big prayers come flying through me and remind me of what I came here to do, to learn, and to release. I was committed to my prayer and yet was painfully aware of how far I was from feeling able to do that now.
Opening my eyes and peeking from under my poncho into the sheets of water heading straight at me, I took a breath and starting singing, “I’m Off to See the Wizard.” Only this time, other pilgrims flanked me on both sides, heading in the same direction, so I sang under my breath.
Keeping my head down to guard against the rain, I let the rhythm of the song move me forward and toward the eventually more and more and more inclining path.
Soon I realized that climbing uphill was all that I could look forward to for quite a while. My mind panicked at first, but with each step it quieted down. Over the course of the day I was met with every kind of weather there was: rain, sleet, and snow, then more rain, then sun and fog … then everything all over again, pretty much mirroring my own emotions.
I was confused. I didn’t know what kind of thoughts I was supposed to have. What were appropriate pilgrimage thoughts? I tried to concentrate on spiritual thoughts, and even prayers, but those slipped out of my mind as fast as they came into it. I tried to think about what brought me to the Camino but that, too, didn’t stick.
For a long time I had no thoughts at all, simply focusing on my breathing and taking one step at a time. I was glad that I had had some training in the past in how to breathe properly, slowly into my diaphragm and out through my nose, because that is what helped me to continue onward up the steep incline more than anything else.
I also realized very soon that the only way I was going to complete the 26-kilometer trek I was facing was to go very slowly. It wasn’t hard because I didn’t have the physical stamina to go any other way. As I walked my butt burned, my back hurt, my knee hurt, and I had to stop a lot to simply catch my breath and take a rest.
I was glad because taking breaks allowed me to fully appreciate the incredible beauty surrounding me. When the sky was clear, the colors everywhere were extraordinary. There were waves of intense green expanses, dotted with small budding yellow flowers fighting the cold, meeting an almost turquoise sky. I also saw what appeared to be giant vultures, or birds of prey of some sort, soaring overhead, lifting my spirit and telling me to look further than right in front of my nose as I walked.
When it clouded over and heavy fog drifted in, which it did often that day, I felt as though I were in a strange dream, being whisked off into another dimension. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was.
It took me forever to get to the summit. I was glad that I had packed all those PowerBars (which comprised the greater part of all that weight I was carrying in Cheater) because after a brief stop in Oresson, about 8 kilometers up the mountain, there was no other place to stop until Roncesvalles. I ate five of them as I inched my way along all day.
I don’t know what was worse: going up, which just about killed my back and butt; or going down, which equally killed my knees, thighs, and toes. In fact, I banged my toes so much that as I moved along, every step sent a sharp pang that at times made me cry out.
When I first set out in the morning, I was surrounded by other pilgrims and I pretty much just marched along with them, as none of us was going very fast. Soon, however, they all passed me, and I was left to walk down the mountain all alone for hours. I was glad for the solitude. I felt free in a strange and uplifting way.
Going up the mountain, I walked along mostly gravel trails that were easy enough to navigate, but going down, due to the rain and snow and slush, I found myself trudging in thick, sticky mud the entire way. Every time I set my boot down, the ground sucked me in like quicksand, then grabbed onto my foot and held it down. I had to jiggle and twist and struggle to release it, which pained my knee, so I had to do it carefully and slowly. In fact, the entire day was like being in a slow-motion movie as I crawled along.
Once I got into a rhythm and figured out that the only thing I could do from here to the end was put one foot in front of the other, step, push, and breathe, my mind became more and more quiet. Then, after what seemed like an endless inner silence, my thoughts began to drift to my father.
I began to feel the depth of resentments I had held toward my father over the years, and all the justifications I carried for all those resentments. I thought of all the ways in which I felt he hadn’t shown up for me, how he lost his temper or was just plain frustrated and beat me, or hadn’t supported me or celebrated me, and how he seemed pretty uninterested in me and what I did. I thought about how I had internalized his lack of witnessing me as his rejection of me, and how it was something I had privately kept in my heart as a deep wound.
And yet, as I walked, those thoughts began to give way to thoughts of the challenges my father had faced during his life. I started to deeply consider this, my heart now opening to him as those last endless and difficult kilometers unraveled under my feet.
I remembered him telling me, in one of those rare moments when he shared something personal with me, how as a child during the Depression he’d had a pet pig that he really loved, and how his family had slaughtered it one day for dinner while he was at school, and how his brothers had laughed at him when he cried over that pig after he found out what had happened.
My heart ached as I remembered, as though his spirit were now walking alongside me, sharing that story with me once again. I also thought about all that his family had lost during the Depression and how hard he had to work all his life.
I felt his spirit as I thought about him joining the Army and marrying my mom while he was stationed in Germany, and of him bringing her, then pregnant, back to America and to his family in Iowa—only to have to leave her with them while he went off for another year to finish his tour of duty. And while my mom is incredible, she was and is a handful to deal with, and that must have taken a lot of his energy and attention, as well.
And then there were so many of us to support. Seven kids, in addition to his parents, who lived with us and depended solely on him for support.
With each step I realized just how difficult that must have been. But he took care of all of us and never complained. While we were not rich by any means, we were comfortable enough. We ate well. We had nice clothes that my mother made. We went to a private, albeit humble, Catholic school. And we always had lots of toys under the tree every Christmas. He made sure of that.
My father wasn’t emotionally available, nor were most men of his generation, and as a child that was hard to understand. He was serious and said very little most of the time. As I walked I could see how I took that very personally, when in fact it wasn’t personal at all.
Eventually I began to realize that his life was not only very difficult when I was a child, but it also never got easier. As we grew up, my brother Bruce became sicker and sicker. This caused my dad so much stress and worry. He tirelessly took care of Bruce, and the demands he made never eased up. So Dad never got to enjoy his retirement at all. In fact, he never really had a day of genuine rest his entire life. Between taking care of Bruce and taking care of my mother, it never let up.
Suddenly I felt sad that I had judged my father so harshly. I also felt the
weight of the anger and blame I had carried toward him all these years, and it was so heavy. As I walked, I found myself starting to genuinely rethink all the ways in which I had been disappointed by him or felt I was not appreciated or witnessed by him as a child and beyond. Soon my anger and resentment gave way to something entirely different. I was overcome with sadness for all the ways I had made his life more difficult and was genuinely remorseful. I suddenly realized that I was guilty of treating him the same way I had been so angry with him for treating me. I had failed to witness and appreciate him. I had failed to celebrate him. I had failed to recognize him for who he was. As I walked I could suddenly see it all far more clearly than ever before.
While my dad wasn’t that emotionally nurturing, he was there every single day of my life supporting me in the only way he knew how, by providing for my physical well-being and intellectual development. I cried in gratitude for him as I thought of all of this.
“Dad,” I said out loud, as I walked, “thank you for doing everything that you did for me—for all of us. I never thanked you.”
I wished I had felt before he died what I did now. The Camino was already working its magic on me. Shortly after, I came upon a small marker where a former pilgrim had died while making this trek. It reminded me of how quickly death can come, as it did for my dad.
“I miss you, Dad,” I said aloud as I looked at the gravesite. “You always tried hard to do your best.”
Roncesvalles seemed to stretch further and further out of reach as I walked toward it, as if the Camino were playing with me. I had to sit down and rest several times because the more I pushed forward, the less progress I seemed to make.
Toward the end, the ground beneath my feet was nothing more than a mud bath, and there weren’t any tree stumps or rocks nearby that I could sit on, so I leaned against a tree and rested. As I did, I felt that the tree was breathing with me. I actually stood up and turned around and looked at it as if to say, “Really?!”
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 7
