Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed

by Choquette, Sonia

  Patrick asked me why I was laughing.

  I told him my husband’s name was Patrick.

  He paused, and I could see that he was disappointed to hear that.

  Then he said, “Let me guess. Irish, charming, good-looking, dark, argumentative, holds a grudge for years, moody, messed-up family, unable to get along ever?“

  “Do you know him?” I answered, laughing even more.

  “Well, I know the type. I was born and raised in the U.S., but I’m as Irish as they come, and those are my people. But, I hope that you don’t hold that against me,” he said, smiling but in earnest.

  “Of course not, Patrick. Not at all.”

  In a few hours we were in Los Arcos. He was so light on his feet he was almost dancing, even with a huge pack on his back.

  I shuffled in as though I were 95 years old, feeling as if I could barely take another step.

  As we walked into the center of town, he asked where I was staying. I told him and asked him the same.

  “I’m staying at a pilgrims’ albergue if I can find one that still has beds,” he said. “But I’ll walk you to your hostel first if you’d like me to.”

  I told him that wasn’t necessary, but was taken by his good manners and generous spirit. He walked me there anyway.

  I urged him to get going, as it was late and the pilgrims’ albergues might all be full.

  Then he said, “You’re right. I do need to find a bed. I tell you what. I’ll meet you back here at 7:30. We can have dinner together.”

  I looked at my watch. It was four thirty.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he continued, “I promise I won’t hit on you, so you can relax and enjoy my company.”

  That made me laugh all over again, and relieved me at the same time, as it had crossed my mind.

  “I appreciate that,” I answered. “I’ll see you in a while.”

  He was my first dinner companion since I began this pilgrimage. I promised myself that I wouldn’t talk about my pain with him anymore. I didn’t want to.

  At dinner we ran into other pilgrims we had separately met along the way and ended up having a fun time together, with lots of red wine flowing, although I couldn’t keep up with the rest, and especially with Patrick.

  Having been mostly antisocial up until now, I really enjoyed being with others and sharing our stories. The night flew by and before I knew it, it was almost ten, far later than I had managed to stay up since the day I began the Camino.

  After dinner, Patrick asked me if he could walk with me tomorrow. I said no, but told him it wasn’t personal. I liked his company a lot. I just needed to be with my own thoughts for now and found walking alone to be very healing, bringing with it tremendously valuable personal insights. He was gracious and said he understood. We then said good night, wished each other a “Buen Camino,” and went our separate ways.

  Before going to sleep, I wondered if I should have said yes to Patrick. But my heart and intuition were adamant. I needed to walk alone and in silence as much as I could. That was how I would heal. So I sent him good vibes and let it go. He was my last Camino angel of the day. There was no need to give it any more thought.

  Drifting off to sleep my last thought was, Patrick. Really, Camino?! Patrick?

  Then I was out.

  Day 7

  (26 km; 16 mi)

  Los Arcos to Logroño

  I woke up at six the next morning to a crowing rooster, coming out of dream in which I was engaged in a deep conversation with a medieval scholar, maybe a monk, about entering the Order of the Knights Templar. In my dream I was asking what I had to do to become one of them. He took me to a library and was showing me old books I had to read to prepare for my “tests” when my natural alarm clock sounded.

  I lay there thinking about my dream and wondering what my soul connection to the Knights Templar actually was. I’d had strong feelings, from a very young age, that I was somehow connected to the Knights Templar, but no matter how much I tried to remember just exactly what this connection was, the door to the part of me that might shed some light on this question remained mostly shut, allowing in only small snippets of remembrance that were hard to piece together. The feelings I carried in my heart around the Knights were heavy and oppressive.

  I got up and turned on the light. I felt surprisingly refreshed and very hungry. I waddled over to the heater to check on my clothes. They were toasty warm. I opened the shutters covering my window hoping to see sun, yet was once again met with gray sky and heavy rain. Disappointed, I decided to be grateful for the rain. At least it makes it easier to walk the Camino, I thought. If it were really hot outside, it would be far more difficult.

  Once I got dressed, I packed up Cheater and headed downstairs for breakfast. I had an extra-long day ahead of me—26 kilometers—and I’d heard other pilgrims last night saying that there were a lot of steep hills, so I was eager to get on my way. I was also starting to love the long contemplative walks and the insights that came with them, and looked forward to what the Camino would reveal today.

  Breakfast was wonderful. The croissants were freshly baked; and there were Spanish omelets, bowls of fresh fruit, and juices available. And the best part was the delicious coffee. I had two cups because it had been days since I’d had coffee that tasted this wonderful. I was happy to start my day with such a great breakfast, as it meant I could eat one less PowerBar on the trail. My supplies were starting to dwindle and I still had three and a half weeks of walking ahead of me. Just to be sure I didn’t eat them too fast, I had been putting only one bar a day in my pocket to eat on the trail, which was risky because some days there was nothing to eat or drink for long periods of time. I filled up my water bottle, made sure Cheater was clearly marked with the next destination, checked out of the hotel, got my pilgrim’s passport stamped, and was on my way. It was 7 A.M.

  The rain died down about an hour after I started out, and the sun began to peek through the clouds. The first few kilometers were easy and the route was mostly on a natural path, which was great, because on some stretches of the Camino I had to walk on concrete roads, or even along the side of the highway, and that was not easy on the feet and not a pleasant experience. But soon the route began to ascend, and I found myself climbing a gravel and rock path up a steep hill, which challenged my knee a lot. I used my poles to keep from sliding around too much, but I unwittingly had such a death grip on them as I sought to steady myself that soon my hands ached like mad. At least I had new pain to deal with, which distracted me from the chronic pain in my toes. For some reason, all these aches and pains, old and new, made me laugh. “I am hopeless,” I said to myself. “Why didn’t I read the memo that said it’s better to get in shape for this thing?”

  Eventually I fell into a rhythm and was able to ease my intense focus off of the changing terrain and drift back to my thoughts. Still thinking about the Knights Templar, I wondered why aspects or remnants of that past soul imprint remained so strong in me.

  As I wandered over the first hill, I descended into a small village named Torres del Río. It was only 9:15. Soon I happened upon a small 12th-century octagonal church called Iglesia del Santo Sepulcro. To my delight it was open, the first since I had started the Camino. (I later figured out that all the churches are open every morning, but closed for lunch hours.) Upon entering, I discovered that this church was linked to the Knights Templar and to a similar octagonal church in Jerusalem, also called the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The simple interior contained a rather scary-looking 13th-century crucifix, a vaulted ceiling forming an eight-pointed star, and not much more. Yet the energy was palpable and intense. I sat quietly and prayed for a while, remembering that I had forgotten to pray before I set out this morning.

  Holy Mother-Father God,

  No matter what my past was or how it might be connected to the Knights Templar, I ask that this deep-seated heaviness and oppression that I feel is connected to it and that I’ve carried in my heart for so long—lifetimes, may
be—start to lift and be released as I continue to walk the Camino. If I have unfinished business or karmic lessons I’ve yet to learn related to this, please bring them to mind so that I might grow and complete this past. If it is no more than a hangover of another time past and does not serve my heart and your plan for me today, please help lift this energy and allow it to move on, and replace it with peace in my heart. I know this is a big request, but I hope you grant it.

  Amen, and thank you.

  I sat in silence and took in the grace of the church for a little longer. A moment later, a very old Frenchwoman, who had quietly entered while I sat, started singing a hymn in the most beautiful, strong voice, the acoustics of the church amplifying and filling the air with her song clear up to the ceiling. I closed my eyes and took it in. When the music stopped, I opened my eyes and turned around to thank her, but she had already gone. I felt grateful for this unexpected gift from the Camino. I remained a minute longer and then, like a flash, I could sense the spirits of the thousands of pilgrims gone before who had passed through these doors. After that, all was still.

  As I continued walking, I thought about releasing the past. There was so much that I wanted to release. I wanted to release myself from the pain of all the relationships in my life that had fallen down like a house of cards in the past year. I especially wanted to release my guilt over my failed marriage. I wanted to release myself from the fear of my impending divorce. But the more I walked, the more I wondered why it was so difficult.

  I certainly didn’t want to hold on to these painful feelings. And yet, a mere mental decision on my part to release them hadn’t worked. Goodness knows, I tried that, almost daily. So why was I still holding on to these feelings? Or were these feelings holding on to me?

  It wasn’t something that I could answer. I had an especially difficult time releasing Patrick. It was as if he and I were somehow connected in a way that didn’t want to be released even though we both believed that we did.

  I walked with this awareness for some time, simply noticing the energetic cord between us. It was a strong one. I couldn’t shake it free. Since I didn’t want to struggle with it today, as I was so used to struggling with it, I began to direct my attention back to the surroundings and feel the spirit of the Camino once again.

  I walked for a long time, my mind now silent. Then I began thinking again.

  Is there something I am hiding from? Is that why I can’t release myself from what I want to be released from? I know I’ve hidden my real needs for a long time. Not just from others, but from myself as well. Maybe I want and need a lot of support, and I have been in complete denial of this truth all of my life. Maybe I want to relax and stop proving to others that I am so spiritual by taking so much responsibility for everything, and asking for so little, and then being angry because what I was asking for wasn’t really true. Maybe I am tired of asking so much of myself, and I am angry that others don’t feel the need to do this like I do. Maybe I don’t know how I feel and I am not as clear about how others feel. Maybe I am completely confused. Maybe if I accept all of this I can release the past more easily.

  Those thoughts shot though me like a cannon. They were jumbled and confused and jumped all over the place and exploded to the surface of my awareness all at once, like popcorn kernels in hot oil. And they all felt so true.

  “Fuck everything!” I suddenly screamed out in full volume. “I’m sick of all of this impossible expectation!”

  That surprised me so much I had to sit down. The earth was so welcoming. So soothing. It didn’t expect a thing of me. It felt kind to my soul. The truth was I only wanted to rest my soul, and my feet, without feeling guilty. And so I did.

  Day 8

  (30 km; 19 mi)

  Logroño to Nájera

  I had to pay close attention today. Yesterday, just before the turn toward Logroño, I missed the yellow Camino arrow and wandered three kilometers in the wrong direction. That meant walking an extra three kilometers back to get on track. Fortunately, a farmer saw me and told me to turn around as I wandered through his field. Had that not happened, who knows where I might have ended up. And, of course, this took place just when I was almost at the end of the day. AARRGGHH! It was torture. By the time I arrived at the hostel, I was nearly in tears from exhaustion and pain.

  Today I faced another 30 kilometers. I couldn’t allow myself to think about it too much because it caused me to worry before I even began. The only saving grace was that I hadn’t had a single blister since I started. Thank goodness for the protection of double socks. A pilgrim I met at the hostel restaurant last night had to quit the Camino because he had developed such huge blisters that he couldn’t walk at all. Suddenly my trashed toes seemed minor. At least I kept on moving ahead. The only other problem I was experiencing was with my ankles, as I had not been able to put my hiking boots back on because they were far too painful to walk in for long distances. Even with my “surgery,” my toes still hurt to the touch and didn’t like to be smashed into my boots. My other shoes offered no ankle support whatsoever.

  The hostel in Logroño was basic. My bed was not much more than a simple cot, and once again heat was not available, not even in the shower. I didn’t mind. I passed up the shower and curled up in my sleeping bag, wearing my long underwear and hat, and passed out.

  The next morning I woke up starving, and couldn’t wait to get to breakfast. Pilgrims’ breakfasts varied quite a bit on the Camino. They were either extremely delicious and satisfying, or ran from various degrees of bleak to bleaker. This morning was the bleakest. One dried-out piece of bread, instant coffee, and butter if you asked for it three times. That was it.

  At least I had the pleasure of commiserating with several other pilgrims instead of suffering alone. They were Anya and Martin from Germany, as well as Thomas from South Africa and Juan from Argentina. Both Juan and Thomas were biking the Camino rather than walking it. I asked them if they found it difficult. There were times when the path was so steep and slick from the wet rocks and gravel that I couldn’t imagine biking on those trails. The thought itself made me weak.

  They said no, but they didn’t bike the trails. They mostly biked along the national highway and covered up to 65 kilometers a day, easily. They planned to complete the entire 840 kilometers from St. Jean to Santiago in less than two weeks. Wow! They were having an entirely different Camino experience than the one I was having. I asked them if they had time to contemplate the Camino and tune inward. They both said not really, but that wasn’t why they were doing it. For them it was purely sport.

  Interesting. The entire world is here and yet we are we all in our own world, I thought. They were off in a flash, with me wishing them a “Buen Camino” as they hurried out the door. Anya and Martin were exactly the opposite. They chose to walk half the distance at most that I was covering each day, and only planned to walk for two weeks before they would take the train to Madrid and go home. They said they would return next year and do two more weeks. With their pace and plan, they thought they would finish the Camino in six years. We all laughed about that.

  Giving up on the breakfast, I dropped off Cheater, checked out, and decided to stop at the next real café and order an egg bocadillo, or sandwich, like the one I had a few days ago. My second breakfast was far more satisfying than the first, and I ate slowly and enjoyed it, taking my cue from Anya and Martin. While I had managed to slow down at times on the Camino, I still was intensely aware of how much I pushed myself onward all the time, so it felt good to sit back and decide not do that today.

  Besides, even though I had an extra-long walk ahead of me, I had been arriving in the towns each day around 4 (with the exception of yesterday, of course, because I got lost), so another hour or two more wouldn’t make much of a difference. The sun was still up and dinner wasn’t served until 8 anyway, so what was the rush?

  When I paid my bill, I also got my pilgrim’s passport stamped, as I had forgotten to get it stamped at the hostel. I was so h
appy that I remembered; I loved my daily pilgrim’s stamps. They were victory badges, each one saying, “Yes! I made it!” Each stamp reminded me of where I had just been and what it took to get there. I didn’t want to miss any of them. Some were intricate. Some were religious. Some were nondescript. But having them in my passport recognized me as a true pilgrim. And I liked that.

  Once on my way, I inched out of town, following the yellow arrows through what seemed like the longest, dullest, grayest, endless concrete suburb for hours.

  Perhaps the only good thing about winding through this concrete misery was that I became acutely aware of just how important and healing it is to be in nature. Living in Chicago, I so easily got disconnected from nature. Now, I not only wanted to get away from the cement and back to nature, I realized how much I needed it. In spite of all the workshops and trainings I had attended, and the fantastic teachers I had studied with, nothing calmed my spirit more than walking alone for eight to nine hours a day in nature, with no distraction, no technology, no telephone, and listening only to my inner voice as I had been doing this past week.

  By the time I finally managed to get back to a natural path, it felt so good that I was willing to walk it for as long as it would take me to arrive at the next town without a word of complaint.

  My enthusiasm for the trail was short-lived, however. The rain from yesterday had turned the path into an ankle-deep swamp of sticky muck that threatened to suction my shoes right off my feet with every step.

  “Aw, come on!” I complained to the Camino. “I was so happy to see you, and you treat me like this? No fair!” Each step took a considerable effort, as the ground was like glue, and I had to stop and retie my shoes again and again before I admitted defeat and just allowed them to be sucked off of my feet. This was ridiculous!