Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed

by Choquette, Sonia

  Eventually I found a dry spot in which to sit down and change back into my hiking boots, which I had tied to the outside of my backpack, as my lightweight trail shoes were no match for the muck.

  When I slipped back into my boots, I nearly passed out in pain. But I had to wear them. They allowed me to be more sure-footed. The sticky mud didn’t have the same suction-cup effect on my boots that it had on my shoes. I took three ibuprofen and wore only one pair of socks to ease the pain. It helped. While I still had to stomp as I walked, at least I didn’t have to fight every step of the way.

  “What the muck!” I swore to myself, not knowing whether to laugh or be incredibly annoyed at this new challenge. “Just when I think I’m prepared for what’s next, I’m thrown another curveball. What a metaphor for my life right now.”

  Stay focused, Sonia. Just kept putting one foot in front of the other, and keep on walking, I urged myself, gently. At least the sun was out and it was warming up a little. The path was still fairly hilly, but it wasn’t nearly as challenging as it had been yesterday.

  As I walked, I began to notice mounds of stacked rocks, mini shrines created by pilgrims gone before, marking their prayers, their intentions, and the sacred nature of this pilgrimage. All of a sudden it occurred to me that I had forgotten to pray before I set out this morning, and I felt the need to do that right away, so I began to collect small gray stones to create a shrine of my own. Eventually I found myself by a lake and sat on the ground to set up my shrine and pray.

  Holy Mother God,

  I am so grateful for this journey and those who have gone before me, marking the path and guiding me along the way. Thank you, guardians in the spirit world. Thank you for guiding my thoughts as well as my feet so that where I have been lost, I return, and where I might become lost, I catch myself. I feel your presence and again, I am grateful.

  Amen.

  I sat for a long while and listened to the birds singing in full force, thinking about my intentions for this pilgrimage. My prayer said it all. I wanted to return to my spirit and no longer be lost in the pain of my past mistakes. I wanted to be present and let the past go. I took a breath and looked at the beauty around me as I ate my PowerBar. Maybe because I had been unplugged from any technological distraction for over ten days, I found listening to nature deeply soothing to my heart. I didn’t move for over 30 minutes. Then I remembered it was a long trek to the next stop, so I got up.

  Every time I stopped to rest it took a few minutes to get going once again, as my feet and muscles still ached so much that with even a short rest, they stiffened up and didn’t want to move. That’s where my poles came in handy. I used them to pull me forward when my mind and body tried to hold me back.

  As I walked I thought about praying. “God knows, there is always a prayer in my heart,” I said out loud, again talking to myself. “It’s not like I ever stop praying. So I wonder why, when I actually pray with intention, like when I set up that shrine, or an altar, it feels so powerful? I know God doesn’t need my prayer. I guess that I’m the one who needs it.

  “Isn’t this pilgrimage a continuous walking prayer?” I asked, still talking to myself. “Aren’t I praying just by being here?”

  True, I thought. But when I add my voice to that walking prayer, I feel even more available to God’s grace. I listened to the birds. I see you pray by singing, so today I’ll continue praying by singing, too.

  And with that I started singing one song after another, sloshing along in the muck. I sang songs I knew. I made up songs. I sang melodies I knew and made up the words. I sang hymns like “Amazing Grace” and “Hallelujah,” and Rolling Stones songs like “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Angie.” I sang Christmas carols and nursery rhymes. I used the rhythm of my boots, one foot in front other, as my percussion, and kept time with each step. The path had very few pilgrims on it today, so I was free to sing my heart out, and for that I was grateful. I am much too shy to sing in front of others. Before I knew it, I had sung all the way to Nájera. And then, like an oasis in the desert, right before entering the town square, I saw a store filled with all kinds of hiking gear, including shoes that would give my toes a break.

  I was so grateful I almost fell down on my knees in gratitude. “Yes! My prayers have been answered. Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus!”

  I walked into heaven’s door, sat down, and nearly begged to the guy behind the counter to please help me.

  He looked at me with pity. I was clearly another tortured ill-prepared pilgrim looking for relief. I pulled off my muddy boots, and socks, and showed him my toes, no longer concerned in the least with how ugly they looked.

  He approached, and then, with only one glance, cringed, stepped back, and in broken English said, “Oh!” and then, “I am so sorry.”

  An hour and $250 later, I exited with not one but two pairs of brand-new hiking shoes to replace the miserable ones that trashed my feet. One was a pair of Keen’s, a shoe with such a wide toe box that they looked oddly similar to clown shoes. Mine were bright orange to add to the circus effect. The other was a pair of Teva sandals, complete with two more pairs of gray wool hiking socks to cushion against the Velcro straps. My prayers had been answered.

  I shook my head as I continued to walk down the main street, marveling at my good fortune. Then I had to laugh. Here I was, me, prima donna, Prada-wearing, city-slicker Sonia, wearing ugly rubber sandals, with even uglier socks, looking as though I just escaped from an Oregon crunchy-granola hippie farm. Even better, I was delighted with my Tevas and new socks! Overjoyed, in fact. Yes, a true spiritual transformation was taking place in me. I now even looked like a true pilgrim. And felt like one.

  I hobbled onward with my now four pairs of shoes—one inside my backpack, two tied to it, one on my feet—and found my way to the hostel, which thankfully was not far away. What a day!

  Day 9

  (21 km; 13 mi)

  Nájera to Santo Domingo de la Calzada

  I woke up to a beautiful day. So beautiful, in fact, that I was eager to get on my way in case it started raining again. It was a shorter day today, only 21 kilometers, although a big section of it was straight uphill. No problem. I was getting used to that, and now that I had my new clown shoes on, I was ready to roll.

  I wolfed down yet another unmemorable “pilgrim’s breakfast,” wondering if they got bleaker on purpose the further I got into the Camino. Two slices of toast and a small, but not bad, café con leche were all they had to offer, and I had to ask for the second piece of toast while facing down a hostile stare in response. That experience behind me, I put Gumby in my pocket, then packed up Cheater, which by now was far heavier than when I started out, and grabbed three PowerBars in spite of my dwindling supply, as I heard from another pilgrim that there might not be a place to stop and get a snack along the way. I wanted backup in case this was true.

  I left Cheater in the lobby, got my pilgrim’s passport stamped, and skipped out the door. I had on my heavy windbreaker because it was cool and quite windy when I left, but shortly into my walk I was dripping in sweat and had to take it off. It seemed like such a nuisance right then, and far more than I wanted to carry all day, so I stuffed it into Pilgrim and continued.

  Holy Mother God,

  Please keep my emotions steady and my heart open so that I can learn what I need to learn today. And please keep me cool.

  Amen.

  The path was wide and lined with flowers of all colors, but mainly bright red poppies. That, of course, led me to start singing “I’m Off to See the Wizard” once again. With my clown shoes on, I felt like the Scarecrow, as opposed to the Tin Man I was feeling like yesterday.

  Walking for so many hours in silence was the best meditation of my life. There were long passages where I found I wasn’t thinking at all. I was simply present to the experience at hand. In many ways I had to be. Like following Blue’s Clues, the detective show my kids watched when they were young, the Camino demanded my full attention. If I didn’t give
it, I might miss a pilgrim scallop sign or yellow arrow pointing the way, and wander off in the wrong direction. Fortunately, I was now developing a sixth sense about the path, so I caught myself earlier and earlier when I drifted, with only minor backtracking necessary to correct my course. Yet, every step counted.

  As a result of not thinking, my heart was becoming lighter. So many of the things that I came to the Camino burdened with were slowly starting to shake free as either I dropped them or my perspective changed. The most significant change I experienced so far was how my anger and pain over my relationship with my father had given way to nothing but pure neutrality. I felt his spirit traveling with me and talked to him as I walked.

  “Dad, I know you are with me,” I said. “I can feel your spirit and, if anything, it is what I learned from you about going after things rather than shrinking away from them that gave me the courage and incentive to make this pilgrimage in the first place.”

  I thought of my father’s faith. He was a man of few words, but he had a deep faith in God, and he instilled that faith in me. One thing my father never did was complain. He met whatever came his way with quiet resolve. He steadily did what he had to do. With seven kids, and all the trouble we brought to him (and it was a lot), he still got up every day, got dressed in his best clothes, always looked and acted the part of a gentleman with others, and worked hard.

  He had strong values, and working was one of them. He had no illusions that life was supposed to take care of you. It was what you made of it, according to him. I never gave it much thought when he was alive, but my dad never went to college, and didn’t read much because he was working all the time. And yet, people respected him. They treated him well and held him in high regard.

  He sold tractors and farm equipment for a living and, as low-key as he was, his steady way with customers won him the salesman of the year award year after year, clear up to the point of his retirement. He was consistent and thorough and took care of his clients with the same devotion he took care of his family. If anyone had a problem, he worked tirelessly to fix it. His customers loved him for that and were loyal to him year after year.

  The more I walked, the more I realized just what a good man my father was and how much like him I was, in both the good ways and a few of the stubborn ones. I rarely complained, and I didn’t like to show weakness. Maybe that is why I never felt supported, whether in my marriage or with friends. Maybe I wasn’t open to much support.

  “Dad,” I said aloud. “I am not sure doing it all by myself works for me. I think it’s time I change that.” A cool wind blew by in answer, as if to say, “Good idea.”

  As I walked, I noticed the birds were not singing today. All was quiet. The sun was getting hotter and brighter, so I pulled out my Foreign Legion–looking sun hat and put it on, happy for the chance to wear it.

  Today was making up for the lack of sun over the past week. Eventually I sat down by the side of the road to cool off. Shortly after I did, a young man from Austria came down the path and said, “Buen Camino,” and then asked if he could sit with me. I was surprised by his outgoing and forward nature, but welcomed him immediately. “Of course. Please do.”

  We talked for a moment, and he asked me how it was going so far. I told him I was, surprisingly, moving along and still in the game, although a little worse for wear because of my toes. He nodded in sympathy. Then I asked him the same question. He said it was okay so far, but he hadn’t expected such cold weather and said it was a bit difficult, as he didn’t have a coat. Without so much as a second thought, I asked him if he wanted mine.

  He looked at me as if he misheard me. “Excuse me?”

  I asked again if he wanted my coat. “I have a coat I don’t want to wear anymore. You can have it.”

  “It’s warm today,” he said, “but that may change.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s almost June,” I answered as I reached into Pilgrim, pulled it out, and handed it to him.

  Surprised, he said, “This is a very nice coat. Are you sure you want to give it away?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “And if you don’t need it, give it to someone else.”

  He was delighted and stuffed it into his backpack.

  I then asked if he needed any shoes, looking at the high-top Converse sneakers he was wearing.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, laughing.

  “I have many pairs of shoes as well. Do you want one?”

  He laughed even more, pointing to his very large feet. “You Americans are so kind,” he said, “but I doubt your shoes are big enough for my feet.”

  I had to agree. “Too bad,” I said. “I would have gladly given you a pair.”

  “You are so generous.”

  “Well, I could say that I am, but I really don’t want to carry extra things. If you take it, it’s one less thing for me to carry.”

  “I see your point. Well, in that case, I am happy to accept the coat in order to lessen your load.” Then after another moment, he stood up, lit a cigarette, and said, “Buen Camino, and gracias,” and started walking again.

  “Keep moving forward,” the Camino urged me on. Even when I wanted to sit for a while, it wouldn’t let me.

  Soon I was getting a bit frustrated with my new shoes. They allowed small pebbles on the path to get inside the shoe and lodge under my socks. I was in denial that this was happening for a few hours, as I was so happy that I had relief for my toes, but eventually denial wasn’t working. I had socks full of rocks, and it was as annoying as hell.

  Every 15 minutes or so, I had to stop, take off my shoes, and shake them out.

  “Why didn’t that salesman tell me this was a possibility?” I grumbled. “He knew this would happen. I can’t believe he didn’t warn me.”

  Then, “If I create my own experience, what on earth do I hope to gain by all this constant aggravation? It is not like I didn’t put effort into getting the proper footwear!”

  I kept walking.

  “Okay, fine. I should have broken in my boots, but still … this is too much!” I complained.

  “So much for your belief that you don’t complain much,” I could feel the Camino respond to all my whining.

  That silenced me for the time being.

  I walked for almost four more hours in my clown shoes before I pulled them off for good.

  “You guys are worthless!” I cursed at them. “You are fired!”

  I shook out the countless small pebbles inside and stuck my shoes in my backpack, considering throwing them away on the spot instead. I put on my old boots once again. “Good thing I had the intuition to bring these along. Another four hours of tiptoeing through the pebbles is enough to drive me crazy!”

  “Ow!” My boots hurt my toes. But I had no choice. At this rate, stopping every few minutes to shake out my shoes, I would not arrive before dark.

  I grabbed my poles, pulled myself back onto the path, and kept moving forward.

  Soon the path led me into what looked like a modern-day ghost town. There were many new houses dotting the landscape, and eventually, a brand-new golf course, but they all looked abandoned. It was weird—there were no people in sight. “How did this get here, in the middle of my medieval journey?” I wondered.

  I imagined it was the tragic economy crippling Spain that had buried this town. But even such a logical explanation did not make the place any less strange. Walking the Camino takes you far out of this world and pulls you into another, far more mystical, more mysterious reality. To walk out of this mystical frequency and into a ghost town such as this felt like a time warp commercial break in the middle of my alternate reality, life-changing spiritual movie.

  Escaping the ghost town, I entered the last stretch of the day, which took me along the highway. I had to play a bit of dodge ball with the trucks and cars whizzing down the road at European-driver speed. Once free of that craziness, I turned back onto a natural path, and soon started winding my way into Santo Domingo.

  The
closer I got to the center, the more charming I could see this medieval town was. Linked to this town was also one of the more romantic legends about the Camino. Apparently, a couple and their son entered this town on their pilgrimage and stayed at an inn. The daughter of the innkeeper made advances to the son, who rebuked her. She was so incensed by this that she hid a silver goblet in the young man’s backpack and told her father he’d stolen it. The father had him caught and hanged. His parents, oblivious to his fate, continued on to Santiago and on their return found their son hanging on the gallows, but still alive. They ran and told the town sheriff, who was just sitting down to dinner, that their son was not dead, to which the sheriff replied that their son was about as alive as the chicken he was about to eat. Just then the cock stood up from his dinner plate and crowed. This miracle was not lost on the sheriff, who rushed to the gallows and freed the son and gave him a full pardon. This miracle was attributed to Santo Domingo, the tireless saint who worked his entire life to improve the route for all pilgrims, as well as build hospitals to care for them. This fable seems a bit far-fetched, given the amount of time it would take to get to Santiago and back, meaning two months or more, but I liked it anyway.

  I felt my desire to heal my heart by walking across an entire country asking for forgiveness for my past karma was a bit farfetched as well. But I believed in the power of my journey. Maybe that is what this chicken fable was really all about. That things can heal in what seem to be utterly impossible ways to the logical mind. That’s what miracles are. There was chicken memorabilia in the windows of the little shops all over town. I bought a chicken postcard to help me keep the faith in experiencing a miracle of my own.

  I walked a little farther and saw the magnificent Santo Domingo Cathedral, which I went directly to before even looking for my hostel. Walking inside took my breath away. I was especially moved by the complexity and beauty of the altar at the front of the church. It reflected both the power of the medieval church and the power of the Camino. I could hardly fathom how it was built so long ago, and what it took to build it in terms of manpower and money. The first version was completed in the 12th century, the last in the 18th.