I took the prescription and left to look for the pharmacy. That took longer than I wanted it to, but eventually I found it. The pharmacist gave me some penicillin and some throat lozenges and told me to rest. I threw some medical tape onto the counter, happy to have that, as well.
I paid, then walked out and started toward my hostel. It was five minutes away. On my way there I ran into Clint from Roncesvalles. I hadn’t seen him since then. He was surprised and seemed happy to see me. He introduced me to two other pilgrims, Victoria and her son, Eric, who were sitting with him and invited me to join them. She had a strong, determined face, lined with deep wrinkles far beyond her years, telling of life mostly lived outdoors in the sun. Eric, her son, looked as though he was around 30 or so, earrings in both ears, a wimpy ponytail fighting a now balding pate, and a defiant look on his face. Too tired to wonder about them at the moment, and ignoring the obvious tension between them—and in need of reinforcements for my now totally depleted energy—I stopped and had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with them before I went on to find my hostel and check in.
“I made it, and so did Cheater,” I sighed in relief as I headed to my room. I took my penicillin and lay on the lumpy single bed, thinking about the flashback of being burned at the stake I had had a few hours earlier. It seemed almost as though it hadn’t happened. Certainly, the thought of this had never crossed my mind before today. And yet, I knew it was real and I also knew that another big piece of the past had been released and cleared, literally burned off with my fever.
Day 19
(17 km; 11 mi)
Sahagún to El Burgo Ranero
Aw, crap! Sore throat! The minute I woke up I realized I was no better off than yesterday. I started singing in my head the Alicia Keys song “Girl on Fire” because my throat was. Before I left for the Camino, I decided that this would be one of my theme songs for my journey, but I hadn’t intended to take it to this point.
“Water!” I gasped, seeking relief as I reached for the light, hoping Gumby could help me out. I couldn’t even groan because my throat hurt so much. “Oh well, just burning off some more old karma,” I whispered out loud to any invisible spirit helpers in the room, trying to look on the bright side of things.
At least my fever was gone. I woke up in a full sweat, but I no longer had a headache, so that was progress. And I was hungry. I took a hot shower to both wake up and warm up, as the room was dark and freezing cold, and happily found that it helped ease some of the pain in my throat, as well. I dressed quickly, packed up Cheater, stuffed Gumby in my pocket, threw my Pilgrim and small purse over my shoulder, and headed downstairs. It was Camino time!
Right next to the reception area was a small café and on the counter were prearranged plates with one slice of toast, a small glass of orange juice, and a tiny yogurt on each. I was disappointed that this was all that my pilgrim breakfast offered, as I was really hungry. Then I remembered the café where I had sat down with Clint yesterday afternoon and decided to return after I checked out of the hostel and order a second breakfast before I got going.
I slurped down my delicious cup of café con leche (at least that was not disappointing) and ordered a second cup because it tasted so good. The warmth felt great on my throat. Then I downed the penicillin I was prescribed by the doctor, had my pilgrim’s passport stamped, left Cheater with the receptionist, and skipped out the door. I wasn’t sure why I was in such a good mood today given that I didn’t feel great, but I suspected it had something to do with freeing myself of yet another huge load of negative karma yesterday, which lightened my spirit immensely.
I looked at my watch and realized it was already 9 A.M., so the early-morning pilgrim rush hour was most definitely over. Since I didn’t have that far to go today and there was no reason for me to hurry, I decided to poke around the town a little after breakfast number 2 before I headed out.
Holy Mother God,
Help me walk away from this illness today.
Thank you, and amen.
Unlike yesterday, it seemed more like a ghost town today, at least at this early hour. Once back in the square I was disappointed to see that Mother Mary, with her cape and wig, had disappeared, and that most of the little cafés were closed down, leaving the square feeling sad and abandoned. I looked for the church but didn’t see it, so decided I would just keep going, as there is an unspoken rule on the Camino that says you don’t go backward, although I wondered if I were the one who made up that rule.
The passage out of town wound through several little streets. I saw the Templars’ red cross painted on the corners of various buildings here and there as I moved through the remainder of the town, but eventually my eyes were drawn closer to the ground and the yellow arrows guiding me back to the Camino. As I walked along, I started silently singing “I’m Off to See the Wizard” once again.
Walking the Camino was a lot like walking to the Emerald City in the sense that it was an epic journey back to a more authentic and holy state of being. Each day presented another obstacle and a gift, and it was like a treasure hunt to discover the gift without getting thrown off course by the obstacle, just like Dorothy and her friends had had to do.
It was cold but sunny as I made my way along the senda, or route, which was mostly barren and flat, with the exception of a few trees lining the path. The path itself was wide and ran parallel to the highway, but I didn’t mind because it was easy to walk.
I was glad I’d remembered to put a PowerBar in my pocket this morning, even though I’d had two breakfasts, because I was starving again after only two hours of walking. As I sat and enjoyed my bar, I noticed quite a few pilgrims on the path today that I had never seen before and wondered where they came from. Maybe they took the train to Sahagún and started from there. I had overheard what looked to me like a 50-year-old pretty blonde woman at the hostel two days ago who had arrived in Sahagún and then taken a taxi to Calzadilla in order to begin there. She came to complete the Camino at the point where she and her husband had left off three years earlier.
They had planned to come back and finish this year, and had the tickets and everything ready to go, but then her husband unexpectedly died in a freak skiing accident. She was devastated and hoped that walking the rest of the way on her own would help heal her grief.
As I walked, I wondered what it would be like to have Patrick suddenly die like that, and the thought made me shudder. I knew our marriage had died, but I, too, would be devastated if Patrick suddenly died the way her husband had. He sounded a lot like Patrick, in fact. He was an adventurer and loved to bike and ski and travel—all the things Patrick liked to do.
She said they had so much fun together even though he didn’t like his day job as a high-school chemistry teacher, and they went on all these adventures to create a more interesting life than the one he had carved out for himself at work. Now that he was gone she said she was very lonely and felt she had nothing more to live for.
She wasn’t talking to me when she shared all of this. I just happened to be sitting within earshot. She also said, at least five times, that she felt that now that she was 60 years old she was too old to ever find another man to love her. In fact, she was absolutely convinced that without her youth no man would be interested in her ever again, so what was there to look forward to?
While I had a lot of compassion for her, it irritated me to listen to that. I suppose that many women feel a certain amount of pressure to stay young and beautiful because our world is so youth obsessed, but to hear a woman actually invalidate herself due to her age and accept her fear of failing to ever again attract a man as a fact was disturbing to me. It took everything in me not to jump up and tell her she was beautiful and crazy for thinking that as she aged she lost all value and could only expect to be rejected—as if being loved by a man were the only reason for living in the first place. I would have, but it didn’t seem right at the time. I knew she wouldn’t hear me.
So I just listened and felt the def
eat in her spirit. Of course, I knew she was still in grief and with that comes all kinds of fears. I understood that because I, too, had wondered if I could ever have a love life beyond Patrick. Yet, while I was not feeling open to it at the moment, I certainly didn’t believe that it was out of the realm of possibility because of my age, nor did I feel it was the only thing worth living for.
But then again, I thought as I finished my bar and got up again, maybe I had to hear her just in case I might secretly share some of those fears. After all, I am just as invested as the next woman in making myself look beautiful, and yes, youthful. Or at least I am when not walking the Camino. Even here, though, I still took care of my skin and protected it from the sun so I wouldn’t get wrinkled. So was I really any different from her? Did I drink a sip of the same poison cup of bullshit that suggests I am only as valuable as how attractive I am to a man or how young I look?
Maybe I did, because listening to her made me feel so uncomfortable. So much so that I moved away from her as soon as I could because her energy bothered me so much.
Maybe I overheard her because the Camino is now asking me to look at my own fears about aging and needing male approval, I thought. Maybe it’s time I embrace the crone in me, stop running away from her, and approve of my aging self. Maybe with age comes wisdom and inner beauty that is unsurpassed and powerful. Maybe it’s time I let myself connect to this.
I thought about what I believe is beautiful. I know how much I love and need beauty, and how much I try to create it in my life. I have a beautiful home. I create beautiful feelings in my students when I’m working. But did I feel beautiful?
I mostly did, and yet, with all the loss and grief I had been feeling in the past few years, I didn’t feel as beautiful as I wanted to feel. I also felt that being angry made me feel less beautiful. Not that I believed that anger was not okay. Sometimes the lightning bolt of anger beautifully shatters what harms us and frees us from its grip. That anger is beautiful and bold and brilliant.
But that wasn’t the anger I was thinking of. The kind of anger that isn’t beautiful is static and stagnant. Stuck anger. Anger that resents and blames and acts like a victim. That isn’t beautiful. That kind of anger is ugly and steals away the beauty of life. I suffered that loss of beauty when I was languishing in those stuck feelings. At least now (thank goodness) I was liberating that stuck anger and returning to the beauty of my spirit as I walked every day.
“Thank you, Camino,” I said aloud in gratitude. “Thank you.”
I also thought of that woman’s other dominant energy, fear. Her fear was palpable. She was swimming in it. I prayed for her to find her way to center and away from this dark feeling of fear that engulfed her. How awful to feel so powerless to overcome it.
As I thought of her, I wondered if I, too, had some of those same fears in me. Maybe that woman, so afraid of aging and fearing that she would never be loved again, was more courageous than I was because at least she was open and honest about it. She announced her fears while I hid mine away in the shadows.
More thoughts came cascading forward. Maybe the point of walking the Camino was to stop and look at all the feelings and fears I hide from because they take me away from my power and beauty. Maybe it was time to stop judging even these dark parts of myself, and just acknowledge and accept that I have some of these fears at times, just as she did. I wasn’t possessed or obsessed with them, but they were there. And maybe now it was time to bring my fears to the light so they, too, could move on, just as she so courageously had.
Was I ready to release my fear of getting older and giving up the glow of youth for the inner light of wisdom? Honestly, not yet. I still wanted to feel young. I wanted to be young. But what if I did give up those attachments? What if I fully embraced myself, an aging woman, and no longer carried the fear of becoming the crone? What then?
Could I simply be comfortable in my own skin and love myself for who I am today? All of me and all of my years?
I wanted to say “yes” to those questions. More than anything I wanted to say, and mean, and believe that “yes” with every cell of my being. But I wasn’t fully there yet.
I also knew that all the grief and sorrow I carried in my bones around my failed marriage and other failed relationships stemmed from me not being there yet. As much as I hated to admit this, I knew it was true.
When I saw that other woman reject herself, it felt sad, like a tremendous loss to herself and the world. I didn’t want to lose any part of myself or deny any part of myself to the world. I wanted to embrace, celebrate, fully love, and share all parts of me.
No wonder my throat is on fire today, I thought. My own words, and more important, my own thoughts and beliefs, have not loved and honored me. It isn’t that Patrick didn’t love me. It’s that I didn’t love me, then blamed him.
My fiery throat was purging all that had me by the throat, all that made me feel as though I was not enough, never enough. It was time to free myself from all that caused me to reject myself and instead, fully love my beautiful self. I prayed to arrive in this place in me. That is my Santiago. That is where I am going.
As these thoughts flooded my mind I remembered a Native American blessing that says, “May you walk in beauty.”
I decided right then that I would do just that. I would walk in the beauty of me today, all day. And I did, silently singing, This girl is on fire!
Day 20
(19 km; 12 mi)
El Burgo Ranero to Mansilla de las Mulas
When I arrived at the hostel, I once again ran into many familiar faces, people who were now becoming my Camino friends. There was Linda, who had started her Camino in Le Puy, France, and had been walking for three months now. There was Petra from Holland, and Hans and his friend Peter from Germany, and Clint and his new Camino partner Dean, a 40-year-old pilgrim from England whom he had met a few days earlier. The one I most appreciated seeing, however, was my gentle Canadian friend Colum, from Vancouver. Alan, his traveling mate for a time, had gone ahead and so Colum was now on his own, and nearing the end of his Camino journey. He would finish when he arrived in León in two days.
We sat at the bar in our hostel and had a few beers and talked about his life. He told me he had run away from home in Ireland when he was 16 and hadn’t been back or looked back since. He said he left because his mother was such a gloomy, negative woman that he felt she was killing his spirit. He came to America and became a citizen, but then got drafted, so he married a Canadian woman and moved to Canada to avoid Vietnam. He had two daughters and three grandchildren, one of whom he loved dearly. He said he had no connection to the other two and thought the “lights of their spirits” were out, and he couldn’t relate to their “dim” world.
I felt so enchanted by his company. I talked to him a little about Patrick and he said to beware of the Irish. “There are certain Irish people who dwell in misery and can’t see or feel the wonder of the world. Dreary folks, they are. Good to get away from them.”
I told him Patrick’s birthday was coming up in a week and I was wondering if I should contact him to wish him a happy birthday.
“No,” he said, without missing a beat. “He doesn’t sound like he would be able to receive the gift of your blessing, so don’t bother. Those Irish like to suffer and hold grudges and be wounded forever. Leave it. Move on.”
I appreciated his perspective even if I didn’t necessarily agree with it or feel it was the right advice for me. There was, however, truth to the wisdom of letting go of those who didn’t want to open their hearts and receive your love. I certainly know you can’t make people do this. I tried and failed. He was right about not wasting time on vain efforts, as well. Colum was a special soul. He had the poetic spirit of the Irish in him, and that I loved. He said he read a poem and wrote a poem every day. I asked him if he would share one of those poems with me, and he laughed and shook his head.
What I appreciated most about Colum was his clear and unapologetic spirit. He sai
d what he felt and didn’t beat around the bush. He didn’t qualify his feelings or tone them down. He just put himself out there, as if to say, “Take it or leave it.” He truly didn’t care what anyone thought about him.
I asked him if he had always been this way. He thought for a minute and then said, “I learned early on that I might as well be dead rather than live for the approval of someone else. So yes, I have always been like this. Why not? No one else takes care of me, so why should I care what anyone thinks? I’m a good man. I know myself and I like myself. I love life, and if I ask for approval, I give a bit of my life away. And I don’t want to give any of it away, ever. My life belongs to me.”
I asked Colum how old he was. He said, “I’m 73 and going strong.” That was for sure. I admired his calm sense of self. I wanted to feel that as well.
“You know, Colum, I’d like to be more like you.” He laughed and said, “Good luck with that. Now I’m off to take a nap.” That sounded like a good idea to me as well, as dinner wasn’t served until eight and it was only three, so I followed right behind him.
The hostel was simple, but my room was surprisingly large and had a tiny bathtub, so I was able to open up Cheater and wash some clothes, which I sorely needed to do. Then I took a long tub bath and had a nap myself.
Later I went back down for dinner but wasn’t feeling very hungry. My fever had broken, but I still felt lousy and had an extremely sore throat. I saw Colum sitting and drinking a beer with some other pilgrims, but I wasn’t feeling social, so I kept to myself, eating a bowl of soup then retiring for the night.
The next morning I looked around for Colum, but he was already gone. I would miss him. I decided to once again take my time leaving town and sat down to breakfast. It was fantastic. I had an egg and potato omelet and two large glasses of fresh orange juice, several fresh-baked croissants, and a large café con leche. I felt as though I were in a five-star hotel, even though it was really the simplest little lodge. It’s just that all was made and served with such love that it left me feeling so pampered. I left with my pilgrim’s stamp and a thoroughly refreshed sense of myself.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 24
