Holy Mother God,
Thank you for the good company of Colum. And the delicious breakfast I was served this morning.
I am grateful.
Amen.
The walk today was short enough, only 19 kilometers, and the entire length of the path was relatively flat again. As I started out, I was drawn into a peaceful reverie, free of thoughts, free of revelations, and fully centered in the present. The birds were singing so loudly that I felt, at times, as though I were being personally serenaded. I didn’t know birds could sing that loud.
I walked slowly because the electric shocks along the sides of my feet made it difficult to walk at all. I wondered why I’d had so much trouble with my feet since the beginning of the Camino, but no sooner did I start to question this than I knew it was a reflection of how little support I had felt under my feet for some time, and how little importance I had placed on having the kind of support I needed in my life. I trained myself to ignore what I needed and now it was catching up to me.
Nearly crawling along the Camino at this point, I realized how my feet were demanding I notice this lifelong self-sabotaging pattern and stop it once and for all. “I get it,” I said out loud to the Camino. “I hear you. I don’t want to be electrocuted with the message!” I was now getting irritable.
The longer I walked, the more evident it became that recognizing my need for support and knowing in what way I needed support would make a huge difference in bettering any future relationships. If I was not in touch with my needs, then how could anyone else meet them? No wonder I got so frustrated with Patrick. I was such an over-giving martyr. Yuck!
Up until now, my needs only became evident to anyone, including me, when I exploded after depleting myself completely. The more the sun beat relentlessly into the back of my head, the more clearly I could see how quickly I took on the role of superhero with others—giving, doing, rescuing, saving, solving, creating whatever they needed—and how I genuinely thought that I had to do that from the time I was a child growing up in my crazy, overcrowded home. I also saw how easily I became out of touch with myself, and especially my body. I overworked, over-traveled, over-consulted with others, and took on so many responsibilities for so many people without even stopping for a moment to consider whether I should be doing that, wanted to do that, or had the energy to do that. I just did it.
And to be honest, I liked how much I could accomplish at once. I was impressed with my superhero powers. But it always happened that just when I thought I was flying high, some very small thing would send me hurtling down to the ground.
That happened just before I left for the Camino. I was working way too many hours a day, as well as teaching every weekend and traveling from one end of the country to the other. While it seemed from the outside as though I were effortlessly flowing along with all of this, on the inside I was slowly being drained—and didn’t even know to what extent that was happening.
It became abundantly clear just how on empty I was when I got off a flight in Chicago and started to drive home from the airport one day. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway, I noticed that my car was nearly out of gas and there was no exit or gas station in sight. Rather than dealing with this stressful moment like a grown-up, I got really upset and started yelling at my car and the traffic and myself, reducing myself to tears because I was so depleted. By the time I coasted into the station on gas fumes, I was an emotional wreck. My only saving grace was that I was alone so no one witnessed me in such a sorry state.
I came back to the moment. The sun was intense and, save for the rare tree, there was no relief from it at all. I also found no relief from the memories of other occasions when I had run myself into the ground, or become so depleted from trying so hard and doing so much for others. This was an unrelenting pattern in me, and that realization made me all the more upset.
I wanted to enjoy the singing birds and go back to my peaceful reverie. Where did that go? When and why did I turn down this tunnel of emotional hell?
I was surprised at what was churning inside me, because some of the feelings and experiences rolling around in my body were so old I couldn’t believe it. I remembered feeling so drained and acting so self-denying clear back to when I was only five or six years old. “Really, Sonia?” I asked myself. “You need to dredge this shit up?”
I had thought I was done with the past. I had thought I was done with being angry and upset and yet here I was, all over again, feeling enraged. I was enraged with myself for becoming a martyr. I was enraged with every person in my life who allowed me to act like a martyr instead of insisting that I relax, by assuring me that I was not responsible for them. I was enraged that I felt the only person I could trust to be responsible for anything was me. And that upset me even more because that was such a martyr attitude and so clearly not true. Most of all, I was really enraged that I was so completely depleted right now, that my feet hurt so fucking much, and that in spite of all my efforts and all the damn money I had spent, I felt no relief from any of this at all! Finally, I was so overwhelmed that I just stopped and screamed out loud, at the top of my lungs, “AAWWWWWRRRGGGG!”
Fortunately, there was no one around to hear me, but I wouldn’t have cared if there were. Then, with the very next breath, a bone-deep inner calm swept through my entire body, as though these long-held trapped emotions had finally been jarred free. The next sound that escaped from me was a quiet, “Ahhhhh.”
My mind became silent after that, acutely aware of the newly freed-up space in my body, in my bones, in my lungs, in my cells now that I had let all that old, dead energy out. I now felt I had more room to breathe, more room inside me to be me.
Day 21
(19 km; 12 mi)
Mansilla de las Mulas to León
I arrived in Mansilla de las Mulas shortly before 1 P.M. only to find a glorious open market in the center of the square, with hundreds of people milling about selling fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses and hams, and clothing, while musicians played in one corner, and others sat in cafés drinking beer and wine and relaxing under the warm sun.
After wandering through the market and buying some fresh fruit, I decided to look for my hostel, which was located on a side street a few blocks off the town square. When I arrived, I was met by a surly, indifferent, tattooed teenager who was watching a Spanish soap opera and left me waiting for a commercial to come on before acknowledging my presence.
When I told her I had a reservation, she rolled her eyes and shook her head as if that wasn’t possible and then disappeared behind a door into what was apparently the kitchen. After a full ten minutes had passed, I actually wondered if she had gone off to have a siesta and just left me standing there until her nap was over. I rang the receptionist’s bell again, this time loudly, either to wake her up or to get someone else to come out from behind the door and help me.
A good five more minutes passed before she reemerged from behind the kitchen door, reeking of boredom and disinterest in everything, including me. Yet she did reach up, get a key, and start walking toward another set of doors, leaving me to guess that I was to follow her.
“Wait,” I said, looking around for Cheater. She turned and stared at me as I pantomimed that I was looking for my bag. Apparently understanding me, she shuffled over to another door, opened it, and pointed inside, without making any eye contact with me whatsoever. Her affect was so over-the-top that I burst out laughing.
I now had to struggle with Cheater, my poles, and Pilgrim. I foolishly looked up to see if she would lend a hand. What was I thinking? She was ten feet ahead of me, watching me juggle my stuff without moving a muscle.
Realizing she was not going to help, I took my time as I carried first Cheater, then Pilgrim and my poles, up the stairs. I repeated this ritual in two separate trips up the four flights of stairs we had to climb as she watched and waited with indifference.
Finally, we stepped out onto a small terrace, with my room just off to the side. As we wal
ked by, she nodded to a washing machine to the left of us. What a beautiful sight to behold! I then followed her to my room, as she opened the door and let me in. Following her right back out, I walked over to the washing machine and saw it took a few euros. I asked her for laundry soap. She said “Sí” in a dull monotone and started walking back downstairs.
She disappeared back into the kitchen and left me standing at the counter just as she had when I first arrived, which by now was ticking me off. Soon another woman came out of the kitchen, who I was sure was her mother, as she had similar features and the very same monotone affect. I smiled and said, “Soap?” and pointed to my clothes and pantomimed washing them.
“Sí,” she said and left once again. I looked around and wondered if I had wandered into the Twilight Zone, as these women were acting like zombies. Yet, to my surprise she stepped back out after only a minute, with two small boxes of laundry soap and asked me for two euros.
I then took the soap and marched back upstairs. I threw Cheater open, gathered up my laundry, and headed straight to the washer. Once that was under way, I looked around and noticed how beautiful the terrace was, filled with gorgeous plants and flowers along with comfortable lounge chairs in which to sit and relax.
Up until now it had been too cold to sit in the sun, but the last two days were actually pretty warm, so I curled up in one of the chairs and promptly fell asleep. I woke up to other pilgrims stepping out on the terrace and then jumped up to check on my laundry. The washing cycle had just ended, so I shook out the freshly washed clothes and put them on a drying rack in the corner. Then I headed downstairs to go look around the town.
When I got back I ran into my friend Petra, as well as Hans and Peter, who had also just checked in. They both said something to me about the zombie mom-and-daughter team and I just laughed, saying, “Camino test.”
That night I was invited to join about ten other pilgrims at a restaurant that Petra had heard was good. On the way there, I passed by the local church and went inside. It had been days since I had been inside a church, and it felt good to sit quietly and pray. You could really feel the history and power of the Camino in the churches. So many pilgrims for so many centuries had passed through these doors, all with the same intention as mine, to forgive and be forgiven in order to move on in peace. I said a rosary and thanked God for getting me this far. I was two-thirds of the way to Santiago by now, and even though it was hard to walk, miraculously, I was still moving.
I met up with everyone afterward, but by then the group had grown to nearly 20 pilgrims, and the minute I sat down I regretted being there. It wasn’t that I didn’t like everyone. It was just too much confusion to deal with right now. I wanted to stay quiet and contemplative, and the crowd was really loud and boisterous, and with only one waiter for our entire group the service was really slow.
I left after only soup and salad because I had already been in the restaurant over three hours and I was fried. I was so grateful for the term “Buen Camino” because that was all I had to say to bow out and everyone got it. Twenty “Buen Camino’s” came right back at me as I waved and headed out the door, followed by five other pilgrims who felt the same way I did.
The next morning I headed down the street then entered a little café where, as I passed by, I had heard a man singing at the top of his lungs. When I walked in, he cheerfully greeted me, “Buenos días.” I ordered my favorite breakfast, an egg bocadillo and café con leche, of course. Then I remembered I hadn’t gotten my pilgrim’s passport stamped at the hostel before I left, so I asked the waiter to do it, which he gladly and rather ceremoniously did. I left happy, in really clean clothes, and ready to get on to my next stop: León.
Walking out of town I was happy to get back into my own peaceful, private, quiet, Camino flow and away from everyone else’s energy. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, my feelings, my spirit, my guides, and my insights; and I found that this quickly disappeared when I was with too many others for very long. Everyone’s Camino is their own creation, and the Camino I needed was one of solitude and quiet.
As much as I longed for a meditative journey, however, this was not the Camino I encountered. Apart from a short peaceful walk out of town, the Camino today was the greatest walking challenge so far. Long parts of it ran along a very busy highway, and there was a moment when I had to make a mad dash across four lanes to get to the other side. Yet between my aching feet and my still very sore knee, a mad dash was physically impossible. All I could manage was a sort of hop-along maneuver, which planted me head-on with a semitruck that blasted its horn at the sight of me, then swerved, scattering my nervous system all over the road.
I regained my composure only to walk through an endlessly long stretch of ugly warehouses and commercial buildings that drained the remaining life force out of my body. The only miracle in all of this was the speed at which I arrived in León. In five hours flat, I was standing in front of the cathedral in the central square, amazed by the majestic beauty before me. As I entered the church I felt a wave of pride at having braved the crazy elements and circumstances I had faced this far. I was also grateful I was still hanging in there, and hadn’t gotten killed by a truck today.
The church was awesome. Between the architecture, the intricate stained glass, the multiple altars, and the arched ceilings, all I could do was marvel at the craftsmanship of the people who were able to create this so long ago. It was nothing short of a miracle as far as I could see. A warm, golden light flooded the entire place through the stained-glass windows, adding to its glory.
As I walked around the church, I felt as if I were being watched. Several times I was sure someone was standing right behind me, only to turn and see that no one was there. “Whoever you are watching over me,” I whispered under my breath, “thank you for saving my life today.”
After my visit I went back outside to explore. The city was vibrant and busy, light-years away from the Camino. Just off the main square I happened upon a place that offered healing foot massages for pilgrims, and on a whim I decided to go in. I needed help.
The massage therapist was a wiry, welcoming, and serious man. He was about 5'6'', with black hair, wearing a doctor’s white coat and a big cross on a leather cord around his neck. He smiled some, but he didn’t speak a word of English. I pointed to my feet, and he nodded and pointed to the massage table. I took off my socks and shoes and he gestured to me to lie facedown. I did, but didn’t understand why. So there I was, lying facedown, when he started to massage my shoulders. It wasn’t my feet, but it felt so good that I didn’t stop him. Maybe he was just warming up for the feet.
Then, suddenly, it didn’t feel so good. He started to pound and beat on my back and knead into it with his elbow and knuckles with so much force it knocked the breath out of me. I kept saying, “No, feet,” with my face smashed into the table, while he kept digging harder and deeper into my neck and shoulders, completely ignoring my pained objections. I tried several times to turn over and point to my feet, but he kept pushing my face back down, saying, “Moment, moment,” as he dug his fingers into my ribs and back. I screamed out loud for mercy. The more I screamed, the louder he said, “Moment!” and the harder he pounded.
Finally, after a half an hour or so, he stopped. He never once touched my feet, but given the beating I just took, I was glad. I still had to walk another 12 days, and with his technique I wouldn’t be able to walk out the door.
Right before he finished, he began to pray over me out loud in Spanish for about a minute and then threw holy water all over my back. Then he turned me faceup (finally) and said in almost perfect English that I was blessed and was a blessed pilgrim. I left feeling unsure of whether or not going in there had been a good decision. With the exception of my feet, I did actually feel better after all that.
After this intense interlude, I eventually found my way to my hostel, happy to discover that it was a medieval monastery turned elegant hotel. My room was small but nice—exactly what I neede
d right now.
After I checked in and grabbed Cheater, I went to my room and took a long nap.
When I woke up, I went to a nearby café and treated myself to a large pizza and salad, and a glass of the best red wine in the house. I sat and relaxed for a while before taking another long stroll around the main square, and then went in to bed.
All I could say as my head hit the pillow was, “Thank God I’m still going strong!”
Day 22
(24 km; 15 mi)
León to Mazarife
I woke up to gray skies and pouring rain, the sunny warmth and clear blue skies of yesterday long gone. I lingered in bed and contemplated taking a taxi today, as nothing in me wanted to face the nasty conditions outside my window. I needed a break. I was tired. I hurt. Still debating whether or not I would succumb to temptation, I shuffled toward the shower, my feet clearly casting a vote for the taxi. I looked in the mirror and asked myself what to do. I was surprisingly bright-eyed in spite of my resistance as I answered, “You’ll know after breakfast.”
I replied, “Fair enough,” and then took a long, hot shower. I packed up Cheater and counted my remaining PowerBars. I had 13 days and eight bars left. Then I dressed warmly, pulling out the long underwear, long-sleeve wool shirt, and headband I had thought I would no longer need. The pain in my toes was starting to ease up a little, in spite of what was now an obvious infection breeding under my nails, but the shooting pains I felt along the sides of my feet were constant. “I hope I haven’t permanently trashed my feet,” I said aloud, admitting the anxiety I had felt for days.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 25
