Everything and everyone you meet on the Camino can be your teacher if you allow it. Some of the most difficult experiences—physical pain, loneliness, doubt, conflicts with other pilgrims—can show you what you most need… More
Hours of solitary walking later, I stop at a cafe in Negreira to order coffee and a bocadillo sandwich to go.
Sipping my coffee at an outdoor table, a young man approaches. We haven’t exchanged a word, I already like him. A few days from his last shave, he has deep tan skin and short, curly locks. We smile warmly at each other, and I say, “Hola, buenas dias!”
He greets me in Spanish and, situating his bicycle, asks me where I’m from.
“Los estados unidos,” I reply.
He’s amazed that an American can speak anything but English. “And so well!”
I laugh. “Gracias.”
“I’m Rafael.” From Cuba. “Like the archangel,” he says, smiling. He is one of those people with whom I immediately feel a deep connection. He radiates love.
Rafael sits with me for a short but animated, open-hearted conversation about our respective journeys, where we’ve been, where we’re going, and why. He’s traveling without a map, so I show him mine so he can going off the Camino to visit a stunning, secret waterfall further down the Galician coast. It’s not the words we exchange, it’s the love.
“What a beautiful soul you are,” he says, eyes boring into mine. He speaks the truth. We see each other.
They say you can tell whether you’ve been visited by an angel or a demon by how you feel when they leave your presence. After we exchange emails and hug goodbye, I’m glowing.
Rafael, in case you didn’t know, is the archangel of healing.
* * *
The thing with liminality is that you can glimpse it, but it’s fleeting. We’re not meant to live in that rarefied space all the time.
The rest of the day is unexceptional, bordering on challenging. In fact, I can’t even find my way out of Negreira. After countless backtracks and asking for direction, it still won’t release me from its clutches. I note that nothing in me wants to stop and just get a bed here for the night. Meg and I stayed here last time, and I can’t do it. I’ve got to keep going, break the pattern, and get as close to Santiago today as possible.
For all my effort, I’m eventually rewarded with a smooth trail along a river and friendly pilgrims who point the way as my fatigue grows. Then, I take one single turn, and I’m completely lost. I merely ascend from the riverbanks to the street by a sandy trail, and the arrows disappear. My map shows the bridge that’s directly ahead of me, but something isn’t right. I’m tired, I think to myself, but I can do this.
Crossing the long concrete bridge, I remember nothing about this place from the last time. There’s a bar at the end, so I stop there to ask a local if I’m on the Camino. He addresses me in slurred Galician, a mixture of twang and boiled octopus. I comprehend only his pointing gestures first to the west and then north along the street. Neither of these options seems right.
I’ve got to get back on the Camino. Muttering to myself and staring at my guidebook, I proceed on the north option he indicated along a quiet rural road. No arrows for at least a half mile. After ten minutes, I pass a house whose occupant stares at me as I pass. This can’t be right. Panicky nausea sets in. Two more steps, and I turn around to head back to the bar by the bridge. The old Galician guy is still standing out there, watching my slow return. I can’t ask him again. It’s useless. I just can’t.
So I attempt the other way he suggested, going about three blocks uphill near a school, but there’s no one else around to ask. No arrows. No cairns. This isn’t right either. I stare at my useless map. Tired, hungry, and all options eliminated, I don’t know what to do.
Against my better judgment, I go back to the bar. The guy is gone now. When I walk in, the stools are filled with no less than nine older men, all of whom turn to stare at me without saying a word. Either I’m an oddity or completely unwelcome, but feel intimidated. I fight the urge to run and instead ask the bartender for an orange soda. He serves me the drink, I pay, and then flee outside to the empty tables.
It’s mid-afternoon now, and I’m truly stuck. Lost. Tired. Miserable. The tears start before I even sit down.
Moments later, I hear a shuffling sound behind me. The bartender gently sets a small plate of bread rounds with a generous assortment of charcuterie. On the house. I look up at him with tear-stained face and choke out a moitas grazas. He hesitates. Does he want to help?
“I’m lost,” I say in Spanish. “Do you know where the Camino is?”
“Oh, uh…” He points to the other end of the bridge from where I’d come, and then to the left. “I think it’s that way, under the bridge.” But I’d already walked from that direction.
“I am going to Santiago. To the east,” I say. My Spanish isn’t good enough to convey more. “I see no arrows.”
“Oh, I think maybe you go under the bridge. To the right.” It’s the only option not tried. I thank him, and he bows slightly and makes his leave.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of walking, I realize he is right. But I’m so weary, and tired from the anxiety and embarrassment, the sense of relief evades me.
Instead I pitch a fuming fit at myself. I was wrong! I made a mistake! I hate making mistakes! Angry tears start falling. I hate that old guy for watching me walking stupidly everywhere and not saying anything. And in the bar they all stared at me without offering any help! I feel like a total idiot. I look like an idiot–especially in front of all those people. My whole life I’ve tried to be perfect, and all I ever do is fail!
This backwards Camino thing is pressing all my buttons. There’s no way I’m going to succeed at perfection, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. It’s what I do. It’s how I am.
A new thought arises: I wonder where the perfection urge comes from in the first place. I’m the older of two, the big sister, the first born. If I got it perfect, no one would get mad. Being good was how I made everyone happy.
What if that’s a lie? What if I don’t have to be perfect?
Suddenly, this truth dawns on me like a shaft of light: Even if I do make mistakes, what if I’m intrinsically okay? Suddenly something deep shifts within me, a muddy, slippery tectonic plate shlunks into its rightful place. I don’t have to be perfect.
I’m swamped with the relief of releasing this forty-year-old burden. As if I’ve just liberated a massive weight from my pack and left it on the side of the trail.
Walking the Camino is the cheapest, most effective therapy ever.
* * *
Of course, about a mile down the path, I cross a cobbled, medieval bridge which I remember with perfect clarity. It’s gorgeous waterfall cascades between an old mill and cute, whitewashed stone houses. Two pilgrims splash in the shallows. I remember this. Of course. I just needed the detour.
* * *
I’ve walked way too many miles today than is sane or reasonable. I’m dusty, sweaty, tired, and weary—and I still haven’t arrived yet. A few pilgrims pass me going west, but I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to get wherever I’m staying tonight. After crossing the bridge, I don’t notice the scenery. My feet ache. Trying to keep the pep in my step and hang in there, it’s all bravado now.
There’s a slog up an interminably inclined street. Its sidewalk is covered in loose bricks and laid out in constantly-changing widths to accommodate trees, , utility holes. I can’t just zone out or I’ll twist my ankle on a slanted driveway entrance. At the top at last, I turn onto a side street, hopeful to find the pension in my book. I’m only a few miles away from Santiago. With no reservations, they may not have room for me.
A block down through an odd, colorful neighborhood, I find signage that matches the address in my book. However, a huge metal gate is drawn across the driveway. Are they closed? Does this mean they’re full? Bravely, I slide it aside as it rattles and set neighborhood dogs to barking. Down the drive to an adorable two story home with a full porch, there are lots of shoes on the step. Oh God, don’t let them be full!
A few anxious minutes after I knock, a wiry, fast-talking man comes to the door and greets me in Spanish. I’m not catching all the words, but I inquire about the prices of the rooms. His reply is so fast, but I only hear the word “no” before concluding they’re full. I’m out of luck for the night. Now I have to find another place. I’m crushed.
“Do you know if there are other albergues nearby?” I manage ask as my voice warbles with emotion. A tear escapes without my permission.
“Siii…” he says cautiously, like there’s a question mark at the end. “I need to look up the number.”
I need water. I can’t believe I’m being so forward, but I ask him for a glass. If I have to keep walking to Santiago, I’ll need it on this hot afternoon. While he’s gone, I try to pull myself together. I can do this.
Returning, he hands me the cool glass and asks gently, “Pardon me, but why do you not want to stay here?”
“I want to, but you say there are no rooms.”
“Si, there are!” I’d misunderstood him. I laugh as another tear leaks out. God, I’m so tired.
“Oh! I don’t understand! I think there are no beds! I’m sorry!” Saying this makes me realize that I’ve got to work on my verb tenses.
My host settles me into a beautiful, quiet private bedroom with a separate bath. After a restorative shower and a batch of laundry, I sit in the back orchard in a comfy chair, enjoying the scenery of the hills I’ve climbed and descended.
I sit and write in my journal to recount the day and take stock.
I’m nearly crawling out of my skin not being able to contact Mary. It’s been four days. I’m afraid that she’s afraid. Maybe I should just accept what is.
I feel nervous about Santiago tomorrow. So much there. Not sure where to stay. Do I go back to the albergue where everything started? If I don’t, will I regret it? My sense is to go there. To trust. See what comes up.
I’ve returned here for gratitude for the changes in my life, to reclaim my soul, and walk my whole self home. But I also remember how I fell apart after my first Camino, how I struggled for so long to integrate its lessons. I’m afraid. I don’t know if I can stand the test of arriving, of remembering, of being completely undone a second time.
There’s only one way to find out. After today’s revelations, maybe I’m more ready than ever.
The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience. ~ Emily Dickinson
Total distance on foot: 15.2 mi / 24.6km
Towns traveled through: Cornado, Santa Mariña, Olvieroa, Negreira, Aguapesada
This day in 2013: Day 41 Negreira to Santa Mariña
First thing in the morning, the same condescending barista that checked me in last night is at the counter again. After a good night’s sleep, and no longer exhausted and weary from walking, I feel a desire to connect and discover her better nature, if she has one.
Approaching the bar, I glance at my watch and ask her, “Did you even sleep?” I see you. I see you working here night and day.
A light sparks in her eyes. “Yesss…” A grin spreads across her face.
“It must be difficult working so many hours.” All that repetition, all those revolving pilgrims everyday.
“No, not too difficult,” she says, her body square with mine. Yesterday she talked with her back to me. “I am from here, in this village, and I am lucky to have a job,” she adds with softness.
There isn’t an ounce of impatience in her voice now. We’ve made a real connection, however momentary. Maybe we all just need someone to see us for who we are, to meet us where we are and just listen.
While she makes my café americano I ask, “Have you walked the Camino?”
“No,” she replies flatly. “I don’t like walking.”
Surprised, she looks at me. “No? Then why are you walking?”
“I had to. I felt called to. I walked it three years ago, and it changed my life. Now I’m walking in reverse for gratitude.”
“Again?” Her slight frown shows I’ve given her something to think about. There’s something amazing about this pilgrimage. Maybe she’ll discover one day.
* * *
I am walking for gratitude, it’s true. But another part of my reason for returning to Spain to “go backwards” is to connect with the Divine. Emily Dickinson once wrote, “The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.” On my first Camino, I had several encounters with something vast and loving and far wiser than I. And, for whatever reason, those experiences don’t happen as often or as intensely in my everyday life.
So I’m back.
I suspect that many pilgrims have similar moments of pure peace, deep understanding, and euphoric joy. However, as I’ve read pilgrims’ numerous narratives about the Camino, I note with frustration how many skirt around describing those very ecstatic moments Emily Dickinson mentions. While we’re walking out there, our soul is open. One moment, you’re walking on the solid ground and, the next, something transcendent happens. What is that—and why don’t we find words to express it?
One reason I want to avoid describing these experiences is because they defy logic. Spiritual encounters don’t stand up to rigorous scrutiny—nor should they, perhaps. I just note with some humor that I’d prefer to reference science and data to support my theories.
The other reason is that I don’t want you to think I’m nuts, dear reader, and want to avoid being subject to your skepticism. However, in spite of these, I know firsthand that the Divine speaks—through messages, coincidences, through people and myriad creative channels. It wants to connect. I can’t say for certain what these encounters mean—except perhaps to confirm we’re not alone—but trusting them has led to wonderful changes in my life. Perhaps my retelling will inspire you to trust in your own experiences of the Divine, no matter how illogical, and inspire the healing and change you seek.
* * *
Years ago, when I began my own journey of emotional and spiritual growth, I awoke one sunny morning with a very real sense that I had a wing coming from my right shoulder. It was more like a nub, really, a radiant little bump on my scapula with the potential to be more. At this astonishing realization, I frowned and thought, What the heck? It’s not every day that one hallucinates a new appendage. Yet there was a rightness about it, not scary, but merely perplexing and completely out of my life’s experience. Huh… I have a kind of wing thing back there. And then I went on with my life.
A year later, I saw an angel intuitive (coincidentally also a fellow peregrina) who validated this awareness as a good omen from the Powers That Be. She encouraged me to trust it and be open to messages. In the time since then, especially when I’m feeling really open and joyful, I wake with the sensation that this energetic wing is still there, changing, growing in to a tiny fan of white feathers.
What the heck, right?
Whatever this sensation is, it feels like a sign about who I really am. Maybe we all have a secret truer self than we believe is logically possible. A gift. A superpower. A wordless connection with the Divine. Anyway, in the midst of daily living, they’re easy to overlook or brush off. It doesn’t mean you’re not a living miracle.
* * *
When I left Finisterre three years ago, it felt like ripping two vital parts of myself apart. While transporting my body back home to Oregon, my heart protested, saying over and over I’m not ready! A message I ignored. What else could I do but go home? However—and this is important—although I physically left Spain, my soul stayed rooted out on the rocks of Finisterre. In the intervening years of this painful split, I created a life my soul would want to return to.
Now, after three years’ absence, returning again to this place is emotional. A profound relief.
To finally stand on those rocks again is to know wholeness at last. I have retrieved what I lost. With no lost parts, no lingering questions, no division, everything in me feels united—body, mind, heart, soul.
Now I would walk my whole, holy self home.
* * *
This morning, walking with this inner wholeness, I feel amazing. Galicia is her stunning self. The early golden sunlight glows through the spring-green leaves of trees. Shadows and light play across the path through tunnels of moss-covered stones. How stunningly beautiful and magical everything is that I stop walking just to absorb it, to really take it in. I don’t care that pilgrims stare at me in wonder. I am in love with the world, the glittering streams, the distant sunlit hills, and the whispery eucalyptus forests.
In the middle of this fragrant woods, I recognize a little dirt slope to my right with a small hole dug into it. It’s still there. Three years ago, Meg spotted a nest of bumblebees here in this very spot. We stopped and stared at them with delight as they bumbled along their happy comings and goings. Marveling.
I grin at the memory, overflowing with joy. Suddenly, I’m awash in memories of my stunned attraction to her and the bolt of energetic lightning that went through me in her presence in Santiago.
My soul opens to the ecstatic experience. As I walk, I feel taller, almost regal. Then, natural as anything, two gorgeous white wings unfold behind me, like they’ve been tucked up and waiting for the right moment to unfurl. The astonishing sensation of their feathered weight is accompanied by a sense of rightness. No more nubs and half-wings. There they are.
What Meg showed me, I now feel to the center of my being. It’s not just part of me anymore—something to be brushed off or tolerated—it is me. I am it.
I walk on toward Santiago, illuminated from the inside out.
Annoying the Germans, getting lost, and trying to live with an open heart
I’m annoying the crap out of the Germans. No. Let me correct that. It’s mutual.
Yesterday, the first pilgrim I encountered in the morning was a tall German striding like he was making a dash for the finish line. As he passed, he looked at me and sternly said, “Wrong way.” No smile. Nothing.
What the…? I was shocked.
Then this morning, a German woman stops in her tracks to interrogate me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m walking back to France,” I reply.
“The Camino isn’t set up to walk backwards,” she informs me. Her insistence provokes instant ire. Seriously?
She is mid-rant about how I’m doing this incorrectly when I interrupt her to say, “In the past, Santiago was halfway. I’ve already walked it once, so now I’m finishing.” Then, annoyed, I continue walking and say over my shoulder, “Buen Camino!”
I don’t mean it. Judge me if you will, but I could easily have substituted a swear.
This is really pissing me off. I’m clearly succeeding at the thing they insist is incorrect and not possible. Do they say it just to be right? To show they’re superior? What gives someone the right to comment on my path, anyway? It must have something to do with the German sense of order and discipline.
Whatever the reason, I’m not amused. I’ve worked too hard to overcome perfectionism to let myself be judged by a total stranger. If it keeps happening, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It is seriously infuriating.
I’m having breakfast and my first cup of coffee when the hospitalera introduces me to an huge group of Spanish pilgrim cyclists. She says proudly, “This americana stayed at my albergue three years ago! I taught her to say ‘thanks very much’ in Galician—and you know what? She remembered how to say it!” My host beams and says, “Go ahead!” The whole group of cyclists swivels their heads toward me.
I’m still sleepy and now crimson-faced from flattered embarrassment, but I manage to say, “Moitas grazas!”
A few ohhhs come from the cyclists, and I grin at them. Then I recognize a few! They’re the guys I met in front of Ruby’s hotel in Finisterre the day before. The one guy who teased me about speaking English bids me a good morning (perhaps I’ve redeemed myself?). I feel happy to see familiar faces.
Before I leave, I give the hospitalera a big hug and a final moitas grazas. She says, “Visit us again in three more years—and bring your esposo!”
Five minutes down the road, still grinning, I remember my walking sticks and go back to retrieve them. Then I’m out again on my own in the cool morning air for a long day’s walk. I can hear the whooshing hum of a dozen windmills lined up along the distant hill. Birds are singing in the sunlit forest. The sound of running water from an invisible creek gurgles through the trees. The road is flat and well-graded so each footstep crunches as I walk. I’m lost, then not lost. Confident, then uncertain of the way. I remember being here. Then I forget. Am I on the way? Was I here? Ah, now I remember.
This is what it’s like to walk the Camino backwards. I’m living in past and present all at once.
Before long, I hit the steep hill where Meg and I collected gorgeous blue-green rocks and—same as yesterday—I start bawling, just wordless uncontrollable sobbing. I miss her. It’s something deeper too. As I ascend this hill, the past is shedding like bits of dry skin behind me. My old, constricted way of living is sloughing off.
I miss living with my heart open.
When I came back from Spain three years ago, I resolved to change my life. Full of grand plans, I was going to see friends more often and connect more meaningfully. I was going to change my livelihood and start doing what I loved. Exercise was going to be a regular part of my life as a result of rediscovering how much I loved being outdoors.
But since that time, I’ve slowly shut down. I’ve become increasingly isolated from caring friendships, still not doing work I love, and struggling to show my true self to the world. Instead, I distract myself with screen time and swap my authentic self for the presentable, PC version I think everyone wants to see.
Change is hard.
It’s not that I’m back to square one. My marriage is renewed in a way I didn’t dream was possible, and maybe I am closer to doing more satisfying work. I just see a huge chasm between where I am and where I want to be. Walking on this very terrain reminds me that I’ve settled for less since I was here last. Walking over the land where I admitted aloud to understanding, supportive Meg what I really want in life brings it all back. I can’t pretend here. I remember. I want more.
As pilgrims pass me downhill, I try to look fine. I sniffle, but grin at them. I wipe my eyes, but say buen camino. There is more grieving to do, but I set it aside. Sometimes you have to just watch yourself make the same choices over and over again until you change them for good.
Fortunately, I have time to sort it out. I have weeks of walking ahead of me.
In the meantime, I notice as I walk that the whole region is in full-on springtime soil-preparation mode. Huge agricultural machines are out in force—tilling, spraying manure, dusting with lime, and filling the valleys with the sounds of growling diesel engines. Later in the day, the path is more level and for a half hour or more, I can survey the machines’ progress as I approach. Occasionally, I wave to a passing farmer. In the distance, I spot a lone pilgrim far ahead who–like me–is also walking east toward Santiago!
At one point, I get completely lost up on a hill above dairy country. About 100 feet back I saw a huge white sign stating in Spanish this is an alternate route of the Camino. Tracking helps me determine whether I’m on the trail, but I see no stick marks, no pilgrims ahead, and no sign of boot prints in the mud. The good news is being lost gives me privacy to go poo—which I desperately need to do—and successfully dig a cat hole in the soft soil.
Once relieved, I take stock: I’m lost, but not panicky. I know my way back, even if I don’t know the way forward. I’m okay, I reassure myself. Just retrace your steps.
As I stare at my map, I realize this is the exact same place that Meg and I got lost three years ago. I can even see the dairy and farm below where we sat and watched the cows rounded up by a woman on a moped. How uncanny to be lost in the same place. Is there a vortex here? Or some Galicia magic? I wonder if I’ll meet a witch on the way.
Maybe the Camino isn’t set up to be walked in reverse, but it can be done. At the white sign, I realize I just missed the turn and am on my way again.
The last few miles of the day seem interminably long as my body aches from walking on pavement. As I stop to fill my water bottle at a community fountain, the east-walking pilgrim appears beside me! I gather up my pack as he fills his bottle, and we are ready to depart at the same time.
Gesturing with his arms in a sweeping motion toward the path, he says, “Ladies first” in an unmistakable accent.
“No, no. After you,” I grin.
“Shall we walk togezzah?”
“I would love that,” I say. Yes, Heinrich is German. He is kind and curious, though embarrassed by his English skills. We’re headed to the same albergue. How novel to have a walking companion for the final two miles!
As many times as I’ve lived it, I always forget what a touchy mood I’m in when I arrive at an albergue feeling tired, hot, and hungry. Today is no different. I’m immediately offended that the barista insists on speaking English (insinuating that my Spanish isn’t good enough). She’s abrupt and terse. There are a litany of rules.
- No using the clothes dryer if you hand wash.
- No hanging clothes in the laundry room.
- No hanging clothes from your bunk.
Do they not care that we’ll walk around sopping wet tomorrow?
When I get a snack at the restaurant, the barista hovers and whisks away my plates before I’m done. Later, she sneers at me with disdain when I tell her the coin-op computer isn’t working. I’ve been anxious all day that I haven’t sent Mary an email in three days and hope she’s not worried. Anyway, I’m told there’s no fix for the computer. The reception here couldn’t make me feel less welcome.
The upside is that after laundry and a shower, Heinrich and I join another man in the bar where the three of us have dinner together. Despite my walking alone, I have actual dinner companions. In an additional twist of irony, Ralph is also from Germany. He is great company, speaks English flawlessly, and tells great stories throughout the meal. He’s a hoot. My spirits lift.
So I take back what I’ve said about Germans. They were my saving grace tonight.
Maybe my heart is more open than I realized.
A day of emotions, imaginary friends, and a heartwarming reunion
Total distance on foot: 10.7 mi / 17.2km
Towns traveled through: Hospital
This day in 2013: Day 43
I’m going to be frank: it’s emotional to be back here. One minute I’m okay, the next moment I’m in tears. Unsettled. Open. For someone with a lifetime of practice being “fine” (or at least acting that way), these unpredictable waves of emotion are both cathartic and unnerving.
Taped to today’s journal page is a note from my 13-year-old niece,
“It doesn’t matter how slow you go as long as you don’t stop.”
Seeing this wise message in her fanciful, multi-colored handwriting makes me teary. Walking backwards is slow. Arrows are confusing. Backtracking burns up minutes and miles. People stopping to question my motives jars me. It hardly seems linear.
The same holds true for inner journeys. Letting go and acceptance are astoundingly slow-going work. Have you ever noticed how, after committing to letting go of a habit or a person, you catch yourself grasping again with white-knuckled fingers, trying squeeze out what it can never provide? Oh, we say, taking a deep breath. I can let this go. And we choose to release it again… and grasp again… and release again… until something truly shifts.
This work is slow, but it’s the process. And so important not to stop.
* * *
My primary challenge of the day is to make the steep, three-mile climb outside of Cee to a point almost nine hundred feet above me. I’ve been dreading it. Anticipation of this hill has kept me awake at night—sweating and anxious in a dark cocoon of blankets—for weeks.
Out in the cold morning air, now the sun rises over my right shoulder. A mile in, I’m gasping for breath from the exertion, but keeping at it. My heavy breathing turns into ragged sobs, and I don’t stop. I just give in to the waves of emotion as I continue to climb.
Meg. She was here with me three years ago. The landmarks we once passed and the memories approach then fall behind me, one at a time. Thank you. Somehow as I walk, the way in which my soul had entwined with hers is slowly untwisting.
* * *
At the top, the path is a gravel track through high, open fields of gorse and newly-planted young eucalyptus trees. For the next five hours, there isn’t a single café, farm, or home. Although this isolation is what I need, it’s tinged with nerves. I’m still not confident about finding my way. As I walk, I hear only the wind and the sound of my breathing.
The view from here is stunning, and I pause periodically to look back at the Atlantic. When Meg and I were here last, we mistook distant, heavy clouds for another line of mountains. Now I can see all the way to the tiny lighthouse in Finisterre. Several more times, I glance back before the view disappears for good.
The sense of Meg being with me is at times palpable. I miss you, I say into the air as the tears flow again. Thank you. Thank you for walking with me and helping me discover how happy I could be. Thank you for witnessing and accepting me for who I really am.
Finally, I tell her the rest of the story.
All my life, I’ve tried to stay as small as possible and not make waves… but this meant living a divided life. People only knew the self I showed the world, but not the authentic person I feared others would find unacceptable. But, Meg, you taught me that I didn’t have to be divided. You with your quick wit and sarcasm and potty mouth. You just didn’t care what anyone thought of you… and I’ve always cared too much. You made me laugh and loosen up. God, it was so fun to laugh with you.
I’m talking out loud, telling her how things unfolded after we parted and about returning to my less-than-stellar life. My inner judge wants me to shut the hell up, not look like a crazy person. Talking out loud! After all these years, the truth just has to be spoken, even if Meg’s not really here and God is my only witness.
“Imagination and fantasy are both beautiful things,” I say. “Provided they’re not used to escape from living in the physical world. But that is actually what happened for me. I lost myself in fantasies about being with you and in the process lost touch with reality. It was a really dark time. And it took a really long time to find my way again.”
“What I know now is that it was never your job to save me. It would have been a disaster if we’d been together. I believe you showed up to teach me. But I was obsessed with being with you because I wanted to be like you. It took forever for me to finally let go and learn to live with same authenticity I admire so much in you.”
The morning’s first pilgrim appears ahead at a bend in the path. I drop my gesticulating arms and try to look sane. As he passes, his face looks surprised, but he wishes me a buen Camino. As soon as he is out of earshot, I continue talking.
It takes hours to say what happened for me and why everything unfolded the way it did.
“Today, I am just grateful. I have never felt so messed up in the head as I did after the Camino, but it was a turning point in my forty-year existence. Slowly, painfully, I learned how to live an undivided life.”
Now the whole story has been told aloud. Maybe I’ve said it for myself… to the Meg who is actually me.
“Thank you, Meg.”
Thank yourself. I grin. What I admire in her is a part of me.
Thank you, self… For going so far out of your comfort zone in order to be truly happy. Thank you for ignoring advice to just go back to sleep. Thank you for hanging in there through the darkness and for choosing to live. Thank you for coming back here to Spain. It is so beautiful here.
* * *
It really is. It’s quiet and woodsy, and the warm sun fills my senses. I walk in silence now—alive and buzzing and cleansed. My thoughts are almost nonexistent. My body like a machine, just taking step after satisfying step.
Eventually, I enter the first village of the day after hours of forest paths. Up along a cobbled, corridor-like street, the cool, deep afternoon shadows draw my eyes to the blue sky. Overhead, I notice an active beehive in the stone wall of a home. Honeybees are a good omen for me.
Here’s where I’ll stay tonight.
* * *
Sliding my passport and credencial across the bar for inspection and a stamp, the hospitalera tells me the price for the night and about the pilgrim menu for dinner.
I recognize her face. “I was here three years ago,” I say in Spanish. “You and your friend taught me how to say ‘thank you very much’ in Galician.”
She raises her eyebrows and says, “I did?”
“Yes, I still remember. It’s ‘moitas grazas‘.”
Crinkles form at the corners of her expressive eyes as her face cracks into a smile. “Moitas grazas!” she parrots back. “You remembered! And you returned here again!”
“Yes, I remember your hospitality very well and the fun you have here. This albergue has a special place in my heart.”
She puts down the stamp, walks around the bar, and embraces me warmly, planting a kiss on each cheek. “You remembered!” How could I not? She and her friend repeated ‘moitas grazas‘ with enthusiasm and emphatic hand gestures until Meg and I got the pronunciation just right. I vividly remember the four of us sharing this warm exchange and laughter that morning.
The life of a hospitalero is a constant, daily stream of new faces never to be seen again. I wonder if the fact that I remembered how to say thank you in the local language, the words she taught me, touches her.
“I will teach you more words in Gallego,” she says.
“I’d love that!” I reply.
“Do you have a husband?” This intimate question makes me jump. We don’t ask about marital status in the US until we know someone better—or we ask in a roundabout way, not directly.
“Yes,” I say simply. Spain has legalized gay marriage, but this is a rural place. I decide not to quibble about esposo vs esposa.
“No, no children.”
She looks sad for a moment, then says, “It’s too bad you’re married. My cousin has a son about your age. You are learning Gallego and speak Spanish. And we already have an American girl here in the village who is married to my friend’s son.”
I am smiling. This is a stunning conversation. She’s matchmaking with a pilgrim who made the slightest effort in Spanish. I feel loved and highly amused.
“What work does your husband do?” she asks.
I don’t know how to say ‘dental hygienist’ in Spanish, so I say simply, “Es dentista.”
“Oooohhh,” she says, then points to me. “Que princesaaaa!” she says, drawing out the last vowel for dramatic effect. A princess.
Simultaneously, I blush and burst out laughing, “Si… princesa.” Spoiled, loved, cherished. That’s me.
Satisfied that I’m well provided for, the hospitalera gives me the option of several rooms, and I choose the tiny, stone one with red accent walls and a skylight. Foreign coins rest on the stones for good luck, perhaps. With only four beds, it should be a quiet night (and it is). I unpack my things, still grinning and giggling to myself about the princesa comment and can’t wait to tell Mary about it.
It was Meg, in fact, who’d asked our hospitalera that morning how to say thank you in Gallego.
At the time, I was agonizing over my unspoken attraction to Meg and whether my commitment to Mary was the right choice. Who would have thought Mary and I were capable of reinventing our relationship? Who could have imagined that the harder choice—staying together—would teach us to expose our well-protected hearts?
Meg’s acceptance showed me how. I eventually found a way to bring this whole authentic, courageous, and vulnerable self into my marriage. It took time. Even now, it’s not always pretty or perfect, but I am one very grateful princesa—I discovered a love I didn’t know was possible.
Moitas grazas to Meg.
* * *
It’s an emotional day. But that’s typical on the Camino. There’s a relentlessness to this experience, in the same way that dripping water eventually wears away stone. It can’t not change us. Though challenging, surprising, and difficult at times, the Camino slowly reveals its gifts—as long as the pilgrim doesn’t stop.
In case you’re wondering, I DO have another reverse Camino post coming up soon. In the meantime, I’m tickled to share that I’m featured this month on The Camino Podcast!
Dave Whitson is one of the best interviewers I’ve ever met, and he asked great questions about my reverse Camino this spring. It was a total blast to meet with him and “talk Camino” and share some of the insights from this less-common pilgrimage.
In his intro, Dave laughed that the two topics in this podcast (my Camino and bed bugs) are not at all connected. To that, I messaged him saying that “completion” is about integrating the Camino’s lessons in real life, but “finishing” is about not bringing bedbugs home with you.
Enjoy listening… and let me know what you think!
My first day in reverse, attempting to find my way, and the insufferable Australian
Total distance on foot: 8.7mi / 14km
Towns traveled through: Finisterre, Sardiñeiro, Corcubión, Cee
This day in 2013: Day 43-44
What was it like to walk in reverse? That’s what I wanted to know too the morning I left Finisterre behind.
Before I could do this, I had to return Ruby’s bright pink blanket which she’d accidentally left with me the night before. It was still early, the sun barely up and a cool, damp wind blew off the Atlantic into Finisterre’s sleeping streets.
Looking up at her locked hotel, I noticed two men come out of the entrance. As I approached, they held the door open for me, but not without a quick, funny chat in English and Spanish. On my way out, the two men turned into six Spaniards and a young American from Chicago. We gabbed a moment and, as they smoked and laughed, the older Spanish guy complimented me on my English. His humor hinted at my rudeness, but when I’m tired, I’m unable to speak any Spanish or French. I’d offended, but not horribly. They waved me off with a rousing buen Camino!
The first thing I did was wander around the familiar town and look for the yellow painted arrows until I was sure I was on the path, but I then doubted myself over and over. The arrows weren’t as frequent as I’d imagined they’d be. Walking along the high road by the beach, I sensed this was the right direction. Without my compass, I couldn’t verify it. Over and over I wondered as I walked, Is this the Camino? Am I on it? Any hope that I might remember the route from three years ago dissipated quickly.
Along the way, I passed several old men of varying girths out walking their tiny dogs on skinny little leashes. Whether or not I was on the Camino, they didn’t volunteer and I didn’t ask.
Eventually, the road led to a flagstone-and-concrete path just uneven enough to make walking difficult. Memories surfaced of being here with Meg and growing exhausted before we could reach the town. There wasn’t another soul around. I felt every pound in my pack. On one side, the Camino follows the contours of Playa Langosteira, a long, crescent-shaped white sand beach and on the other pine forest. It was so quiet, I felt a little spooked to be alone.
Here I was again, walking the Camino. When would reality start to sink in?
Then the path went up and up to a road in a spacious neighborhood, but I didn’t know where to go. Do I cross? Do I stay along the road? Go back? I stood still for several moments looking at all my options. My guidebook had real maps, but none large enough to show the minute detail I needed. The arrow painted on the asphalt was faded, but once I saw it, it couldn’t be unseen. Cross the road. This went on for hours. The uncertainty. The stopping. The anxiety. The sudden spotting of an arrow or cairn. More tentative forward (backward?) movement.
If I slowed down, took a deep breath, and waited a few moments, it was easier to find my way. This Camino was going to be a turtle’s race, not the hare’s.
At times, I did actually recognized the path. A cute little farm with a tall fence, a sweet orchard, and happy chickens in a coop made me smile, just like the first time. What a range of feelings I had three years ago, walking with Meg—scared, sad, torn, afraid of losing my joy forever. Other times laughing with her and feeling so happy. As I retraced my steps on terra firma, images and memories surfaced, returning with clarity and emotion like I had hoped they would. Rather than resist, I let all of it wash over me.
There was a single yet significant moment walking under the magical oak trees, when I sighed with unconscious contentment. In response, my inner voice asked, “Is this all you needed?” Yes. Yes, it is. After scrimping, planning, and anticipating this for so long—just walking—so simple, yet everything I needed.
As the day advanced, I encountered interesting characters along the way.
Chloe from Montana said, “Of course there’s an Oregonian walking the Camino backwards!”
Irma from Holland—when I offered her one of my handmade inspiration cards—told me just how perfect the message was for the question she’d been pondering. She teared up. Then she asked a little breathlessly, “Are you an angel?”
A cute young man from NY and a raven-haired dancer from the UK were walking together. We chatted for a bit, and despite the ring on his left hand, he had that wistful look I recognized so well. The end is coming. Are you living the life you want?
At lunch, I sat with a twenty-something guy from Cork and a woman from Germany—both of them employed in law enforcement—who questioned me with increasing intensity about Benghazi. It wasn’t until they left I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time. Plot twist: the guy paid for my lunch and hugged me goodbye. What was that?
One German guy went on and on about the daily distances he’d walked the whole journey. Rattling off each day’s mileage as though from a spreadsheet in his mind. Now that he was nearing the end, was he examining how well he’d done? Did he have something to prove? Was he starting to question that this walk might be about more than just distance?
In Cee, I was walking along the road as the sun got higher. Even though I’d lost the official Camino, passing the houses with their whitewashed steps and pots full of red geraniums was scenic and pleasant. I was planning to stop here for the night, so I wasn’t stressed about the exact route. You just go all the way around the tiny harbor, then up the hill on the other side. At the top and almost completely out of Cee, I stopped at an albergue for the night. Even though it was only about 2pm.
I’d survived my first day of walking backwards. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared.
If you ever want to connect with locals, show up at a privately-owned albergue just as they open to pilgrims in the early afternoon. As the sole peregrina for almost an hour, Pedro gave me the royal treatment. He let me choose whatever bed I wanted. He offered me beer. He helped me operate the laundry spinner and then re-hung my clothes when the rack blew over.
Later, when I was clean, we chatted for a long while about pilgrimage (he’s done many sections of the Camino himself) and about how it changes your life. How simple it is. How deeply satisfying. His albergue offered complimentary sheets and towels because he’d learned how precious those were as a pilgrim. By late afternoon, we were buddies. I was even translating for Pedro when non-Spanish-speaking pilgrims showed up.
Which, I’m sorry to say, made it all the more awful when the Annoying Australian Woman arrived. I should have kept my mouth shut, but she and a friend peeked in trying to decide whether to stay, and I piped up with, “It’s a great albergue! They even have towels!”
Entitled. Demanding. Snappish. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how someone could have walked the Camino so long and not gotten the message that “the traveler demands, but the pilgrim is grateful.” Over the course of the next few hours, she would interrupt me while I was talking to others, resting, and journaling to say things like, “Tell him I want some food.” and “Why should I have to know how to speak Spanish?” and “You know what kind of hill you have tomorrow?!” (And to think I’d only been worried about that for months.)
I could not shake this grumpy, demanding character. Her friend seemed to have the patience of Job. AAW napped for a while and when she woke, she was a ravenous dragon. She complained to me that there was no restaurant at the albergue, nowhere nearby to eat (except two places she didn’t like the looks of), that the heat-and-eat options available for purchase weren’t her normal preference, and that she couldn’t understand the Spanish directions on the noodle package (this, despite me pointing out the handy picture diagrams, “Oh, I can’t be bothered with that!”).
“Does she want me to make it for her?” Pedro asked me in Spanish. I bristled and didn’t want to translate his question. It’s not his job to be kind to this rare bird! But when I did, she said yes. In astonishment, I watched as he prepared the soup, set the table, and served it to her—and she didn’t thank him. She ignored him like low-life servant!
Later, she complained to me that there was no heat in the albergue, though it wasn’t cold and ample blankets were available. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, mustering the last ounce of patience I had.
“Well, you sold me on this place.”
Are you kidding me?? Of all the blaming, victimy, passive aggressive, fill-in-the-freaking-blankety-blanks…
“You know?” I paused to regain my composure. “I’ve had a hard day too. I need you to cut me some slack.”
“Oh. Well, there was another girl who spoke Spanish who told me she wouldn’t translate for me anymore.” And do you wonder what the connection might be??
Escaping to the patio in front, I passed Pedro and said in Spanish, “What a pilgrim! I’m so sorry about this woman. You have amazing patience.” He grinned at me, the tiredness visible in his eyes.
I missed home. I missed Mary. I thought of Nancy whose quote was pasted on this day’s journal page, “May flowers spring up where your feet touch the earth. May the feet that walked before you bless your every step.” (Macrina Wierdekehr) Seeing these words made me a little misty. This is the experience I want to be having, not dealing with this demanding snip. Could there be some message here for me?
But then a kind man from Ireland joined me, and we had a great chat about what he’d learned now that his journey was ending… and why I had returned after three years to walk the Camino again. This was more like it. My clothes dried in the breezy sunshine. I wrote in my journal uninterrupted and sipped a glass of wine, feeling grateful for life.
In the morning, I stiffened when the Australian woman sat down across from me on the couches as we tied our respective shoelaces. She looked at me in the eye and said, “I hope you have a wonderful Camino. Truly.”
Then she thanked our host.
This proved to me, once again, that you cannot know another person’s heart. No doubt, I was definitely back on the Camino.
Yosmar is a pilgrim of life. Like me, she was in the middle of seeking something better when she decided to walk the Camino de Santiago. Afterward, she sought a way to bring this meaningful experience to the world.
How do we live a more inspired, more Camino-like life every day? As a fellow writer and seeker, I’m delighted to share her story. Yosmar’s story shows how she ultimately chose to bring delight and deliciousness to the world.
Tastes of the Camino… The Camino’s gift to me
Like many who embark on the Camino, I was in a very dark phase of my life prior to experiencing the Camino. For almost ten years, I had been very unhappy in my career, which led me to being unhappy in my life. At times, I thought my unhappiness was job-specific…. If I could get a job where I was paid more, I would be happier… If I didn’t have a neurotic or spineless boss, I would enjoy what I was doing… If I didn’t have to commute an hour each way, I wouldn’t be so exhausted at the end of the week and my quality of life would be so much better… You name it…
If there was an “if,” it was something I had pondered on and believed would make me happier. So as many do, I switched jobs a few times to try to address some of those “if’s.” Each time, the initial ecstasy of the new opportunity would fade within months and I would be back to the same place.
I also took sometime to go to culinary school and deep down I knew I had to do something with food. But I wasn’t sure what. I started a specialty food business but I was not meeting my financials goals within the timeframe I had allotted. I taught cooking classes on a part time basis. I loved teaching as it really allowed me to share my passion about food with others. But I had a hard time making ends meet just teaching. So I always kept my corporate career. It was my safety net and yet, it was also a huge factor in my unhappiness.
The two years right before that first Camino in 2011 were particular tough. During the great recession, my position was eliminated and the job market shrunk. \So I decided to get into real estate. I was truly excited about this new career path but it was tough being that the market was in the dumpster.
The constant struggling in a down market and the ongoing unhappiness really wore me down. And that is when I decided to walk the Camino, despite having all sorts of reservations… Could I physically walk 500 miles? Was the Camino for me, being the non-religious, non-spiritual person that I was? Would I even enjoy myself?
After returning from my first Camino, like many, I was able to see the positive impact that the Camino had on me. It wasn’t a sudden or dramatic change. But for one, I reacted to problems a bit more calmly… I also didn’t need material things as much. It also seemed to give me the courage to at least start writing a cookbook, something I had always wanted to do but was afraid of.
You see… during those 10 years of ongoing dissatisfaction and unhappiness, I had lost my self-confidence and the ability to belief in my ideas. But somehow, after arriving in Santiago, I was compelled to write a book about the foods of the Camino. So I started working on my Camino cookbook… developing recipes and writing. I knew I would enjoy the recipe development because after all I love everything about food! But I didn’t consider myself a writer so I was somewhat fearful of that part of the book.
To my surprise, I found the writing portion extremely therapeutic. It was almost as the world around me didn’t exist while I was writing and therefore, nothing could bring me down. While I was enjoying myself, deep down, I still was unsure if this book would ever see the light of day. Because of my work and travel commitments, it took about three years to complete the manuscript.
It was only when the manuscript was done that I started to believe that there would actually be a real book. I decided to self-publish and had to learn a “boatload of new”… food photography, food styling, book design, indexing, printing, website development, how to open an LLC, sales tax, etc. But somehow overcoming this “boatload of new” gave me back my self-confidence… In essence, the Camino and this cookbook, Tastes of the Camino, put me on a positive path that I had been searching for a very long time. And when I became more positive, things just started falling into place.
What this positive path will bring me is yet to be known. It might be more books … It might be something else food related… It might be something totally unrelated that I can’t even fathom! Right now, I am not too concerned because I am enjoying this gift the Camino has given me. I put emphasis on the word “enjoying” because I feel that society puts too much emphasis on being happy rather than enjoying happiness. And sometimes we are so desperately in search of this ultimate state of mind/state of mind called happiness that we don’t see it in our day to day and thus, we forget to enjoy it. Without having walked the Camino and written Tastes of the Camino, I am unsure I would have ever come to this realization.
For more information on Tastes of the Camino, please visit www.whiskandspatula.com/books.