Author: jenniferhofmann

Beware the geographic cure

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So much has changed in the last few years. Divisive politics. The strain of loneliness. A pandemic. A devastating wildfire that evacuated me for nearly a week. There’s been joy too — awakening, community, writing. But times like these try our patience and our souls. New wounds callous over and ache for healing.

My work calls me to hold the tension between the future we hope for and the reality we live in. To offer people a bridge between those two places requires emotional labor. It’s taxing. After almost five years, it has finally caught up with me.

I didn’t plan to get divorced in the middle of it either, but here I am, forty-eight years old, single again, fully vaccinated and utterly exhausted.

When the papers got signed, I started packed my bags.

Not long after, a quote I stumbled upon hit me between the eyes: “Beware the geographic cure.” I know that flinging myself to far-off places isn’t a fix for what ails me. Wherever I go, I still take my particular set of bags along, stuffed with foibles, regrets, and unsolved pain. We all do. No matter how long that baggage spins around the carousel, they keep returning.

As I booked flights, a spiritual friend asked me, “Is this a trip you’re planning… or a pilgrimage?”

And I knew. Immediately. A sensation of deep knowing fluttered in my gut. It is the latter. I am once again a pilgrim.

Even though I’ll spend the next three months hopping my way across two continents, the locations are inconsequential. What matters are the souls I’m going to meet in each place. I will make stops to see the people my heart calls home — friends and family who I haven’t hugged in far too long.

  • Portland, Oregon: Nancy and Julia
  • Fort Wayne, Indiana: Marissa, Sally, and Steve
  • Traverse City, Michigan: Kate
  • Danbury and Farmington, Connecticut: Kathy, Jerry, Mark, Amy, Olivia, and Laura; with possible walk ons from Lea and Jen
  • Galway, Ireland: Ger and her family

The one exception is my hope to walk in Ireland solo for about 10 days. Or maybe it’s not an exception. I’d like alone time with my own heart as I learn to be my own best friend.

And I’m taking you, dear reader, along with me including photos, stories, and insights. So if you care to read about what’s out there and what’s in here, watch this space. Your pilgrim friend is back.

Buen camino!

A field on the Camino de Santiago

Reverse Camino Day 27: Bedbugs

Published on by jenniferhofmann7 Comments

I wake innocently, thinking of little besides breakfast.

By the time I finished a perfect cup of Americano and toast with jam, I’ve brushed an itchy feeling on my cheek several times, thinking nothing of it. Before leaving the café, though, I pause at the restroom mirror. There, underneath my left eye, are four tiny raised bumps in a straight line.

Well, shit.

One little red bump could have been a mosquito. Or a flea. But those little nightmares leave a tell-tale trail of multiple bites as they crawl across the skin. Bed bugs.

Shit.

I have to do something about this. If I have them in my pack, the bites on my face are the least of my worries. These buggers hide well. You can turn a pack upside down and inside out and not find a thing. If I do nothing, I could spread them to other pilgrims, other hostels, and that’s just being inconsiderate.

God knows where I picked them up. Fortunately, being a worry wart means I did a mountain of obsessive, pre-Camino research, so if—or when—they show up, I know what to do. Buried in my pack is a large black garbage bag, but I am going to need an albergue with a hot clothes dryer.

*

Blood-sucking hitchhikers or not, the Camino (like the show) goes on.

It takes me forever to get out of Burgos since I opt for the alternate scenic river walk. Through the long, meandering tree-filled park, it goes on and on forever with more side trails than I remembered from last time. This reverse Camino has forced me again and again to make mistakes, choose the wrong path, and fail in front of others. This much failure is horrible for my ego, but wonderful for my soul.

For the fourth time in an hour, I manage to get off track while still in a city park. There, at the river’s edge, I pass a guy wearing no shirt, baiting a hook from an old folding chair beside a rusty, silver hatchback.

I take in the scene and hesitate only a moment to calculate the risks, then say, “Perdón, señor. ¿Sabes que es el Camino?”

“Aaah…” Shirtless guy cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at the source of the sound, certainly not expecting a ponytailed, backpacked pilgrim to interrupt his morning fishing excursion. With rod and line in hand, he stands up and approaches me, looking down the path. “El Camino. Ayi.” He stabs the air with an index finger. That way. Back to Burgos.

“No, no voy a Burgos,” I clarify. “I’m going in reverse.”

He pauses now, uncertain. “Al revez?”

“Sí.”

He looks both ways, glances back at his river fishing hole a moment, then seems struck with a moment of clarity. And charity.

“Vale.” Ba-lay. The multi-tool of Spanish words meaning okay, c’mon, got it, and yup. Right now, it means he’s going to help me get unlost. He walks past me, going up the sandy trail in his flop flops, flipping sprays of sand behind him.

Through the serpentine river paths, beyond the leafy curtain of cottonwood trees, at last, he points me to an expanse of manicured fútbol fields surrounded by cyclone fencing. Beside these barriers is a pale, narrow track ground into the grass and a small gathering of pilgrims in the distance.

“El Camino,” he says with satisfaction.

“Muchas gracias, señor. Good luck with the fish!”

I get lost several more times before the day is over, but I guess I’m getting used to it.

*

Many hot miles later, I decide to stop in the tiny village of Riopico when I see the Colombian flag flying over one of its albergues. It makes me think of dear Marisela, my peregrina sister from 2013, so I walk down the short street to check in. It’s barely early afternoon, but the extra time will help my plan to work better.

The only thing to do now is tell the hard truth. Which I hate.

On entering the front door, the cafe on the albergue’s first floor smells freshly cleaned. All the tables and chairs arranged at perfect right angles. And quiet—there no one else here. It takes a moment before the hospitalera meets me at the desk, but I tell her about my Colombian friend from Bogotà that I walked with in 2013 and hope the cultural connection warms her up because I don’t want to say what needs to come out of my mouth next.

“Ah, how nice.” Not warm enough. Crap.

“So, before I pay for a bed, can you tell me whether you have a good, very hot dryer?”

“Sííííí…” almost like a question, mild caution.

“Because I have bedbugs bites and need to dry all my clothes in a hot dryer for an hour.”

Her face looks stricken, jaw slack. She glances down at my clothes.

“I’m so sorry. I wash everything so I don’t share them.”

She snaps into action. “Vale. I will get something to put all your clothes in. I will give you something to wear.” Moments later, she places a plastic bin at my feet. Unpacking my bag, I fill it with everything washable—blanket, bag liner, shirts, socks, underwear, nightshirt, bandanna, gloves. In the restroom, I change into the loose cotton top and a skirt she gives me. When I return, I toss today’s clothes into the pile too.

“Thank you so much.”

“I will wash these now.” Something about her clipped voice and the tightness of her jaw betray her feelings. I’m the last thing she wanted to deal with today.

Her tenseness would have had Old Me apologizing and scraping and bowing, barely able to justify my existence for creating such an inconvenience. Right now, I’m oddly, miraculously unfazed.

Maybe it’s the effect of being the oddball pilgrim walking backwards, daily dealing with everyone wanting to know what I’m doing and why. I’ve almost stopped caring what people think of me. I’m sorry for troubling her, but for possibly the first time in my life this is not wrapped up in my self worth.

Again, I thank her, order a vino tinto, and carry my pack out on the spacious concrete patio. Now to implement the second part of my plan. Unfolding the huge, sturdy plastic garbage bag, I flap it open and drop my pack inside. Gathering the opening in my fist, I blow up the bag like a balloon then seal it closed with a twist tie. I’m making an oven. The sunshine-heated air and hot concrete should do the trick, baking everything inside: bugs, eggs, and (accidentally) a bit of aged cheese.

This project completed, there’s nothing else to do but relax in the shade at an outdoor table and soak up the fine weather. In this borrowed, feminine outfit, I feel like I’m on vacation, sipping my wine and snacking on this small plate of olives and pickles. What has happened to me? Old Me would have been worrying and fretting and agonizing over the buggos.

“Mind if I join you?” A friendly older blond woman asks.

“Not at all, have a seat! Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

She pulls back the study aluminum chair, and smiles as she sits back. “Yeah. It reminds me of California weather. I’m from L.A.”

“Just like home, then! I’m from rainy Oregon, so this is a treat! I’m Jen.”

“Patty. Nice to meet you.” She opens a bag of potato chips. “Want some?”

“Sure! Thanks! Have some olives if you like.”

“Where did you come from today?” The question every pilgrim asks.

“Burgos.”

She blinks a moment, uncomprehending. “Burgos?” If I were walking west like everyone else, I should have been in Agés or Atapuerca or even somewhere ambitious like Villafranca. “But tomorrow is Burgos.”

“Yes, for you it is. I’m walking the Camino in reverse, so I’ve come from there today.”

“Oh wow! And is this your first Camino?”

“No, I did it the normal way—from Saint Jean to Santiago—three years ago.”

“What made you want to come back and do it again—and backwards?” She’s genuinely inquisitive and curious.

“Honestly, my first Camino was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and my life changed completely as a result. This Camino is one of thanksgiving for all the good things it brought me. I’m also working on a memoir about it, so I’m doing some fact-finding too.”

We wile away the afternoon, chatting about our journeys and writing in journals. About an hour later, a fit-looking, middle-aged man approaches our table. Patty and I are still the only ones here.

“Ladies, do you mind some company?” He asks, gesturing with a bottle of wine in his hand. He’s wearing a black baseball cap and a big smile.

“Not at all! Please sit! I’m Jen.”

“I’m Patty.”

“Nice to meet you both. I’m Tobias. Where are you two from?”

“I’m from Oregon.”

“Los Angeles. How about you?”

“I’m from Germany. I’m staying at the pensión in this village.”

This seems like a funny thing to lead with, so I tease, “So, only the best accommodations for you!”

He laughs and says, “I don’t stay in albergues. Some wine?”

“Sure!” Our glasses are nearly empty, so we drain the last sip, and he fills them up with a nice Rioja.

“Thanks! That’s so nice of you.” Tobias is a mix of respectful and playful, and the three of us hit it off immediately.

“Where do you walk from today?” Tobias asks.

“I came from Atapuerca,” Patty says. “But Jen here has a story for you.”

After I explain, Tobias says, “Backwards! Why?”

“You know, that’s what all the Germans say! I’ve been royally pissing them off since the beginning.”

“Oh! I have no doubt!” He laughs. “Germans must follow the rules.”

“You should see. They all do this slicing motion with their arm through the air, saying, ‘SANTIAGO, THIS WAY!’ A couple of them have told me ‘WRONG WAY’ and just keep going.”

Tobias is laughing, “Oh yes.”

“It really made me mad at first, these total strangers telling me I’m doing it wrong and correcting me. But then I realized that this is my Camino. I’ve saved up for months to be here, and I’m not going to let some opinionated, uptight guys spoil it for me.”

“Good for you!”

“You know what I started doing?”

“What?”

“Now, when a German says I’m going the wrong way, I’ve started doing this thing. I stop walking and look them right in the eye, and say, ‘Are you sure?'”

Tobias starts to laugh again, followed by a gasp of air.

“And they usually say, yes. So I then I ask, ‘Are you positive?'”

“What do they say?” He’s on the edge of his seat.

“They get this blank look on their faces, like they’re suddenly completely unsure. Once I turned around and saw a guy open his guidebook and look both ways for other pilgrims.”

Tobias is laughing, slapping his knee. “Oh, Jennifer! You have no idea what a service you are doing for my country!”

“I am?”

“Oh yes, people in Germany have no confidence. It is only on the surface. Oh, this is wonderful!”

While my backpack bakes in the sun, this is turning out to be a great day after all. The playful banter continues when the Andrew, an older British guy joins us. Patty and Tobias have met him along the way, and he’s quiet but a dry wit.

“So, why not stay in albergues?” I ask. “They’re cheaper. And it’s the best way to meet other pilgrims.”

“Oh, I like meeting pilgrims, but I’m a little too shy!” He grins, but I can tell he means it.

“Too shy!” Patty laughs. “I doubt that!”

“You know, undressing in front of people, using the showers…”

“You should totally try an albergue, Tobias. Be brave!”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll stay in one if you come with us tomorrow to Burgos.”

I laugh. These three are so much fun to be with, I’m genuinely tempted to reverse course and join the crowd. “I don’t know…”

“We’re great company,” he says, gesturing to Patty and Andrew. “It’ll be fun!”

The idea of retracing my steps, though, does not appeal. I’ll be meeting Marisela and Muriel in Pamplona and want to continue on my chosen path, no matter how persuasive this particular German is.

“I think he’s going to keep asking until you say yes,” Andrew says drolly.

“Join us for dinner here tonight,” I tell him. “At least get a taste of the albergue life.”

“I will. And I’ll keep working on you for tomorrow’s plans.”

*

Just before dinner in the albergue restaurant, the hospitalera brings me the basket full of dry, folded clothes, fresh-smelling if slightly shrunken from the heat.

“Your clothes.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Vale. See you for dinner.” It might be the nicest thing she’s said so far. I’ll take it.

For a girl with bedbugs, I’m doing pretty well today.

Commencing training in earnest

Published on by jenniferhofmann4 Comments

Last week, I had a shock when I looked at my calendar and realized only 8 weeks remain between now and when our flight leaves. Soon after, the serious, daily walking will commence soon after. Holy cow.

After the shock wore off, I got online and started researching how to train for a 5K or al long hike like the PCT. Now my calendar is full of yellow blocks indicating 3 and 4 mile walks and longer more arduous hikes. Cross training and swimming on alternating days will give me a fighting chance at keeping up with my fit friend and fellow peregrina, Nancy.

So! I’m on the first day of official training and enjoying a stop at the Abbey Coffeehouse. Very Camino Francés!

Reverse Camino Day 11: The Holy Door of Santiago de Compostela

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If you had the chance to walk through a holy door, would you?

I wondered this myself when I learned the Pope declared 2016 the Year of Mercy. In a burst of holy abandon, cathedrals the world around pried off the barriers, flung open their doors, and invited all to enter. Santiago’s cathedral was among them.

What’s a holy door? Like a lot of things Catholic, it is one part physical (a real door) and one part symbolic (a spiritual portal). Catholics believe that the act of walking through it—accompanied by confession and communion—absolves all one’s sins. To walk through a holy door grants the seeker complete forgiveness.

Most of the time, cathedrals’ holy doors are locked up tightly, unused for decades. When a specific sacred day of the church calendar falls on a Sunday, believers flock through all year. 2016 was different. Remarkably so. The Year of Mercy opened every holy door around the world for a whole year in a sign of generous welcome, orchestrated by a merciful Pope.

In the back of my mind, the doubter frowned, Really? A holy door? Pfft. Hocus pocus. For though I believe in the healing power of forgiveness, I don’t believe in the idea of sin.  The word seems archaic. The concept punitive. But as I woke up on my second morning in Santiago, my heart yearned. Please, can we go? My seeking soul craved this ritual of entering, releasing, and receiving. So, yes. Yes, of course. And off “we” went.

Enter

With its hewn stone walls and thick, oak doors, Santiago’s baroque cathedral reminded me of a castle. Impressive. Imposing.

Set away from the glorious, double-staircased main entrance, I couldn’t find the holy door. After walking around a while, I stopped at a little cart selling pilgrim trinkets. The women pointed me toward the right side of the cathedral saying, “Around, around.” As I did, I discovered a new part of this massive structure.

At the top of the expansive, stone staircase were two modern-day security guards flanking the entrance. Near them, a woman crouched on the ground, begging. Something about the scene made me briefly consider turning back. The trio reminded me of the teaching that when you’re about to do something spiritually significant, you find lions guarding the gate. A part of you begs not to do it, to be cautious, stay safe. A little shiver passed through me. Yet as I approached, one of the security guards smiled at me in greeting. A friendly lion.

From the bright light of morning, I stepped into the deep dark of the doorway. I went forward, unseeing, into a curving corridor of rock, like a passage, a canal—so symbolic of the mother church, the sacred feminine. I felt the cool air and rough stone under my palm. It was unnerving not being able to see, but maybe that was the point.

Four, five, six steps through the darkness. Then before me, like a brilliant sunrise, was the resplendent, gold-adorned altar. A grin spread over my face in recognition. A homecoming.

Release

Confession is like cleaning out an over-stuffed closet. This ritual allows the participant to let go of that which no longer serves. Every day, small slights, moments of meanness, and hasty words accumulate inside us. Purging them mindfully makes space in our hearts for more love and compassion.

Nervous but willing, I walked a circuit of the church in search of a priest. Around the perimeter of the cavernous cathedral dark wood confessionals waited silently. Each had a posted schedule of hours and the languages spoken by the priest inside. Frankly, I felt afraid of doing it wrong, looking stupid. I couldn’t find any in English. I almost gave up.

On my second pass, a young, dark-haired priest exited a confessional nearby. Handsome and exuding calmness, I approached him to ask if he would hear my confession.

“I do not speak English well, but I can try.” He smiled reassuringly, casting down his long lashes and clasping his hands in front of his black cassock.

In that moment, I was struck by the remarkable intimacy of being face to face, standing close rather than in the curtained confessional. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself this man stood in Jesus’ place, not to judge me but to offer love and acceptance.

“Father, bless me. I have sinned.”

My mind went blank. Nothing was weighing on me, no dark secret to bring to light. Then I remembered that the opposite of sin is love. What is blocking love in my life?

“My heart is so hard sometimes, so closed,” I began. “I hold people away from me, judge them, and create distance to protect myself. I judge myself too. It is so painful. Especially when what I really want is closeness and love.” The words dissolved into air.

“God knows our hearts,” he responded gently. “We can look to our mother Mary as an example of love and compassion. For your penance, say five Hail Marys and reflect on her life.”

This feels like a gift to me, not a punishment. Beautiful, world-worn Mary is a welcome companion.

He continued, “May God grant you pardon and peace. I absolve you of your sins.” Lifting his hand in the air between us, he made the sign of the cross over me. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Disoriented, lighter, I walked into the connected chapel devoted to Mary. In quiet contemplation, a simple solution arose: I must make time for those I love in order for warmth and connection to grow. Just make time. It’s that simple.

Receive

Knowing the Pilgrim Mass would be packed, I arrived an hour early for a seat near the altar. Completely alone on my knees, the waterworks that had started on my arrival the day before continued. I cried, just over-full with gratitude, relief, joy to be here in this city of my heart.

As Mass time approached, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a chatty group from Canada. From overheard conversation, I learned they were more than a little proud of having raised the money to make the botafumiero swing (about $700) and honored with reserved seating at the front—where I was. As they squeezed in around me, jostling to all fit in, I felt myself bristle and prickle. It is so much easier to love one’s neighbor in theory. I pretended to be in prayer, remaining on my knees with eyes closed to be left alone.

But as in most moments like this, I paused to ask myself why this Canadian deluge showed up and what their presence was trying to teach me. Had I not just had a moment with a loving priest and confessed how I hold others at a distance? Had I not admitted how judging others brought me pain? Had I not just resolved to actively seek closeness and love?

So, I looked to consider the group anew, and here is what I saw: They were happy to be pilgrims. They were proud of their teamwork. They felt joyful that this special gift would bring happiness to everyone present. Honestly, they were so adorably excited. Like puppies.

I made the sign of the cross over my body, got off my knees, and sat back in the pew. Within moments, I was chatting with those closest to me and expressing my thanks for their generosity. They tolerated me sitting in their space. It worked.

The last time I had received the Eucharist has been three years earlier just as my pilgrimage ended. By then, I had already resolved to leave the church for good. Even though I was no longer a practicing Catholic, I knew I would go up to the altar, hands open. Not only was this the final step for absolution, I always, always felt called to receive communion.

“El Cuerpo de Dios.”

“Amen.”

Back in the pew, surrounded by waves of musical organ vibrations, the tears began afresh. A cascade of beautiful faces went through my mind: All the loved ones who supported me being here. All the people I’d met so far on this journey. All those who touched me on my first pilgrimage. All the people who helped me through those difficult three years between journeys. I am so grateful. My whole body shook with sobs of gratitude as the cup of my heart runneth over. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. 

My soul replenished, I realized this feeling is what I seek to feel every moment of my life. Utter gratitude. For everything.

“The Mass is ended. Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God.”

Say what you will about stuffy Church doctrine and hocus-pocus, I’d still walk through a holy door any day.

Taking the question mark from 2019

Published on by jenniferhofmann6 Comments

For about six months (maybe longer), the title of this blog has been “Jen’s Camino Journey 2013, 2016, & 2019?”.

As of today, the tickets to Europe are in my possession.

When I heard the news that it was official, the reaction sounded like this:

  • Oh my GOD!!!! (excitement, repeat 6 times)
  • Oh. My. God. (dawning reality of the commitment, repeat 4 times)
  • Holy shit! (just once)
  • (silence)
  • Oh my God! (acceptance)

It’s real now, not just a rumination. Because I’ve walked twice already, I know that both highs and lows await, even if I don’t know precisely what they will be. My body knows how to walk. My heart knows how to open. My mind knows how to problem solve when needed.

But every pilgrimage is different. A a spiritual seeker’s wisdom is always deepening. Even if it’s the same path, it’s a different me, a wiser heart, a more clear spirit who walks.

In 2019, however, it won’t at all be the same physical path. More on that in a future post!

Wish me a buen camino and an Oh My God for good measure! 🙂

Jen’s reverse Camino Day 10: Santiago de Compostela

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After walking four days from the Atlantic, I finally arrive in Santiago to find the party has already started.

Total distance on foot: 0km
This day in 2013: Day 39 Rest day in Santiago

I should be asleep. Instead, I’m lying awake next to the open window, bathed in sounds of a nearby festival.

The thump of distant dance music, teenage girls’ singing echoes in the narrow streets, and screams of glee from whirling amusement riders reach me in the cool night air. The revelry outside matches my inner joy. How did they know to throw a city-wide party on my arrival to Santiago? Soon a dog starts to bark, and my roommate, a distinguished, elderly Frenchman, fully commits himself to snoring. But it doesn’t matter. Not even a chorus of big-nosed men could dampen my spirits.

I am so happy to be here.

Elated to be in Santiago again, just breathing its air, occupying this place is to be swept up in the memories of three years ago. The joyous arrival with my new friends. Celebrating the completion of a seven-week journey. Discovering how powerful I am and how important it is to share my life with others. This city holds the best parts of myself, reminds me of what I can accomplish and who I really am. I feel whole and complete at last.

After wandering through the old city, I found myself standing before the albergue where I stayed with Gary, Scott, Mattias, and Meg. Deciding to check in, I told the hospitalero how much this place means to me. That warm conversation is how I ended up in the best bed, away from the bunks, enjoying the invigorating night air.

*   *   *

In a short conversation with fellow-pilgrim Alexandra, we discover one of those marvelous Camino coincidences: three Junes ago, she stayed here at this same albergue just two days before me.

“We almost met!” she says.

Later, she holds up a huge, leather bound book and says, “I found it!”

Confused, I ask, “Found what?”

She flips through the pages and says, “I looked for the guest book from three years ago and found this. Is it yours?” She hands me the book, open to a drawing of a stained glass window, and a list of changes I would make in my life.

“It is!”

Tears spring up as my eyes skim over the words. It’s like receiving a love note to myself from the past. This entry declared all I dared hope to create in my life. Seeing my own handwriting and the date inked on the page reminds me how joyous and uncertain I was that I could bring that happiness home with me. As I look over the words again, I realize that I embody so much of it now. I’ve become what I once only dreamed.

“Thank you for finding this!” I say to Alexandra, misty-eyed and grinning. It would never have occurred to me to look for the old guest book. Reading the words again, a feeling of certainty and closure settles in. The old journey is truly complete, and a new one is just beginning.

*   *   *

That evening, I enjoy the luxury of not having to walk anywhere. Feet up on the coffee table, I chill out in the communal living room with my journal and a Spanish-English dictionary.

In all the chats I’ve had with locals the last few days, the recurring problem has been with verbs.

When I studied Spanish long ago, I was in literature and advanced classes, skipping the basic-but-essential repetition of verb conjugations in past, future, conditional, etc. To this day, I can only speak Spanish in the present tense. For the last week, I’ve been telling people, “I do the Camino three years ago.” I really want to solve this and sound less like a two-year-old.

So while pilgrims enter and check in, and the two hospitaleros talk and laugh behind the counter, I’m nerding out with the dictionary. After an hour of looking at all the conjugation charts, I painstakingly write the following:

Yo caminé el camino hace tres años.
Hace tres años que yo caminé el camino francés. Ahora yo he volveró para caminar una segunda vez en la otra dirección.

I know this is still awful. The dictionary can only take you so far.

I enlist the help of one of the hospitaleros, and his face scrunches up in hilarity as I read the sentence. He knows how the words should fit together, but struggles to explain why. We dance around the differences between

  • to do the Camino vs.
  • have done the Camino vs.
  • did the Camino

When I ask about a finer point on the verb to do, he shrugs with a smile and tells me he is originally from Italy, and Spanish is only his second language. This sends me in to a fit of laughter for unintentionally barking up the wrong tree.

In spite of this, he teaches me two helpful phrases. In English, there’s no expression for the act of returning by the same way you’ve already come (see how choppy that is?). In Spanish, there are two ways to say it: voy de vuelta (I’m doing the return.) and voy al revez (I’m going in reverse). Even though they still don’t solve the verb problem, I happily commit these phrases to memory.

After a good half hour, here’s what the American and the Italian end up with:

Hace tres años que hice el camino francés desde Francia a Finisterre. Ahora, voy de vuelta a Francia por comletar el viaje.

It’s been three years since I did the Camino from France to Finisterre. Now I’m doing the return to France to complete the journey.

Imperfect, but closer, and fewer future funny looks.

*   *   *

Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by the celebrations continuing long into the night. Every time I wake, I remember where I am, smile, then nestle down under my cozy silk blanket, sighing with pure contentment.

I couldn’t be happier to be here. I am joyous to return by the way I’ve already come.

The practice of meeting your Camino teachers

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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 to understand and heal in yourself. This is because everything you encounter on pilgrimage is a mirror image of your everyday life, just concentrated and intensified.

Looking into that reflection, pondering the similarities and what they can to teach you, can be a transformational practice.

Two stories of loneliness

Walking the Camino backwards, for me, meant walking alone. Even though dozens of people crossed my path each day, the numerous three-minute conversations about why I was going the wrong way led to feeling lonely at times. I felt “othered,” a backward-walking novelty, not part of the group. As a result, I looked forward to stopping at a cozy albergue with a communal dinner so I could feel connected with people and have meaningful conversations. We all need to belong.

Story One: A hard teacher

On this particular afternoon, I was feeling the familiar pain of loneliness. In my everyday life, I distract myself with food, social media, and watching programs online. On the Camino—especially without a phone—those go-to comforts weren’t available. I felt more emotionally exposed not having them, but that was the point. If the Camino were completely 100% comfortable and familiar, it would just be a vacation. I went seeking more.

The albergue that evening was almost empty, promising a quiet night’s sleep. For dinner, I decided to have the menu peregrino at the in-house café. In hindsight, I feel badly for the young Russian woman who was there, alone, to enjoy the wifi.

“Do you mind if I join you for dinner?” I inquired, hopeful. She had a friendly face and seemed like she’d be good company.

“No problem,” she replied and set down her phone.

I asked her all the usual pilgrim questions about where she’d come from that day, how she was feeling, when and where she started walking. If you’ve never done the Camino, this might sound intrusive, but it’s quite common. Pilgrims often swap stories about how their body feels, about pilgrims they know in common, who took the bus due to injury, et cetera.

As we chatted, the phone on the table emitted a jingle, her eyes darted to the device. She tried to ignore it, looking back at me, but not successfully.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, picking up the pink phone, a smile dawning and tapping rapidly. My dinner came. She put the phone back on the table.

I asked about where she was from and in the middle of telling me, her phone jingled again. This time, she looked less torn. “One moment,” she said, picking it up. More tapping.

Allow me to pause here and say that it wasn’t her responsibility to help me beat my loneliness. She was on her own journey.

On the third jingle, however, she dropped the pretense of talking with this grey-haired, American stranger. “Excuse me,” she said and made a call. Body turned at a right angle to me, she spoke for the time it took to finish my dinner.

As if I didn’t exist.

Now, if I’d been on a vacation, I’d probably now rant about the evils of cell phones and the degradation of courtesy. But this is a pilgrimage. If you’re willing to look into the mirror of circumstances, you will learn a lot about what you need to change about yourself and how you do your life.

After I got over my crocodile tears, paid my bill, and left her talking, I realized something important:

This is how I do my life. The woman sitting across from me was me. Like her, I check out mentally using my devices. I wish humanity would vanish. I get annoyed by people, especially my spouse, when I’m in thrall with something online—to the point of similarly rude, inconsiderate behavior. Furthermore, I regularly prioritize connection with those not present at the expense of the people right in front of me. Ouch.

That is what the young Russian woman taught me. I realized that the connection I seek is right here, in front of me. Not just with others, but with myself and with the Divine.

As easy as it would be to judge her, the lesson was right there for me to accept. The teacher showed up. And the student was ready. I now seek to change my behavior so that I connect with the people around me—seeking them out—and turn off my devices so I can really be present with them.

Story Two: A gentle teacher

On a different blue day, I showed up too early at an albergue that wasn’t yet open. Its name referenced an angel, and my heart felt certain was supposed to be here. So I stood anxiously outside, unsure of what to do.

A short, round woman with curly dark hair slowly approached the albergue. Her face was radiant, and she smiled warmly at me, making eye contact.

“You are staying here tonight?” she asked in Spanish.

“I hope so,” I replied.

“Just one moment, I will unlock it for you.” And I realized she was the hospitalera. She was letting me in, despite arriving so early in the day.

“Gracias, señora,” I replied.

“Anna Maria,” she corrected gently.

When we entered, she showed me where to put my sticks and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

Surprised by the familiarity and warmth, it took a moment for me to answer sí. “Good,” she said. “We will sit and have some coffee.” She hobbled to the kitchen and I heard clinking cups behind the glass door.

Sometimes you meet teachers on the Camino who impart the lesson with such honesty and compassion, it percolates into your soul.

Anna Maria and I sat across the table from each other in the quiet. As we began to talk about the debilitating pain in her knees and about my first life-changing Camino, the connection felt so real. “It’s hard walking alone,” I confessed.

She channeled the answers I needed to hear.

“You may feel alone,” she said. “But you can never be alone.” The Divine is always with you. Love is always with you. The loneliness you feel is something you create. Open up to the abundance that’s already waiting for you.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I needed to hear these words so much. Anna Maria reached out across the table and held my hand. Tears welled up in her eyes too. “You are never alone.”

And, just like the Russian woman, Anna Maria taught me something important about my life. By being willing to listen and accept, I understood how I make my life harder than it needs to be trying to do everything myself. I can connect more deeply with What Endures. It’s there waiting for me.

The practice of meeting your Camino teachers

Any time we have an intense emotional response on the Camino, we are meeting a teacher. The feelings can be everything from frustration and anger to deep love and profound, wordless connection.

Anytime this happens, it’s a moment of truth, an opportunity to reflect on what the feelings mean, and what they can show you about your life. The practice of reflection can guide you through the second Camino—the one that happens after the walking ends—into transforming your life.

Reverse Camino Day 9: Aguapesada to Santiago

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After walking four days from the Atlantic, I finally arrive in Santiago. But I’ve been walking much longer than that.

Total distance on foot: 12.3 km/7.6 mi (plus three years)
Towns traveled through: Alto de Vento, Quintáns
This day in 2013: Day 40 Santiago to Negreira

Now I walk alone, I told him.

The helpful man saw me weeping and looking lost fifteen minutes ago in a park outside Santiago de Compostela. I show you, he said. Grateful, I followed this speed-walking, parka-wearing pilgrim with the thick accent through the busy streets toward the cathedral.

 *   *   *

I’ve been walking eastward from the Atlantic toward this city over the last four days, but in reality, it’s been much, much longer.

In the time since I was last here, I returned home, emotionally naked as a newborn, to discover my life no longer fit. There’s no way to count the miles through an unending dark night of the soul. How do you measure facing your deepest fears and ultimately finding the will to live in spite of them?

Eventually, I committed to traveling that road out the darkness. Of learning to tell the whole truth, not just the diplomatic one. Of understanding the deep attachment I felt to Meg, my joyous pilgrim sister. Of deciding whether to stay in my marriage. Of learning that walking outdoors is my salvation and that opening my heart—even when it feels terrifying—is the only way to survive this condition called being human.

It took me all this time to learn how to live an undivided life. If the true Camino starts in Santiago, as they say, the last three years have borne it out; I have been a pilgrim ever since. One step at a time.

 *   *   *

Although I’m hoping to arrive in time for the noon mass, I take it as it comes. I’m only ever 60% sure I’m going the right way, but up I go through little cobbled villages of quiet, cobbled houses. Past the quiet dude inexplicably carrying an inflatable giraffe head. Past the funny, flirtatious Puerto Rican man from Queens. Past the inquisitive, sixty-something lady from Queensland who says there’s a party in Santiago. Up a hill, stopping for a bar’s strong coffee and blaring news. One foot in front of the other.

In a quiet suburban neighborhood, I chat with a local guy about the direction of Santiago as a cat rubs against his black slacks. He points into the morning sun and says, Down the road then to the right en el bosque. Through moss-covered trees, the bright sunlight streams into my eyes.

Then, at last, in a clearing at the top of a hill, I see it: the cathedral. There it is! My eyes well up, and a grin spreads across my face. The emotion spills over I continue walking, as I have all these years, to that distant place where the real pilgrimage began.

*   *   *

My fast-walking, helper-guy stops to chat with a friend, but I continue, feeling as though pulled toward the square where all pilgrims arrive. When he catches up with me, I’m almost there. Gracias, I say. Thank you for helping me. Now I must continue alone.

He nods knowingly and gives me a friendly pat.

Up the steep street, I see the cathedral from the top down—first the spires, then the facade, the doors, and the double symmetrical stairs—and finally I arrive at the plaza, overwhelmed by emotion. Here is where it all started. Here is where I felt happier than anywhere else on the planet. Where I arrived with dear Scott and Gary. Where I met Meg. Where I realized who I really am.

My hands are shaking. My knees feel wobbly. Here I am. At last. Collapsing onto the cobbles of the cathedral plaza, I’m overcome with gratitude and relief and joy. I lean forward, sobbing, my butt in the air, elbows and knees on the cold ground. I don’t care that my pack is still on or that dozens of sight-seers might witness my body shaking with sobs. I’m here. I’m here at last. I’m so grateful. For everything.

Finally, when I sit up and wipe my eyes, I lift my chin to see the clear blue sky and silhouetted spires, grinning madly. Oh my God, I’m here. It’s so beautiful! I recall the last arrival and the hugs and tears I shared with Gary. My spirit is bursting.

I notice a well-dressed woman approaching me, bowing slightly. Hand on her heart, she says in an Irish accent, I was so moved to see you arrive. The pin on her lapel is a tiny gold angel. Reaching down to touch my shoulder tenderly, she smiles at me. I smile back at her, grateful but speechless.

You must have walked a long way, she says.

Sometimes all we need is to be seen. This Camino angel blesses me with her acknowledgement. The truth in her words make the tears start all over again.

I have walked a long way. I really have, I reply. And it was worth every step.

Pilgrim wisdom and the US elections

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Ever since the US elections, the messages have come in flurries.

From Ireland:

How are you holding up today? Am thinking of you here.

New Zealand:

We have earthquakes, you have Tr*mp. It’s not a perfect world.

Belgium

How are you feeling with all that’s going on in the US? Have been thinking about you… x

France

Everyone (people, country…) has to face its demons before growing inside. The world shows that it is the time to do that. Think about yourself and your close ones as light warriors. And remember, whatever happens, at the end, LOVE WINS.

This gesture of reaching out by Camino friends all over the world has touched me deeply.

The Camino community is bigger than nationality

When I was a pilgrim, every time I sat down to dinner with a group, I marveled at the international presence. Every time. Sometimes there were faces from seven, ten, fifteen countries all gathered around a table to share a meal and break bread. We conversed in many languages, and sometimes only with smiles and laughter (maybe the best language of all).

Many pilgrims marvel at this. Some of them say the same thing I did, “All world leaders should have to walk this route before taking office. It would teach them—as it is teaching us—that the similarities are far greater than our differences.” When it comes to hearts, countries don’t matter.

We are a world community

In the wake of our election here in the States, I share the sentiment Nadine expressed in her recent post. This isn’t a political blog, but it would be a denial of the Camino’s gifts not to mention what has shifted. Every person on the planet is affected by what has transpired—the messages I’ve received are proof. We are not separate.

There’s a lot at stake. We are being given the opportunity to face our shadow, as my French friend so wisely observed. We have a choice to make about whether we’ll give in to fear, or rise above it. This question is alive in the US, but it is a global one.

Fear informs, but it doesn’t dictate

On the Camino, pilgrims learn about fear. I faced mountains that scared me yet rose above them. I faced my fear of losing control and became braver and more open. I faced the anxiety of being lost and learned to walk with it.

What the Camino taught me is that fear isn’t a reason to stop. It is a gift that allows me to pull from resources both inside me and from community. Fear just makes you take stock. But it doesn’t stop me anymore.

This is what it means to say that the real Camino starts in Santiago. I have experienced what it means to overcome fear. As we face this confusing, uncertain time in my country’s story, I can use this resiliency on the path ahead. All of us can.

Pilgrim wisdom

What pilgrims know (that our leaders may not) is that we need each other. Some can cook, some guide, others tell great stories or speak better Spanish. We know how deeply satisfying it is to give and receive, even when sharing resources is challenging. We worked together toward a common goal, and help those who are struggling. Even if we could do it alone (and some do), we’ve experienced firsthand that together we are stronger.

This wisdom is useful.

The path ahead

It is my prayer that we choose to welcome everyone to the table, no matter which flag we wave, nor language we speak, nor which Divine name we pray to.

May we commit to living what we learned as pilgrims: the value of welcoming others and of looking out for one another.

If it is possible to live this on the Camino, it is possible everywhere. Let us commit to the path.

Reverse Camino Day 8: Vilaserio to Castelo (part 2)

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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.