Tag: getting lost

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.

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

Published on by jenniferhofmann6 Comments

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.

Why I’m afraid of walking the Camino backwards

Published on by jenniferhofmann14 Comments

Let’s face it: the prospect of a 500-mile pilgrimage is not a field day for a control freak.

You’d think walking the Camino once already would teach me I could handle whatever the Way threw my way. Instead, I’ve only discovered new things to worry about as I prepare for my second pilgrimage.

Before my first journey two years ago, growing anxiety compelled me to write down my myriad fears. Surprisingly, only a few of them came to pass on my actual pilgrimage (peeing in the open air, loneliness, and dealing with bedbugs). In hindsight, none were that terrible. I survived.

Last weekend, I got together with a pilgrim friend and enjoyed reminiscing, swapping funny stories, and recalling its transcendent moments. Our conversations reminded me of how amazing it is to walk this sacred path. Although I’ve already found new deterimation to go, our talks started to get more excited to be back in Spain.

Today, though, it feels terrifying again. Here’s what I know for certain: I need to go. I feel called to go. I’m just plain scared of the unknowns. I can’t help that. But! Since I found listing my fears helpful the first time around, I’m going for it again in this updated version. Fears, take two!

Fear #1: Confusion

Although I know without a doubt I can transport myself to Finisterre by plane, train, and/or bus, I get profoundly overwhelmed thinking about starting the Camino eastward. I might have a map to use, for sure. If memory serves, I vaguely recall the path going along Playa Langosteira. But finding the actual route? Beyond me. Where do I go?

I just plain hate feeling confused and disoriented, and worse — looking stupid. Being certain and having the answers is my comfort zone, so I expect I’ll receive lots of lessons about getting comfortable with confusion as I bump headlong into it. Ugh.

Fear #2: Getting lost

Once, when I was a teenager playing hooky from science class, I nearly drove off the Connecticut map and across the border into New York state. In some unfamiliar and tranquil neighborhood, I pulled over to find out where I was (remember the days when you cross referenced the nearest street name with coordinates on a map?). At A5, I was on the very edge of the page, frighteningly close to — what? Not existing? Being obliterated? I flipped out, turned around, and high-tailed it back to school. In other words, I would rather fail a chemistry exam than be lost.

One of the things that makes the westward Camino Francès easier are the arrows on every post, tree, and wall. If in doubt about direction, just look for an arrow or — lacking that — pilgrims ahead of you. O just ask those you’re walking with. “This sign is confusing. Do we bear right here or just up ahead?” After a little convo, everyone walks together. If the consensus is wrong, at least we’re lost together.

Despite being afraid of getting lost, it only happened once on my first Camino. Meg and I took a wrong turn in the hills of Galicia en route to Finisterre. It was spooky not to know where we were, exactly, and walk for miles and miles with no one around. When we arrived in a town, it was siesta-time and not even the wind stirred. Creepy. Imagining that scene completely solo and alone positively gives me hives.

Walking east means there are no arrows for guidance. Some friend have jokingly offered to send me a bike mirror to see the arrows behind me. Others have suggested I ask people who are walking toward me for guidance. The fact is, I’m going to have to find my way without the ease I enjoyed on the westward journey and the risks of getting lost are higher. Bring on the chemistry exam!

Fear #3: Loneliness

Despite my brave declaration in 2013 to walk alone, I spent most of my Camino walking with other pilgrims I met on the way. Walking together passed the time and made hard, tiring, soggy, and long days much easier and enjoyable. Though I sometimes struggled to meet my desire for solitude, I loved the people I met and learned much from them. Some are still friends to this day.

While there are no official statistics on the number of pilgrims walking the eastward return trip, I encountered exactly three on my own springtime Camino. In other words, it’s very likely I’ll have no companions during the day. At albergues, I’ll be surrounded by people I’ve never met before. I fear feeling like an outsider.

I honestly don’t know what it will be like to hit an emotional low out there all alone. It will certainly be illuminating if it happens, but as you can imagine, I’d rather not find out.

Fear # 4: Emotional pain

Have you ever made a good decision, but later wondered where the road not taken might have led? Long-time readers know that I fell hard for Meg, a fellow pilgrim, while we walked from Santiago to Finisterre together. This happened though I was (and still am) married. As you can imagine, this experience brought up a lot of emotional conflict. Even as I inwardly agonized over what to do about my feelings, I loved every step of the way with Meg and remained faithful to my beloved partner.

Though I survived, I was a mess when my Camino ended — and remained so for a good year after. I wonder if part of returning to Spain is about transforming this partially-resolved, emotional jumble into something whole and even healed. I honestly don’t know what I’m looking for over there, but I trust the call I feel.

As I set foot in the very scene of that difficult, jubilant experience, I anticipate deep feelings will arise. Oh, how I dread this! And oh, how I need it! Something powerful awoke in me on my final days on the path. I feel pulled to return to that holy ground to discover what it was.

Fear #5: Funds

Finally and truthfully, I am not in a position to afford European travel at the moment. I saved for two years for my last Camino. This time I have about nine months. As someone who likes a good hotel splurge to restore the spirit, I already dread staying in only public albergues, eating bread every meal, and foregoing cafés con leche. I’m exaggerating, of course. I’m sure it won’t be that bad.

While I don’t subscribe to the God-is-an-ATM philosophy so popular in positive-thinking circles these days, I do believe in faith. I do believe that when someone is called to something significant, support arrives. Not in cash, necessarily, but in connection, encouragement, a gift of an apple, or a fountain for filling one’s water bottle.

Abundance is everywhere if we’re open.

I’m not naive, though. I do believe in planning. Because of this, I’m writing a budget for my Camino so that I have a savings goal.

I also believe in trusting. What if I’m meant to do a bare-bones Camino? What if I do ask for lodging in exchange for cleaning toilets? What could I learn from desperately *wanting* a hotel room, but choosing the most basic accommodation instead?

The possibilities are, of course, humbling and scary, but the part of me that is eager for inner change. The personal challenge of it is — dare I say it? — a little exciting.

To be clear

We live in a culture that does not handle emotion well — especially messy, unresolved ones. Reading about my fears may evoke concern or discomfort in you. In turn, you may need to feel the need to reassure me or offer suggestions for managing mine. No need.

Instead, I’d love to hear about what scares you or what you were afraid of before your own Camino. Learning to walk with our fears, rather than overcome them, is a path to wholeness.

Love,
Jen

Want to know why I’m doing the Camino in reverse — and how you can help? Read on!