Saying Goodbye To Manon

“Courage is a love affair with the unknown.”

Osho

I said goodbye to Manon today, in between the EU passport area and “All Others.” We delayed as long as possible, hugged, cried a bit, and then walked towards our respective countries. As I sit here waiting to board a flight to Portland, I’m already missing our laughter over my Duo-lingo mastery of the Spanish language (or any language outside of English, for that matter). Manon flits effortlessly between German, Spanish, Italian and French, covers up any mistakes with a laugh and wins everyone’s heart in the process. And then there’s me, who can ask for a pen in several colors (confidently) in Spanish, as well as discuss the need for the university to buy two computers. She’s Swiss, I’m American. She’s married, I’m divorced. She has two children, I have four. She’s got grandchildren, I have “granddogs.” Manon will travel the globe to see Depeche Mode in concert, I’m on the email list for Mark Knopfler’s next visit to PDX. Yet the minute we cinch our packs and walk out the albergue door, we are as familiar as two people who have lived a lifetime across the street from each other.

For all the women reading this who are hesitant to step out alone on the adventure of a Camino, or any adventure for that matter, I want to gently challenge you to trust how beautiful, likable, and fascinating you are. The bravery it takes to walk across a country you may be seeing for the first time, in the company of people you’ve never met, pushing yourself physically the most you’ve ever attempted, is astonishing. And then to find yourself surrounding by other women doing the same thing? It is like finding box after box of beautiful gems under a Christmas tree, each lovely in its own cut and color. There is a magnificent gift waiting for you along the Camino - a friend you’d never find another way.

Saying Goodbye to Shoulda’s

“But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.”

Haruki Murakami

I threw my “Coulda Woulda Shoulda” stone into the sea in Finisterre last September. I’d like to say it’s still there, but it seems to float back up to the surface frequently these days.

When I’m walking a Camino and get through an especially difficult patch, I’ll stop and turn round to see what I’ve accomplished. Sometimes, I’ll take a photo of the ridges of unforgiving rock I’ve walked on, or take a shot that gives perspective to the height I’ve brought myself up to. I don’t mull over how I should have walked faster, or could have taken a different route, or that I would never do that stage again, in that particular way. I’m always proud of myself, pleased with what I’ve done, happy to have had the experience. And then, I turn around and keep walking.

On a Camino, I have yet to turn around, wish that the view was different, wish that I was different. And yet I waste time regretting decisions, thinking about what I wish I’d done differently if I could live parts of my life over, if I could take back things said and done. The result? I miss the happiness that’s standing right in front of me because my mind is too often running back over ground I’ve already covered. I look back and want to redo what can’t be redone, look back and wish for a different view.

Note to self - take the picture, appreciate the distance covered, turn around, let it go..

Musings on re-entering the front door…

I’ve been home now for a month, and the fire hose called “life” seems to have abated a bit.  A drive across the state to pick up my dog, weddings to attend, doctor’s appointments, a flight to New Mexico to visit my son, the youngest turning 25 and a party invitation list that doubled while I was blissfully ignorant and walking across Spain - all the normal things we attend to on a daily basis, scribbles on the thirty plus little squares  that make up each months’ “to do” list...  But today is Tuesday and I am happy to settle into my first quiet day after returning; a day I can think back on my walk and what it has meant to me.

This is the third time I’ve come home and felt disoriented and a bit sad.  This is the first time I’ve been prepared for it, and willing to ponder the why of it all.  How many times upon returning home, have you sat up in the middle of the night, wondering where the bathroom is tonight and who you have to creep by to reach it, only to realize you’re at home?  How many times have you stared at the clothes in your closet, unable to make up your mind, and then thought back to the dress you wore every night for a month?  Why does it take 30 minutes to get myself out the door with just keys and a grocery list, when I could have my backpack ready to go in 5 minutes - in the dark and without a headlamp? I am, it seems, the most organized version of myself when walking to Santiago.

On the Camino, there is a “to do” list of one - get to the next village.  It is a clear goal - walk. It feels good to be in your body and move.  At home now, I find it hard to do that  - I have a bed tonight.  On the Camino, I walk 26 miles to meet a dear friend because he’s traveled so far to be there for my entrance into Santiago. At home, I’m finding it hard to walk my dog around the block.  On the Camino, I accept the challenges of each day; crazy ascents, rocky paths, and the occasional wait while a large herd of sheep cross my path.  At home, I find myself muttering under my breath when someone ambles too slowly along a crosswalk.   I am, it seems, the most patient version of myself when walking to Santiago.

It appears there is a direct correlation between motivation, drive, empathy, and my feet.  How do I reboot myself to be that person at home?  Why does the dust of Spain on my feet bring out the nobler me, the person more willing to let random thoughts rattle around in my head, more willing to let go of hurts, more willing to hang on to joy?  By walking, breathing, and viewing in slow motion, each day’s landscape unfolds around me.  I move away from a person in control (or so I like to think), into a person who is waiting in anticipation for a surprise.  Will it rain?  Will it be miserably hot? Will I meet someone new today?  How far can I walk - further than yesterday maybe?  I am, it seems, the best version of myself when walking to Santiago.

My heart longs to be walking, and I am certain I will do so, yet again.  My adult children are beginning to take notice of how their mother has changed over the years of these Camino paths, and are throwing out phrases that show they’d be willing to join me.  This would be my greatest joy of all, to share this journey with them.  I do know - even if they do not join me now, they will walk this path some day, if only to honor me.  I know their hearts will expand as mine has;  I know they will find the most organized version, the most patient version, the very best version of themselves, just as I have done. If I walked all these miles just for that, it would be enough.