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.