I woke up to gray skies and pouring rain, the sunny warmth and clear blue skies of yesterday long gone. I lingered in bed and contemplated taking a taxi today, as nothing in me wanted to face the nasty conditions outside my window. I needed a break. I was tired. I hurt. Still debating whether or not I would succumb to temptation, I shuffled toward the shower, my feet clearly casting a vote for the taxi. I looked in the mirror and asked myself what to do. I was surprisingly bright-eyed in spite of my resistance as I answered, “You’ll know after breakfast.”
I replied, “Fair enough,” and then took a long, hot shower. I packed up Cheater and counted my remaining PowerBars. I had 13 days and eight bars left. Then I dressed warmly, pulling out the long underwear, long-sleeve wool shirt, and headband I had thought I would no longer need. The pain in my toes was starting to ease up a little, in spite of what was now an obvious infection breeding under my nails, but the shooting pains I felt along the sides of my feet were constant. “I hope I haven’t permanently trashed my feet,” I said aloud, admitting the anxiety I had felt for days.
Still, all I could do was keep walking, and for the moment that meant as far as the dining room for breakfast. I searched the corridors, following the smell of coffee, and had to marvel at how beautiful this old monastery was, even if it did feel a little haunted by the heavy spirits of the past.
It took a while to find what I was looking for, but eventually I did locate the brightly lit dining room, already teeming with happy pilgrims fortifying themselves before starting their day. It didn’t take long to discover why. The buffet was out of this world. Fresh-squeezed juices of all sorts, freshly baked pastries and croissants, toast, yogurts, dried and fresh fruits, cheeses, and potato and egg omelets were laid out in a lovely array, refreshed regularly by a delightful Spanish woman who greeted us with such warmth that it couldn’t help but lift a person’s spirits. What a departure from yesterday’s den of misery!
I loaded up my plate to overflowing with food, and then filled up three glasses with different fresh juices before I settled down to eat. Then I looked around to see who else was in the room. There was a group of five Italian bikers, a hardy-looking French-speaking couple, a young Englishman, and a Russian woman, all appreciating their breakfast as much as I was.
Buoyed by the food and the positive energy in the room, I decided to stop fighting the walk ahead and go for it. But, just to make it through, I did go back to the buffet and grab three more hot apple pastries, two bananas, and some cheese and bread. I wrapped it all up in a napkin to take along with me, wondering if I was being a thief or if this was an acceptable pilgrim thing to do. I didn’t care. I wanted backup on the Camino, and I would much rather have this than another PowerBar later on.
I headed back to my room and loaded up Cheater, who was getting lighter by the day. Then I headed downstairs, Gumby hanging off Pilgrim, my little purse tucked inside. Once I arrived at the front desk, I was informed by the receptionist that the hostel where I stayed yesterday had called and said I had left a pair of pants, some socks, and one of my wool shirts on the drying rack on the terrace, but they would hold them for me if I wanted to go back and get them.
“Rats! My stuff!” I totally forgot about it yesterday. I sighed, not wanting to visit the Zombie Palace ever again. Besides, it was the Camino! You don’t go backward. You just keep moving forward. So I said to the receptionist, “Tell them to keep it or give it to another pilgrim. I’m moving on.” I then asked her for a pilgrim’s stamp for my passport, draped my rain poncho over my head, and said, “Ultreya.” Then I headed out the door.
The Camino shells, which I had to follow to get out of town, were embedded in the ground and were tricky to find, so I had to pay extra-close attention if I wanted to stay on course. I had to walk for over an hour and a half through the same dreary suburbs as yesterday before I returned to the natural beauty of the Camino.
I wondered what day of the week it was, having lost all track of time. I kept a sharp eye out for the yellow arrows, as twice this morning I had already veered off the path and onto the wrong road by mistake and had to backtrack. Finally I arrived at a small town called Virgen del Camino and slipped into a café to dry off a bit and enjoy a mid-morning break. As I sat with my coffee, I closed my eyes and said an earnest prayer to feel true love for myself today.
Holy Mother-Father God,
Please open my heart to see the goodness of me and help me forgive and release everything that blocks my feelings of self-love and gratitude for the gift of this life, which you have given me.
Amen.
The walk was mostly flat, running parallel to the highway, peppered with occasional storks flying overhead to break up the otherwise monotonous scenery.
The storms in my mind of the past few days were starting to subside as well, and I intuitively sensed (or maybe just hoped) they might not return again. My mind was quiet and clear, allowing me to listen as the Camino talked to me.
Do you see how your life has unfolded as it has because of the choices you’ve made? it asked me.
Looking backward, I could see exactly how my own choices got me to where I was today. I chose to try too hard in my relationships. I chose to do too much. I chose to be willful and try to make things work out even when they weren’t. I chose to react to Patrick rather than respond, and I chose to be frustrated with him rather than try to understand him.
“I do, but I’m only human. I did what I knew at the time,” I justified myself to the Camino. Then I paused. “Okay. It’s true. I also chose to do a few things I knew better than to do,” I admitted. “I chose to fight. I chose to hold grudges. I chose to stay upset.”
It felt good to acknowledge these things. It helped me realize that I was not a victim of anything; rather, I was responsible for my own unhappiness.
Yes, I am glad you can see that now, the Camino seemed to suggest with the faintest rays of sunlight flashing across the plains as I walked.
Are you aware of how you’ve bound yourself to your own choices and them blamed others as if they had forced them upon you? the Camino asked next.
“In what way?” I responded. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Are you sure you don’t understand? it challenged me.
“I guess I chose to work as hard as I did because I loved what I was doing, but when I overworked and burned myself out, I blamed Patrick for not working hard enough to keep up with me.”
Yes, you did.
“I guess I chose to keep trying to please my father long into adulthood instead of telling him I wouldn’t do that anymore, and then blamed him for not changing.”
That, too.
The longer I walked, the more I could see how my own choices determined everything I was feeling. I didn’t choose every external situation, of course, but I did choose how I would respond to those situations.
And the truth is that many of my choices had been fantastic. I chose to follow my intuition and teach others to do the same. I chose to travel the world with Patrick and our daughters, and that choice was one of the best of my life. I chose to write books, which I loved doing, even though my first editor asked me if English was my native language. I chose to stay married and raise our daughters with Patrick, as he was a good dad. These were all great choices, and I was happy I made them.
Other choices were not the best, and I could clearly see how those choices caused me the pain I was in. The choice to believe that I was hard to love, for example, made me try way too hard in all of my relationships to prove myself lovable by doing so much. Then I would feel taken advantage of or unappreciated. I definitely needed to reconsider that choice because it wasn’t serving me. I’m not difficult to love, even if I can, at times, be difficult to be around. Who isn’t? We all have our light and shadow sides.
I also chose to believe that Patrick was not a nice person. That choice made me angry and defensive, and I could see now how I provoked him into not being a nice person. Patrick certainly had his issues, and, yes, he could be not so nice at times, but it wasn’t as though that was all he was. He could be very loving and kind, and was there for people in need.
I could also see now that I wasn’t bound by those decisions forever. In fact, the more I walked, the clearer it became that it was time to make some new choices, the first being to stop feeling victimized by people and start letting go of the sense of powerlessness I had been feeling.
I was so deep in concentration over all of this that I walked into Mazarife, where I was scheduled to stop, and then out of town without noticing. Once I did, I circled back and went to find my hostel. I walked around the town and the church three or four times looking for it, but had no luck. In fact, apart from one small pilgrims’ albergue/restaurant across from the church, there was nothing else in the town. Frustrated, I walked into the pilgrims’ albergue bar and ordered an egg bocadillo. Then I asked the waiter if he knew where my hostel was.
He shook his head and said there was no such place in Mazarife. I looked at the paper with my itinerary once again, and then showed it to him, and he still shook his head.
Having learned by now not to get too upset by a bump in the road such as this, I asked him to ask others who worked there if they might know where this hostel was located while I ate my sandwich.
He disappeared into the kitchen. Five minutes later a short, heavyset woman came out from the kitchen and said my hostel was another ten kilometers down the road. I almost choked. “No, I don’t want to walk that far! I can’t. Not today!” I cried.
Nearly breaking down, I asked if I could call a taxi. She shook her head and said there were no taxis in Mazarife. I believed her. There were no people in Mazarife, so why should there be any taxis?
“You can stay here,” she offered.
“I wish I could,” I answered, “but my bag is waiting for me at the hostel. I have to catch up with it.”
“Crap,” I swore under my breath. “This sucks.”
Embarrassed by my poor reaction, I apologized immediately. She said, “No worries. I will call them and tell them that you are tired.”
“Okay,” I said, not expecting that to change a thing.
I ordered a Coke from the bartender as she dialed, thinking I would need as much sugar and fuel as possible if I were going to make it as far as I had to go, especially now that the rain was once again coming down outside the pilgrims’ albergue window. Meanwhile, she chatted excitedly away to someone on the other end of the phone, punctuating her conversation with numerous “sí, sí, sí’s” while glancing my way, with a look of pity in her eyes.
When she finally hung up, she looked at me and said, “Is okay! He is come to get you. One hour.”
I was so happy to hear that I would have waited all day. I thanked her profusely for helping me out, then sat back and relaxed. I needed this today. I was tired of soldiering on. I wanted to be carried. Mercifully, I was going to be.
“Perfect,” I said, thanking the Camino for this new turn of events. Letting myself be helped was a new choice for me and one I sorely needed to make right now.
An hour and a half later, I found myself sitting in the most comfortable old farmhouse, my feet up, relaxing in front of a roaring fireplace, with a glass of delicious red wine in hand, hosted by the loveliest people I’d met at any hostel so far along the Camino.
The wife, Marcella, a quiet woman of around 50, with warm brown eyes and a kind smile, insisted I give her all my clothes to wash, and then encouraged me to take a nap and meet them at eight for dinner.
Feeling so welcomed, I relaxed, slept, and then had the most delicious home-cooked meal of fresh fish, steamed vegetables from their garden, a tossed green salad, homemade bread, cheeses, and delicious cake and chocolates.
Falling asleep that night, I thought, How wonderful to receive this love and generosity today. I needed it!