My hostel should have been called “Hostile,” I thought as I got ready to check out. From the moment I arrived yesterday afternoon, the staff who ran the hostel were, well, hostile.
When I first arrived, I limped in (of course) only to be greeted by a ten-minute wait as the two women at the receptionist’s desk chatted away in Spanish to one another. Finally, one of the two turned to me and rudely said, “¿Sí?” as if I were interrupting her.
Once I managed to get across to her that I had a reservation, she looked at her book, found my name, reached over, grabbed a room key, and handed it to me without saying a word or once looking at me. Then she went right back to her animated conversation with the other woman. Looking around, I didn’t see Cheater anywhere.
I waited for a pause in their conversation, then asked her about my bag, to which she only shrugged. I waited for a few more minutes, hoping their conversation would end, which it didn’t, and then asked again. This time she rolled her eyes at me and pointed to a stairwell leading downstairs from the reception area, still saying nothing.
Guessing that she meant, “Look downstairs,” I shuffled over and gingerly started down, suddenly aware that my knee was now aching like mad. Once at the bottom of what felt like a cave, there, in the dark, stood Cheater, among a group of many other bags. I picked him up and dragged him over to the stairs and lugged him back to the lobby with the last ounce of reserve in me. I then glanced at my key. Third floor again. UGGHH!
I started back toward the stairs, when the receptionist stopped me.
“No!” she said and nodded in the other direction.
An elevator. Hurray!
Smiling profusely as I pushed Cheater, Pilgrim, my poles, and myself into the small space that is a European elevator, I hastily pushed floor number 3 just to get away from them.
Once settled in, I went back out and had a small snack of some wonderful Spanish paella, the first I had seen on a menu since I started walking. I topped it off with a glass of delicious Spanish Rioja. The combination of fatigue, food, and wine knocked me out. It was five o’clock. Again, I skipped dinner and fell asleep by six.
I woke up to a beautiful day. I was especially happy because it was a short day ahead, with only 21 kilometers to my next town, Estella. While my body, and especially my feet, was still in agony, I was nevertheless looking forward to the adventure. The Camino was calling, and I could hardly wait to get going.
Breakfast was another buffet, this time a sad one. Dry pieces of bread, instant coffee, and canned orange juice. What a loveless place, I thought. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to eat any more than I had to because the food and the place had bad vibes, which I didn’t want to absorb. I would rather stop somewhere else and pay for a better breakfast than punish my poor body with this substandard stuff.
I left Cheater at the front door with the other “Cheaters,” clearly marking his next destination on a piece of paper and taping it with a Band-Aid again, in case the disinterested women who worked there weren’t paying attention, and got under way. Still suffering aches and pains in all of my muscles from the strenuous physical effort I had put my body through, I had to go slowly. I had no other choice.
Just moments after I left the hostile hostel, I noticed a cheerful café down the street, filled to the brim with other lively pilgrims, and was drawn in for a more substantial breakfast than the one I had just turned down.
Settling into a steaming Spanish omelet, a freshly squeezed orange juice, and a freshly ground hot café con leche, I began to notice that whatever was going on inside me was immediately reflected in my experience on the outside.
Yesterday I was filled with anger, and that is exactly what I was greeted with when I entered the last hostel. I also noticed what it felt like to be in angry energy. And it didn’t feel good at all. Today I was tired of it.
Drinking up the last sip of juice, I looked at my watch. It was nearly 9:30 in the morning. I had not started walking the Camino this late since I began, but suddenly I realized that there was no rule that said I had to start out early. Unlike the other pilgrims, who were in a rush to get a bed at a pilgrims’ albergue in the next town before they were all occupied, I realized I could actually take my time.
In fact, leaving a little later allowed me to avoid the Camino “rush hour.” In the early morning, droves of pilgrims fell into unison along the path, spilling out from the various hostels, pilgrims’ albergues, and hotels to get their day under way. At times there were 20 or more pilgrims walking alongside me for the first hour or so. I was glad that I might miss all of that traffic today.
I didn’t like the feeling of being crowded each morning, as the path was often so narrow that crowding was inevitable. It made it difficult to dial in on my own thoughts when a fellow pilgrim was so close to me I could hear his breathing. Because I wanted to avoid all of that, I ordered another cup of coffee and sat back a little longer.
It was nice not to rush, given that my feet were so sore. In truth, I was not exactly moving at much of a clip, but there was still the internal tendency to rush myself. I had been aware of this habit for some time.
Patrick had a much faster pace than I did, and from the time I met him I was often rushing just to keep up with him. He would often say, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” urging me to go faster still when I was going fast already. After living with that urging and pushing for 30 years, like being in a chronic state of emergency, I had internalized it as my own pace, although it really wasn’t natural to me.
This internal pushing left me feeling me agitated and anxious. I decided with this new awareness to dedicate my day to moving at my own natural, calm pace, and not pressuring myself to get going, get moving, or hurry up at all, something quite different from what I otherwise did.
I slowly paid the bill, gathered my things, and then set off. Looking for the yellow arrows, I starting singing, “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”
On my way out of town, I had one last chance to admire the beautiful architecture. Puente la Reina was a major crossroads for several pilgrimage routes to Santiago. A magnificent Romanesque bridge with six spectacular arches was built specifically for the pilgrims to safely cross the rushing river at this point. In fact, the town itself came into existence just to accommodate the flow of pilgrims on the way to Santiago. I energetically fell into the flow with these past compatriots and felt personally strengthened by their numbers. As soon as I got a little way out of town and into the countryside, I stopped and said my prayer.
Holy Mother God, help me walk this day at my own pace and free me of the fear that I must go faster or get to the next town faster than is natural and comfortable for me. Keep me present to the gifts of the Camino today, and please help me ignore the pain in my toes, because it scares me.
Amen, and thank you.
Once that was said and my intention was set, I started off again, free of yesterday’s angry energy, and now contemplating how to feel anger and express anger appropriately. Only I couldn’t think of this for very long. The path itself once again demanded my full attention, and my thoughts gave way to silent focus as I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, looking for arrows and Camino shells to guide me along the way.
The good news was that aside from my toes, my muscles didn’t feel as sore today as they had in the past few days. My body was starting to acclimate to the walking, and I felt stronger than any day up until now.
Walking along the path, I was taken by how peaceful it was. My soul actually felt nourished by the beauty, especially the parts of my soul that were so injured. I saw a falcon hovering over me in the air, not actually moving. As I looked up, a Swiss woman approached me and spontaneously shared with me that whenever a falcon is hovering like that, it is the Holy Spirit. I had never heard that before; nor had I ever seen a hovering falcon before. I took that as my inspiration for the day and felt energized and watched over.
It was still quite cold outside, but the sun was shining and the colors all around were gorgeous. The grass was standing tall and endlessly green, and the flowers were spectacular. I once saw a sign that read, “Flowers are God’s way of laughing,” and I thought that today was a laugh riot with all the bright reds and blues and yellows lining the way. I could not remember a time when I had ever been bathed in such natural beauty for so long.
Walking the Camino each day, I began to see the same people over and over as we made our way from town to town. When we passed each other, we wished each other “Buen Camino.” I loved this tradition, as it was such a succinct way to say so many things at once. It literally meant, “Have a good way.” It also meant, “Hello,” “Carry on,” “Good luck,” and “Good-bye,” or “I don’t want to talk to you any longer, as I now wish to get back to my own thoughts.”
It said all of this without ever leaving anyone feeling bad or confused. It was all just understood.
Today, for the first time since I started on the Camino, I felt like talking a little bit more to other pilgrims. Perhaps it was because my body was getting stronger and today’s path was easier, so I had more available energy to converse. In any case, I was feeling social.
I stopped for a café con leche around one, and when I did I started to speak with the same Swiss woman, whose name I learned was Inga. She had been walking for almost two months and had started in Switzerland. I was so impressed my jaw dropped and I told her so. She had to walk through the Alps, and here I was barely able to hobble through the Pyrenees.
I told her how difficult it had been for me the past four days, and she said not to judge myself so harshly. It had been equally difficult for her at the beginning. She then said, “You know, it isn’t the Camino that is difficult. It is carrying all your mental and emotional baggage that is so difficult. The Camino doesn’t like this negative energy, and invites you to let it go. It’s holding on to your misery that makes it feel so impossible to keep going. At least that is what I found.”
I knew what she was saying was true. I had felt that myself. But it wasn’t as though I could simply decide to stop thinking and feeling what I was thinking and feeling.
I had to let it travel into my consciousness, accept it, then allow it to leave when it was ready. I shared this with her.
“You are right,” she said, nodding solemnly.
We finished our coffee and she set off for the restroom, and I set out on the path, as I have the bladder of a camel and didn’t want to wait in the ten-person-deep line.
Once I started walking again, I came upon two other pilgrims who were standing by the side of the road. One seemed to be having great difficulty breathing.
I stopped and asked if I could help.
The one struggling, a man from Ireland, said he had asthma and all the fresh green grass and flowers were strangling him. He was really struggling to take a breath.
I showed him a few breathing techniques to help his breathing become less labored because I could see he was in trouble. One of those techniques actually seemed to calm his breathing down a bit. I was as relieved as he was.
After he thanked me, he assured me that he was used to this struggle, and that he would get through it as he always did.
“I just pray through it,” he said, between gasps. “Seems to work, as I’m still here.”
After sharing a “Buen Camino” with both him and the pilgrim he was traveling with, I set back on my way. Soon my thoughts began to return to my anger and what caused it. I wanted to get to the bottom of it so I could let it go.
As I walked it suddenly occurred to me that while I felt I was really generous with friends, exceedingly so at times, if they didn’t return the generosity, or more exactly, the same spirit of generosity with me when I needed it, I would get really angry. And it was an anger that wouldn’t let go.
That was not an easy revelation to have. If others didn’t share the same values or have the same priorities, or more specifically, give my needs the same priority I had given theirs, I became deeply wounded and felt ripped off and exploited. This was at the root of a great deal of my anger.
Wow, I have never realized the depth to which I felt this before, I thought. Until I had this much time to be with myself, to walk alone in nature, and to examine what made me tick, I had never been able to identify this unconscious trap.
When I came to this realization, I knew that, once again, the culprit behind my misery was not other people but was me. As if a giant lightbulb had been switched on in a dark room, I finally understood what I was doing to cause myself so much pain, so now I could stop it.
I walked with this insight for a long time. The more I did, the greater the clarity about my anger descended upon me. My generosity toward others showed up at first in the form of enthusiastic championing, but eventually and sadly, caretaking and rescuing, taking responsibility for people who acted so irresponsibly they got into all kinds of trouble, usually financial. Time and again I volunteered to come to their rescue, until it wore me out. Always the classic hero saving the day—no wonder I was so angry. I was tired of this “Dudley Do-Right” act of mine. Those whom I rescued and supported came to expect it of me because I did it so freely, and after a time they didn’t even try to meet their needs or responsibilities on their own because they didn’t have to. It was a good thing I had severed these relationships—for everyone’s sake.
Maybe I was unconsciously acting out my father’s grand rescue mission with my mom, and attracted needy people in order to do that. While hers was a real need when she was a young, newly released prisoner of war with no family or means of support whatsoever, my so-called victims needed no rescuing at all. They just needed to grow up and take responsibility for their lives, and I needed to get out of the way so they could. If anything, they were enabling my unhealthy pattern, and I owed them an apology.
I also saw how playing the hero gave me a sense of control. Clearly, that was the payoff for me. It wasn’t like I was consciously doing any of this, however. It was automatic. When anyone close to me seemed to be out of control, it stressed me out and I felt compelled to rescue him or her in order to restore a sense of normalcy. That, too, was a hangover from childhood, as there were many out-of-control and scary moments growing up in my family.
The Camino and I continued our deep conversation about this pattern when out of nowhere I stepped on a rock that suddenly rolled and threw me forward so quickly I fell and hit my head. It was as if the Camino were trying to knock some sense into me. Humbled but not really hurt, I couldn’t help but get the message.
“Ow!” I said out loud, rubbing my bump. “Okay, I get it. I didn’t realize any of this before,” I said to the Universe, in my defense. “Now I do. Thank you.”
I started to relax. Like uncovering a giant clue to solving a really old, frustrating, and painful problem, I was overjoyed. I understood. I could see how my own pattern caused me so much pain and rejection. Therefore I could find my way out.
“I’m going to adopt the attitude of ‘Every man for himself,’” I announced to the Universe. Then I started laughing. “I’m just kidding.”
But I did decide that I would not compulsively take responsibility for others anymore. It would take awareness and practice, but I was motivated. Anything else would only cause me and others more pain.
I felt a wave of relief wash over me, in spite of a simultaneous wave of physical pain and exhaustion shooting through my toes and body. I decided to rest.
I was tired of asking so much of myself and of others. I needed a break.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my PowerBar. Like a gift from the Universe, there was a large rock on which I could sit and watch the pilgrims go by.
Drinking water from my water bottle, and then my water pack, I ate slowly and relaxed.
This was actually the first time I had allowed myself to relax since I had set out on the Camino. Up until now, each day had been fraught with low-level anxiety as I navigated my aching body along the path, fearful that I wouldn’t make it to the next destination.
The weight of seeing how I set myself up to suffer and get so hurt and angry had been lifted. Now, seeing a way out of this pattern, my body began to let go of my sadness, leaving me feeling more spacious inside.
I also suddenly had faith that I would manage to get to Santiago, no matter what lay ahead. My body would make it. Somehow.
And with that awareness, a huge wave of relief washed over me.
I stood up. I still had quite a few kilometers to walk before Estella, the town I was headed for, and if today were anything like the days past, the last few kilometers would be the most difficult.
My mind was quiet for the rest of the way. I walked in silence and felt the spirit of the Camino as I did. This was a powerful path. I could feel the spirits of all who had gone before me, and it was humbling. I felt their souls accompanying me and cheering me on, their energy overlapping my own. I was alone but walking with millions.
As I walked I let go of expectation after expectation. It felt so freeing to have no expectations of a change. Not of others. Not of myself. What a great gift the Camino offered me today.