...To Santiago de Compostela, Part I

Castaña Tree

The last 300 kilometers have been fraught with rhythm and strengthening and snorechestras (thanks, Colin!).  There was the rhythm of our daily routine, walk-wash-(try to) sleep, the rhythm of our unique individual paces blending with each other on the path, the cadence of our boots and sticks bouncing off the various terrains through country and towns and cities, one step at a time.  A special kind of harmony.  There was the strengthening of our legs, and backs, and appetites.  The strength of our appreciation for each other, and sitting down, and earplugs.  We were in it together.   

After our night under the blood moon, we gradually made our way out of the arid Meseta and into the Bierzo, a region lush with vegetation and color and vineyards.  Also the last of the regions we’d traverse before conquering the final mountains and entering Galicia, the land of Santiago de Compostela.  This is where I learned that castañas, or chestnuts, actually do taste sweet and a little soft when roasted, but taste more like feet when eaten raw.

Coffee Break
 

It was here in the Bierzo that I began to feel infused with the energy and strength of this mysterious road, both physically and mentally, defying even my own expectations.  Many days, I'd walk well over 30 kilometers before I even realized how far I'd gone, shaking off the abstraction of the lost hours, feeling vital and alive and starving.  I continued to spend my evenings with all sorts of people, people walking to grieve dying loved ones, people walking to find God, people walking to lose Him.  It was humbling every time, to be afforded the opportunity to meet each of them, and share in a part of their day, and their lives.

During those hours of sweaty reflection, I found it impossible not to confront some of my ghosts.  A simple thing really, to realize the power of what we each carry, the things we believe about ourselves, truth and lie alike.  That disappearing into an 800 kilometer trek through a foreign country, even then, there you are.  

Gaudi in Astorga

Eventually, we began the ascent up the last of the series of mountains to the highest peak of the whole Camino at 1,505 meters.  This is the site of the Cruz de Ferro, where many pilgrims leave something behind, often a rock they’d carried from home.  I hadn’t had the forethought or the backpack space to do such a thing, but felt convicted, the higher I climbed that cool morning, that I too needed to leave something, or rather someone, behind.

I chose a small rock, pointy with sharp edges, to represent someone sharp and pointy from my not-too-distant past.  Someone to whom I gave far more credit than was deserved for reflecting the beauty of his surroundings, instead of the sharp edges that he actually bore.  A person whose potential I chose to believe instead of his actual character, whose words I chose to believe instead of his actions.  As I carried this pointy little guy to the foot of the cross, its edges scratching me one last time, I made some choices.  Some choices to forgive him, but maybe even more importantly, to forgive myself for putting myself in yet another situation with yet another sharp rock.  So as I placed him down on the pile of others’ hopes and hurts and losses, I said a prayer that maybe he’d allow his edges to be softened and shaped by those around him.  And that maybe I’d learn to do the same.