A promise to keep

I discovered, while walking the Camino, that pilgrims are exposed to many heightened emotions. They swirl about us as we inch along, always our companions on the journey. Long days spent walking through field, forest, and even along roadways, offer unique opportunities for reflecting on the many moods of pilgrim life (or simply on life off the Camino), and also on the grace of simply being alive and walking the Way. On the days when life is a bit more challenging, and our peace is more elusive, perhaps that is the time to open up an interior dialogue, and allow that voice, that is always trying to be heard, to actually be heard. This invitation begins a seemingly simple, but actually complex, activity to identify the barriers to our peace. In these instances we should be determined seekers for this peace, our peace, is abundant and waiting. However, when answers are not easily found, and focus eludes us, impatience predictably sets in, and the opportunity for spiritual growth, once again, is subsumed in the clamor and gravitational pull of daily life wherever we happen to be.

Patience is not a pervasive human trait. We are so geared to being accomplishers, problem solvers, masters of our own destiny, that being still is almost anathema to us. Yet, the first step to finding our peace is stillness. Being able to push away distractions (at least for some small part of the day) is an essential competancy we must develop and embrace. The more we give ourselves over to the silence of our own reflections the more likely it is that we will hear the inner voice (Spirit) that is there to guide us. The difficult journey to our own individual peace starts with making room in our hearts for the reconciliation of God's will with our own. Once this is done all is possible.

... But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. (Robert Frost)

Pilgrims in the neighborhood?

Robin and I were out for a walk the other day when to our surprise we saw this stack of stones at a street corner. How many times have we seen such things along the Camino. They are a ubiquitous part of the Way. Pilgrims have a fascination with stacking stone upon stone as a way to mark their passing by a particular place. The process is helped along if others have left something for you to add onto, which is usually the case. Nevertheless, the stone cairn was a totally unexpected and very pleasant reminder of our trip down the Camino Frances. We snapped this photo and couldn't help but smile at how the Camino continues to remind us of the precious gift of those remarkable days walking across Spain.

From Here to Where?

St Mary's Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Portland, Oregon

A year ago this past week Robin and I set out from St Mary's on our first pilgrimage down the Camino de Santiago from St Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela, and then on to Finisterre, and Muxia. Much has transpired since that pilgrimage. It is hard to categorize all the changes, but there are plenty. On the strictly physical side we are now almost always walking. Daily walks of 5 to 10 miles are now the norm. On the spiritual side the benefit of the time spent in reflection and contemplation while walking the Camino cannot be overstated. It was a true blessing, and a gift from God to have that quiet time. Thoughts of our community of fellow pilgrims, and the many welcoming hospitaleros we encountered, continue to warm our hearts as we reflect on their kindness and generosity (not to mention their wisdom). Now at home we find ourselves probing more deeply the issues of faith, purpose, and spiritual direction. It is as though that part of our lives caught fire, and we are now always discussing some facet of that inquiry. With Christmas just around the corner, Robin and I fondly recall the joy of sharing last Christmas Eve with our fellow pilgrims in the upper rooms of the albergue in Santo Domingo de Calzada. Daniel, a Canadian friend from the Camino, texted us the other day to simply say hello on this very special anniversary. A simple kindness that was much appreciated.

Whether on the Camino or just living our lives at home, we continue to sense that we are all connected, and we are thankful for that. But, with this realization come new responsibilities. Understanding that what one does affects everyone else, shifts our thinking regarding all people and all things. We sell ourselves short, and diminish our lives, if we feel that we can get through life by simply doing no harm. Doing no harm is a start, but we are called to do something more, perhaps much more. In other words, we have to be active, even bold, in our faith or whatever you choose to call that inner yearning that causes us to seek the Oneness of our beginning. What that means for each of us is what I feel we are all trying to discover, and respond to. We do know that all human activity can be improved with love, charity and a joyful heart. These powerful virtues can, and should be, trusted to safely light the way for the inner journey that beckons all of us.

Reaching Santiago was, in a sense, both an end, and a beginning. The pilgrimage physically came to a close, but at the same time we sensed that in some way it hadn't (the Holy Spirit is always at work). There was something yet to be done. Now far from the Camino our spiritual journey continues to lead us we know not where, but wherever that might be we are now anxious to follow. Perhaps, in the end, this will prove to be the greatest gift of our Camino.

Gracias a Dios

The Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela

One Fine Day

Columbia River looking east to Mount Hood

We here in the Pacific Northwest have been enjoying unseasonably dry weather the last couple of weeks as you can see in the attached pictures. Our daily walks (5 to 10 miles) have been a delight as the pleasant sounds of skittering leaves have lingered on long after their usual expiration date. But, we know this clement interlude will surely pass. But, for now we are outside, enjoying life (waterproofs still hanging on the peg in the garage, yes!).

Same day, now almost home

A Change of Latitude... A Change of Attitude?

A friend sent me an email not too long ago and this picture of Fanning Island came with it. This is not Camino related per se, but please indulge me an occasional digression. I had visited this island (actually more of an atoll) back in the mid 70's aboard Kialoa as we made our way back to the States from racing in Australia and New Zealand. This picture seems a perfect antidote to the gloom of a Pacific Northwest winter, which I am about to step out into for a 16 km walk (Camino related after all...well sort of). So close your eyes, let your minds wander to warmer climes, and see if you too can hear the surf breaking on the reef, and smell the tang of salt air. I have a feeling I will be revisiting this post from time to time in the months ahead. Enjoy, and don't forget the sunblock!

Suffering is Optional

Toenails courtesy of the Parador (not Camino standard)

Looking back at Robin's bout of tendinitis (ankle), which halted our Camino in Leon for a few days, I continue to be amazed at her approach to dealing with it. Prior to walking the Camino, in various conversations, Robin would say that pain might be there, but suffering is optional. I listened, but did not truly understand what she was telling me. How can one not "suffer" under the burden of pain? I just couldn't work that out. People who deal with chronic pain must live in a world defaulted to suffering (just my assumption). So, how does one counter that assumption if suffering is not acceptable? How does the physicality of pain coexist within a mind/body that has other plans? This is where Robin enters. She had all the physical symptoms of classic tendinitis (confirmed by an ER doctor in Leon). She was told to rest and not to walk for 5-7 days. She had her ankle taped up and we slogged and hobbled, through a downpour, back to the Parador (our albergue in Leon). We settled in with a bottle of wine, lost in our own thoughts, our moods as somber as the blanket of nimbus hanging low over Leon. As we gazed unfocused on the rain slanting across the garden below, we basically wondered if our Camino had just come to a screeching halt (at least that is what was going through my mind). Robin's mind was working differently (no surprise if you know her). While I was conjuring up schemes involving taxis, and buses to somehow get us to Santiago, Robin was girding herself with a quiet determination to carry on. We spent three nights in Leon. As our stay drew to its end Robin announced she would continue walking. I offered her all the assurances I could that we could break the journey, and come back again, but no, we were bound for Santiago, and would leave the following morning.

Daylight came, we shouldered our packs and walked out onto a Camino freshly scrubbed, glistening with sunlight, and brimming with promise. Robin had removed the tape from her ankle before we left, and walked without any visible limp. In two days time we walked, seemingly without incident, into Astorga. I was simply in awe of how Robin did not seem to be affected by her tendinitis. We walked at our normal pace, and she made no mention of the pain she surely must have been feeling. The next day, as we walked out of Astorga, I could see she was struggling a bit. We paused for her to take some Ibuprofen. After that she closed her eyes and just rolled her bad ankle around a bit as if trying to realign something. In a few brief moments she said she was ready to go on, and so we did eventually arriving in Foncebadon late that afternoon. That evening she shared with me that she had posed a question to herself, "What would happen if I just melted into the pain?" I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it became evident that Robin had decided that although she was experiencing pain, she was not going to allow that pain to become suffering. Without the limitations of a mindset geared to suffering she was free to reach an accommodation with her pain (Ibuprofen helped), and continue her Camino. The astonishing part is that she never mentioned it again. She walked with me stride for stride, not limping, not stopping early, not asking for any help at all. Of course I was asking her all the time if she wanted me to help, but no she was fine. This, it is important to note, was not her playing the martyr so I could continue my Camino. She honestly was fine, not pain free by any means, but fine. I still don't understand it, but that is what it was. We continued walking to Santiago without any problems and then, still feeling fine, continued further on to Finisterre and Muxia. Many weeks later, sharing a glass of wine at home, she confided to me that her bout with tendinitis had been a great learning experience for her, a much cherished Camino moment. She discovered (these are my words) some elemental connection between mind and body, a pathway mostly left obscured, had revealed itself to her, for whatever reason, just when she needed it most. I called it a Camino miracle (thank you Holy Spirit), but Robin just smiled.

The Month of Remembrance

It is in the Catholic tradition to view the month of November from the Feast of All Saints until the beginning of Advent as a month of remembrance for all the departed souls. I find this to be a particularly healing season as we reflect and offer our prayers for all those family members and friends who have left this world. As I was driving home last Sunday, across the Columbia River, I was flippng through the radio channels and I heard this song, The Last Port of Call. It just seemed to speak to this season and I guess to me. It is now particularly moving for me as I have learned just this week of the loss of a good friend and shipmate, from Tasmania, to cancer. So, for Nick...

...Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell;
When I embark:

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

From Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Crossing the Bar