The breaking news is: I’m working on them, really I am. Hope to send one–maybe even two–before turning lights out tonight. And you know what they say about hope: it springs eternal!
In the meantime, think: amazing, awesome, spectacular. And know this: lucky breaks, many blessings, joy-filled days.
More to come!
It is Tuesday, May 28, when I return to this post that was orphaned three weeks ago, left with just place names and distances recorded.
I’m betting you hadn’t noticed that it was missing from the line-up, leaving a void between walking days #27 and #29. I hinted at it a time or two, admitting that I had some catching up to do. But in my mind, early on, this was such a special day that I didn’t want to rush it. It was a special day in a string of special days, and, wanting to write about the others while they were fresh, I trusted that this one was special enough that the details would remain vivid, “safe” for sharing when I found the time.
And that was true, I think, for maybe three or four days. Then it was just hopeful thinking. Now I know: even though I’ve read through my notes, even though I’ve looked at my photos from that day, the “freshness” of it can’t be captured again. I guess I should be thankful that this was about the only day that “got lost in the shuffle.”
Even the title…. It made some sense back then, falling on the heels of a “riddle” I asked you to solve. “Riddle” … “paradox”… My notes reveal a bit of what I had in mind when I came up with the title:
So, there were many reasons to keep my eyes open on this day. And my ears. And my nose. My notes indicate that I did all the above, as I jotted these expressions:
I noted that I felt extremely privileged to be walking where I was walking, that I was grateful that a few steps seemed to have taken me from an early-spring environment to a late-spring one, that I loved walking along a mountain stream as it frolicked and cascaded downward.
I commented that by the end of the day I was in short sleeves (and that phenomenon might not have repeated itself on the rest of the Camino; I can’t swear to it, but it is very, very possible). I wrote that it was such a nice day that even the bugs came out to play. Noted that I had eaten “the best bocadillo ever” that day, that there was a lot of “flying cotton” but that it wasn’t causing me any allergic reaction. At one point I jotted down: “Where is everyone?” It seems that except for a couple of groups of cyclists who went by, I hadn’t seen anyone for hours.
“Lots of singing,” I wrote. That makes sense, since I seemed to have the paths to myself. And I jotted down something that often occurred to me while I was singing but had always eluded me when I wrote about the singing, and that is this: that the way in which I was singing reminded me, even though I was alone, of “chain gang” or “cotton field” singing: it was repetitive, simple, with lyrics that could be altered slightly to fit the situation, and it kept up my spirits, made the time pass, and even gave me energy and a new attitude. My singing felt “communal” to me because I was bringing a lot of people and their situations into my thoughts as I sang.
I remember one very sweet stop on this day, in the tiny town of Valtuille de Arriba. I turned a corner and there it was: Cantina Estrella, a veritable “hippy hangout” in the middle of nowhere. There were flowers galore, plaques and inspirational sayings, Indian chant music, bright colors, God’s eyes, and friendliness oozing out of its pores. The female owner had been a pilgrim herself years back, and when she got to this town, she decided that’s where she needed to settle and set up a cantina for passing pilgrims. I enjoyed my snack there.
What more did the day hold? I joined Mary Claude and Patrice for lunch that day, I think, in a town square in Villafranca del Bierzo. I’d been daring this French couple to acknowledge my existence for the last couple of days; finally accomplished the task on this day and I found them to be much friendlier than I had first thought. We made it through the linguistic challenges pretty easily. And for the next few days, when our paths continued to cross, there were big smiles on all parties.
And I’m thinking this is the day that I was finally able to reload my SIM card which had expired about four days earlier (meaning that when I didn’t have access to Wifi, I was out of luck in terms of sending or receiving messages or doing any of the other things that require connectivity). I feel like this is a story I have already told, but maybe just to family. I saw a sign in a window front stating that this particular store (appliances, pots and pans, electronics) sold SIM cards. I went in to inquire about purchasing one and told the owners that I would be back after I’d found a bathroom and had a bite to eat.
When I returned, the husband-wife team consulted a bit and then said that they would call their son and have him come in to take care of the recharging. Oh, how familiar that was! I had an instant “inroad” to conversation with these people since I, too, have to rely on my son to figure things out for me and get me out of tech-related jams. Fifteen or so minutes later, the son came in and the whole process was so easy! I was good to go in terms of data and connectivity for another 28 days.
So that was the day. You can tell: it’s not hot-off-the-press fresh to me anymore. Not by a long shot. I guess I could conclude by saying it was like so many days on the Camino, with the beauty of nature being a super companion as I made my way. I write this with my last day of Camino walking having been a week ago already. I’ve been doing plenty of walking as my trip finishes up with walks in/near Barcelona and Madrid. But… they are not the same. I am already seeing how “keeping the spirit of the Camino in my everyday living” is going to be a challenge….
Note: I’ve received requests to keep up the posts at least long enough to incorporate my days along the Mediterranean and my days here in Madrid. I’ll try to oblige. Count on there being a few more posts, though nothing elaborate.
Oh, are you ever in luck with this post! Count your blessings! Notes for Sunday? I took… absolutely none! Not a one other than to “open” a page in which to write them. Nada. Zilch.
That tells you something!
Before I get started on a day which, 24 hours later I can’t even recall (other than knowing that it was long, challenging, and tedious…. yet, I’ll do my best to remember it and redeem it somewhat…), I’ll give a few updates. In case you care.
Barb: She’s been back in the States since the evening of May 2, after spending a couple of nights in Madrid before her flight. Sleeping. Relaxing. Wandering the Retiro (giant in-city park in Madrid). Discovering that the Prado was closed, May 1 being a holiday in Spain.
She’s happily reunited with her dog and her cats, but it’d be a lie to say she wasn’t missing the Camino. So ironic that Barb “didn’t care” about getting to Santiago, knew she wouldn’t have time to walk that far, and wasn’t bothered by that. Yeah, right! Way to go, Barb!
Ginny: She continues to astound with her forward progress. Slow, but steady, with frequent stretching stops. Extra care going downhill. Massaging at night. Being the general Good Samaritan to all she encounters. Oh, she has a fan club, no doubt about it. But she’s enjoying the solo walking as well. Getting her nightly report is always a joy for me
Alan: Do you remember him? The one I didn’t remember after sleeping “next to” him? The Brit who charmed a patio full of pilgrims, myself included, with his guitar playing and his singing? I ran into another gal who had shared the room with him the same night I did. She informed me that he had collapsed on the trail maybe a day or two after I heard him play. Pneumonia, I think. She wondered if I knew anything. Nope. I’m hoping he is out there somewhere walking and entertaining. Would I recognize him? Not if he’s not wearing his green puffy….
I have to wonder about Victoria, Sylvia (aka “Red”), Maria, Carlos, Fabio and Regina, Kelly. It would be a joy to come upon any one of them and many others again. It’s hard to say. I stopped for those extra days at the monastery. But then, others stop, too, for a variety of reasons.
And new friends have stepped in to take their places. Friends? Acquaintances? Fellow pilgrims, for sure. There’s a special bond even when the interactions are brief. And then we let go.
My post for Saturday, May 4, included a series of “thoughts” which I had jotted down during the course of the day. I realized after “publishing” the post that I had left some out. You’re invited to skip over this section if “random thoughts that might come off as ‘preachy'” are not your cup of tea. Consider these additions to the May 4th post:
Had your fill? I thought so. The rest of my notes are really just song lyrics, all variations based on the same melody, but tailored to the moment. I’ve sure gotten “the mileage,” literally and figuratively, from that melody!
Now, back to May 5th, the day I don’t remember…
I glance at the guidebook. At my photos. Oh, yes: the cool second story balconies on the old houses. Oh, right: the hermitage which was actually open and where they had real candles in tall glass–red glass, no less–containers. For 2 euros I lit one that may be burning still, more than 30 hours later, for family and friends. Oh, could I forget the stones? Never! Stones, stones, stones, thick, uneven, sloping rock slabs on just about every descent. And we descended a lot. No wonder I didn’t take notes; I was extremely busy concentrating and taking care with where I planted each foot. Again and again and again.
Old trees. Old bridges. Old castles. Well, one castle, but the size of many put together. This was in Ponferrada, a town of almost 70,000. Businesses closed on Sunday so I couldn’t find a place to recharge my SIM card. Busy with the usual let’s-go-to-town-with-all-the-family crowd. Ponferrada where I found an ATM to get some much-needed money. Ponferrada where I made it to a bathroom in a sweet shop just in time. And I do mean just. Ponferrada where any sane person would linger and enjoy the squares, the people, the bustle, where any sane person would tour the 12th-century castle of the Knights Templar and soak up some fascinating history, but where I felt hemmed in and just wanted to get to a pueblo.
And so I did. Eventually. After what seemed like a long haul. I stopped only briefly to photograph… a pig! (First I’d seen, though “pork” of some kind is a popular menu item.) Stopped to photograph this flower or that (one was beautiful white, but some red near the center of the flower and yellow in dead center). In one small town, I went down a narrow alleyway. “Just how narrow was it,” you ask. Maybe you’ll see a photo at the bottom of this post showing how it was as wide as my hiking poles are long.
At one point I caught sight of Ponferrada off in the distance and I sighed. I thought my “stay in the country” was over. But no. The Camino kept us surprisingly hidden in the countryside (going down steep rocky hills…) for quite a while, and we entered the city “by the back door,” making the arrival much more tolerable.
But it was hot. My pack seemed heavier by the minute. I finally dragged myself into Camponaraya by late afternoon. I had made a reservation–rare thing for me to do–by asking a stranger in Ponferrada if he would ring up an albergue “down the road” for me. Turns out, it wasn’t necessary. I had blessedly uncrowded accommodations for the night in a room where none of us–we were 6–had to sleep in a top bunk and where all of us had English as a first language. (The other five were Canadians, one from Ontario and four from British Columbia.). A treat: for 3 euros one of the employees washed my clothes in a machine. I was in charge of the hanging up (done at 6:00 pm; by 8:30 they were [almost] dry. Hurray for the ladders going up to bunks not needed by pilgrims that night; the ladders of two bunks were used for the last drying efforts).
I sat in the patio garden of the albergue/bar doing some writing, then joined my monastery friends Reiner and Christine who had come over to my hostel for supper. We seem to do so well with a mixture of my French and bits of English they can come up with. Dinner for me: Galician soup and roast lamb which was, literally, finger-licking good.
Bedtime followed soon thereafter. Hurray: I had found a new battery for my headlamp earlier in the day–on a Sunday, no less!–so a bit more writing before settling comfortably into slumber.
So, agreed? “Short and simple,” at least by my standards. The photos will tell or hint at “the rest of the story.” If they aren’t below yet, come back later, ok?
And again, thanks for coming along with me!
Because, really, that word and the photos will say it all:
The route was stunning, carpeted in all its spring glory. As I rounded many a bend and saw what lay in front of me, I let out actual audible laughs or mouthed “Oh my God!” I’d wager that even the non-believers among you just might have done the same. Oops! Sorry! That was a third sentence I just added. Never trust me!
Wish you had been there! But since you weren’t, you might scroll down and have a look at some photos (not there yet? Come back later. Or check them out on Facebook at Katy’s Camino).
As Rabanal del Camino and the monastery experience fell behind me, Robert Frost’s poem came to me… and not for the first time: “I have promises to keep/ and miles to go before I sleep.”
I had remained on site long enough for morning prayers, breakfast, and mass. Reiner and Christine, who had also spent three nights with the monks, had taken off several hours earlier. At breakfast I had met three new arrivals who would take our places. The young Korean, Jiwon (undoubtedly the spelling is wrong; “think ‘G’ and ‘1,’” he had told us in order to help us pronounce and remember his name) would remain for another night or two. I sang–yes! Me!–one of my songs for the newcomers at breakfast, and Brother Leandro asked if I would sing it for him when I reached Cruz de Ferro. [note: the significance of the location known for centuries as “Cruz de Ferro” is explained in the last section–“Riddle solution” of this post.] “For all of you,” I told him. “Do you want the ‘grace’ version or the ‘joy’ one?” “The latter, please,” he replied.
And so, by 9:40, with no small amount of reluctance, I was departing from the “lovely, dark, and deep” village of Rabanal del Camino and, as I soon discovered, walking into another paradise. “My favorite day of the whole Camino,” a young Austrian told me later. “We have mountains, of course, but I was in awe of what I saw after Rabanal.” Amen.
The walk was slow, true, but my pace wasn’t due as much to the fact that I was climbing to the highest elevation of the entire Camino as to the fact that I was stopping continuously both to take photos and videos, to drink in the beauty, and to write down my thoughts regarding what I was experiencing. You’ll see the photos below. (Some of them, anyway; I took a ton, and I suppose that many of them are really similar one to the next.)
But as for the thoughts that bubbled up in my mind, I’m going to set a bunch of them down, just as they came to me. Not your cup of tea? I totally understand. Really, I do. Just skip down to the section entitled “Riddle solution”… or to the photos… or… call it “a night”/”a day”/”enough already!” All of those will work.
So, then, assorted thoughts and actions along today’s splendid stage:
I was getting punch-drunk on thought and beauty. Fortunately, I finally arrived in El Acebo and found a bed in a not-at-all full parochial albergue with the kindest of hospitaleros. Reminder: they are volunteers who do one or more stints/year at a hostel along the route; they have all been pilgrims at sometime in the past. Pedro, retired as are most hospitaleros, is a veteran of more Caminos than he could count, but well over 20. Different routes. Different lengths of time. This spot was “by donation” rather than a specified price, and included, for those interested, a communal dinner. We were Korean, Swiss, American, French, and Spanish at the table. Pedro fixed the simple dinner; the fellows cleaned up. Worked for me! It also worked for me to wander down to the local mesón shortly after my arrival. I ordered a bowl of soup (a 4:30 lunch) to stave off hunger until that 8:00 pm group supper. My soup was too hot to consume immediately, so I WhatsApped the couple who had been at the monastery with me; I was pretty sure that they were planning on staying in El Acebo as well. It wasn’t two minutes before Christine came and tapped me on the shoulder. She had been sitting outdoors at the same establishment when my text arrived. I joined her outside with my soup and beer, and we had a chance to share some of our reflections about staying at the monastery. I’ve collected very little “contact information” from people I’ve met on the Camino. I’m glad Christine and I had taken the time to do such an exchange. She’s very sweet.
Blame Christine and Calvin for my not getting this posted last night. Calvin was one of the pilgrims in my albergue. When I first walked into our dining room/gathering space, I thought he was one of the many Asians walking the Camino. Turns out he is from Chicago! Went to Northwestern. As you might imagine, we used up my writing time swapping Chicago and Midwest stories.
Details? You got ’em.
Riddle solution I hope somewhere below you will see a photo of the little stone I carried with me from home. On it was written, simply, the word “joy.” Perhaps it was four or five years ago that I attended a little winter get-away with my Walking Women group. I think it was our beloved–and no longer with us–Maggy who brought a collection of stones on which we were each write to draw a symbol or write a word, saying, or expression that was meaningful for us. I had written the word “joy.” The stone sat on my dresser, a reminder of something we are all called to seek, to create, to be. Sometimes very challenging; sometimes–though very rarely for most–as natural as breathing.
This small stone was the one I had chosen to carry across hundreds of kilometers in north central Spain to deposit at the base of the Cruz de Ferro [the Iron Cross which is mounted on top of a tall pole]. It is something that pilgrims have done… I guess I can’t say “from time immemorial,” but certainly for a long, long time. They leave symbols of burdens or of their dearly departed or of wishes, hopes. Not messages in bottles but on stones. Permanent.
And so today, after several hours of climbing slowly and gradually, I reached the Cruz and left “joy” behind. I suppose I did not fully understand just why that was the stone I needed to bring from home, but I understood why as I was approaching the spot. I was leaving the “joy stone” behind but I came to understand that I was already carrying with me more joy than my heart could hold. Riddle solved! (Did you guess it?)
I am, of course, making fun of myself. Four hours to do 7 miles? (A snail… or a “caterpillar train” could probably manage that!) But what a four-hours these were! I think I am beginning to catch on to this “slow down, you’re moving too fast” business. (Another one of the Camino life-lessons that I’m worried will disappear when I return. How to “make the morning last”; how to skip down the literal or figurative cobblestones; how to feel “groovy” more often?…)
Hard to come up with the definitive title for this post. Others that came to me, and in this order (the first five being addressed to the determined cuckoo bird):
But the morning itself began several hours before such thoughts entered my mind. In spite of not turning off the light until 1:45 am, I woke before my alarm and didn’t have the heart to try to go back to sleep. For one thing, I didn’t know what time I had to leave my private room in the albergue; for another: I didn’t want to miss out on anything, including what kind of a sunrise I might catch from my balcony window. Starting, then, almost an hour before sunrise, I must have taken about a dozen photos of the dawn and the about-to-arrive day, stepping out, stocking-footed, onto my balcony every little bit. The first pilgrim I saw heading off from Santa Catalina departed at 6:30 (45 minutes before sunrise). Let them get on down the road; more pristine solitude for me when I eventually commence my day’s journey.
As I got down to the albergue‘s bar it occurred to me that I hadn’t a clue where I’d left my poles upon my late afternoon arrival. The “poles barrel” was just about empty and my teal poles weren’t in it. I returned to my room, but with little confidence they would be up there. They weren’t. So… I went to check out the first hostel that had delivered the news of “no room in the inn,” the one where the Korean delegation was staying. And indeed, there they (the Koreans) were in front of their albergue, getting some last-minute instructions from their leader. I got waves from some with whom I had had brief conversations or with whom “I had slept” days earlier, then made my way to the entrance of the albergue where, as it happened, my poles were leaning against the door, ready to steady my upcoming walk. (That means that so-far, to my knowledge, I have only lost one disposable paper washcloth that hadn’t totally lived out its usefulness and four or five plastic clothespins which remained behind early in this pilgrimage.)
Back to my albergue where this non-coffee drinker ordered her now near-daily cappuccino. There was a young woman on a stool drinking her own daily jump-start. “Care to join me for a mantecada [special pastry of the region]?” I queried. I had purchased a 6-pack of them in Astorga the previous afternoon and, lightweight as they were, I wasn’t eager to tote them all with me. “A what?” I explained, showing her my package. “Oh…, let me finish with my email and I’ll join you.” She had already walked to Santa Catalina from the prior town, and I think this bit of breakfast suited her. She was soon on her way (and her story, other than her being German and having learned very good English in school, was soon forgotten; hate to say it, but after a while these stories do blend together, especially when the encounters are brief; still, they leave me with a sense of “community”…) and I left not long behind her, just long enough so that… ah, the trail was mine!
The path was at times two-track, at times a single track, following along a barely-used paved road, a buffer of vegetation mostly blocking the sight of said road on my left. The occasional bike or group of cyclists buzzed by, some on the pavement, some on the trail, but otherwise I was alone.
Inspirations came quick and fast, and I spent a lot of time with my face in my phone, taking notes so I could hold on to the thoughts.
They were thoughts about gratitude. About joy. About how absolutely lucky I am to be where I am! At about that point, I saw a “life lesson” painted along a fence:
El secreto de tu futuro está dentro de la rutina diaria. The secret of your future is [found] within the everyday routines [of life].
Oh… so the joy and gratitude and sense of good fortune must be found in, among other things, the cleaning of the kitchen, the folding of laundry, paying the bills…. In this day and age, keeping up with emails and other forms of correspondence…. The secret to finding the future you hope for is finding it right now in the activities you pursue and in the attitude with which you pursue them….
Shoot, we all know that, don’t we? But remembering it and calling upon that secret every day? Can be challenging, to say the least.
On I go, thinking, taking notes, being in awe of my surroundings, thoughts giving way to spontaneous song. I come up with “new and possibly improved variations on my “grace, grace, give us grace” song. “Hope” and “peace” and “for you love us all” remain, but “grace” sometimes turns to “trust” or “strength” or courage” or “joy”… or all of the aforementioned. And then one:
Joy, joy, give us joy
Joy to live the life we have chosen. [or sometimes this: …to live the life we’ve been given, for some aspects are our lives are one, and some are the other, right?]
[and then, the familiar coda:]
Give us hope, and give us peace
For you love us all
Then another song from long ago in my past came ‘a haunting me, and I began digging into my memory bank, like an archaeologist slowly uncovering the words. It must have been the focus on “joy” that got me started. Eventually, this is what I pieced together. You may recall it from the 60s:
No man is an island
No man stands alone
Each man’s joy is joy to me
Each man’s grief is my own
We need one another
So I shall defend
Each man as my brother
Each man as my friend
The last of the words was just being uncovered when, upon entering the first little village, El Ganso (and a bit more about it in a few minutes), I hear a rather panicked voice call out something. Was it “¡ay!”? Or was it “¡cuidado!”? I couldn’t say for sure, but it got my immediate attention!
Fortunately! For when I looked up, I saw that I was about to plough right into a car. A parked one, but still….
The voice had come from a nearby open window. I exclaimed to the woman I saw standing there, her hand still up at her mouth, as if still stunned by the sight she had seen. “Oh, señora, ¡un millón de gracias! ¡Me ha salvado la vida!” A slight exaggeration, yes; I don’t think my life would have come to a dead halt on the hood of that vehicle, but… golly, hadn’t the woman come upon the scene just in time to be of service? (Wasn’t I just singing about how “we need one another”? Wasn’t she “defending a friend” just as in the song’s lyrics? Coincidence? Serendipity? At the least, her being “in the right place at the right time.”
My rescuer motioned behind her and immediately another woman then showed up at the open window. Fair-skinned, blond, maybe 50-something. Was this an albergue of some type? The newly-arrived woman looked like I did the first ten days or so on the Camino: she had a black eye. “¿Te has caído?” I ask, commiserating. “No, no,” answers the first woman. “Le han pegado” [She’s been beaten]. No habla nada de español. Es alemana.” So… the German woman has sustained injuries to her face and her arm, and… she has taken refuge in the soon-to-be-described village of El Ganso (translation: The Goose!). An older gentleman–obviously not the perpetrator of the abuse–appears at her side. All three smile. “May I take a picture of the three of you?” I venture. “I’d like a visual reminder of the accident I almost had and of the people who witnessed the near-accident and saved me from it.” (Ok, so those weren’t the exact words, but close!). The Spanish woman is a bit resistant. Her hands fly to her hair, she gestures to the nightclothes she is still wearing and brings up the fact that she has just awakened (in time, note, to “save” me), but then she consents.
This was my “welcome” to El Ganso, population too small to be noted in my guidebook, but about which said book has this to say:
a hauntingly crumbling village, evoking a sense of loss or, perhaps, a reminder of a less hurried time. In the 12th century it boasted a monastery and a pilgrim hospital. El Ganso is the first of several Maragato–[my clarification: like one of our “counties” in the US perhaps]–villages that we pass through in the relatively solitary mountains…. If the opportunity arises to meet the locals, don’t pass it by!
Perhaps I don’t have the actual situation totally correct. For me? For me, in this crumbling near-deserted town, a resident has figured out a way to give refuge to abused women whose language she doesn’t understand but who has perhaps once found herself in a similar situation. Perhaps…. “Blessed be the merciful for they shall find mercy.”
Three more things of note in this “crumbling village”:
Good-bye, El Ganso. I couldn’t have asked any more from you that what you offered. Much appreciated!
Up to this point, I have traveled only 4 kilometers. 2.5 miles when rounded up! I continue.
I continue my thinking and my singing as I approach Rabanal del Camino where I plan to spend several days “in silent retreat” at the albergue provided by the Benedictine Monastery of San Salvador del Monte Irago. My intention had been to arrive early to assure that I got one of their ten beds. That resolution seemed to fall by the wayside as I accepted the “offerings” of the day. Before I reached the monastery, I was to have two more somewhat lengthy encounters.
The first was at a … how do I explain this? A “roadside stand”? An “open-air way stop”? A “castle out-post”? A ….? I don’t have the right word or name, so I’ll just continue with a description of what/who I came upon. Read on.
I cross a road and see, on a bit of a slope just adjacent to the trail, a canopied table at which was sitting… a… “knight”? A person dressed in attire from… 12th century? 13th? 14th? (A historian I am not). I hope you will find somewhere on this post the only photo I got of this person whose name I failed to get but whose story intrigued me. So there he sits, not in armor, mind you, but in chainmail (right word, I hope; I have no internet access at the moment to double check any vocabulary, not that I would bother even if I did..), the chainmail covering his head and his chest. The when-not-in-wartime attire, perhaps. In front of him on the table, a quill pen standing in an ink-filled pot. Also, upon further investigation, a small sign, in six languages, poses this question: “Would you like to see the most beautiful thing in the world?” The sign was in front of a small wooden box. (You can guess, can’t you? I did. Upon opening it, of course, I saw myself.)
The “knight”–that’s how I’ll continue to refer to him–was there to put sellos [stamps] in pilgrim’s credenciales and enter the date of the encounter with his plume. But more than anything, he was there on behalf of the Asociación Gaudisse (Gaudisse Association), a group dedicated to raising funds and providing support for children hospitalized with cancer or other serious illnesses, as well as to creating activities to increase social interaction for children and youth with disabilities of any sort. Next to the table was a very large poster with photos of some of the interactions brought about by the efforts of this association. One of the photos in the collage showed a bald-headed adult (maybe 50) with a similarly bald-headed child. The former was the knight with whom I was speaking. This I only learned after we had been talking for a while.
He tells me first about some of the things the group does with the children. “We visit with them in the hospital. We go wherever they are. We let them dress like princesses and knights. We have celebrations with them. Show them a fun time.”
He wasn’t going to go into his story. “It is a long one. Complicated.” I told him I had time.
And so, he began to give it to me. 18 years ago this knight was diagnosed with brain cancer. Not good. Reality hit. His daughter was 6 years old at the time. He took her on a camping trip. They were out under the stars where he planned to ease her gently into news of his illness, to somehow prepare her for the worst. He began with a round-about explanation of the stars they were seeing above their heads. Talking about infinity and eternity (to the extent possible when talking with a six-year-old). He eventually looked down at his daughter and realized that she was fast asleep. Seeing that he had not been able to deliver his “farewell” to her, it came to him that this was not his time to go, that he would live to raise her. And so he did.
Ten years later, he was diagnosed again with brain cancer, this time a more serious form: glio-blastoma multiforma (sp?). Not good. But here he is, telling me his story ten years later! He is now retired, doing what he can to help children and to give them joy and hope. Because… (my thoughts here–or Dunne’s words, if you will… but the themes keep repeating, don’t they?) “no man is an island, no man stands alone….”
The knight was diagnosed with another cancer three years ago. Stomach area. But nonetheless he comes out to greet the pilgrims along the trail, wish them well, stamp their passports, explain his purpose, and hope that some will leave a contribution for the Gaudisse Association.
The card he gave me has many online links. One of the following links might prove useful if you are moved to investigate further:
He also said that if anyone wanted to communicate with him directly about his illness and his to-date recovery, he would be happy to correspond with such a person through Facebook. (Unfortunately, I’m not sure which of the above Facebook addresses would belong to him.)
I told the knight of my good friend with glio-blastoma, and said I thought that my encounter with him was meant to be. So that I could pass on his story to her. He shared with me the five things to which he attributes his cure. I pass them along because, really, they are five things that we all might do in daily life, all within our reach if we so choose. I present them below, translated from Spanish in the order in which he gave them to me, though he would want you to know, they are not necessarily in the order of importance:
Not revolutionary. Nothing we haven’t heard. My knight was an example of putting these principles to the test and coming out a winner. I recognize this: he has also been very lucky. Whatever it takes….
I’m about 6 kilometers down the road. My notes remind me of some other aspects or thoughts or songs of the day up until this point:
One more encounter along today’s walk that I feel called to share. Another friend I’ll likely never see again. You’re about to meet Ben from England.
So I finally enter Rabanal. I’ll be looking for the monastery. But I see a young man–25? 30? Everyone under 50 looks young to me anymore..–sitting near a stone building just along the principal street of town. On a turned-on-its-side box he has written: “Is it time to CHANGE YOUR WAY?”[Yes, remember, “camino” = “way”.] And in smaller print, he explains: “I have walked more than 9000 kilometers on the Camino. Each day I write. Here are some of my reflections of things I have learned. Please take one” On the top ledge of the box, under a stone serving as a paperweight, were perhaps 15 or 20 slips of paper. After a bit of chatting with their creator, I chose one. “I’ll read it aloud,” I said to Ben, “and then maybe we can talk about it.” It read as follows:
A lingering sadness in life will keep on reoccurring until the sensation it is expressing within is listened to & understood. When its deep-lying message is heard one can file it away under acceptance & move on with renewed strength & purpose in life.
Listen. Reflect. Understand. Accept. [Change?] Move on. Purpose.
Bless this young fellow! Exotic but sincere. Moving through life, making his way from village to village sharing messages of hope. Another young man did that some two thousand years ago and we’re still trying to ponder, interpret, evaluate, absorb, and possibly follow his messages….
Ben sat there as we chatted, cutting more strips of paper, more reflections to share. “Are each and every one of them unique?” I asked him. I was assured that there were some repeats, repeats of the most important ones. My eyes lingered on the messages still under the rock. A part of me wanted to choose a few more, greedy that I am for words and (possible) wisdom (believe it or not: I do not ascribe to everything I see or hear!). “Do you have an online presence? A place where you store your reflections for the benefit of others?” Ben told me he had a blog, though not necessarily a collection of the thoughts he offered at the roadside. In somewhat of an imitation of the Russian author he so admires, he has called his blog “homelessness and punishment.” I haven’t had the chance to check it out, but if you are interested, the full link is as follows: homelessnessandpunishment.home.com
Buen Camino. Buena vida, Ben!
Speaking of home, I soon reached what was to be mine for the next two or three evenings (TBD). I was warmly received by Father Javier who had just begun to give a tour of the facilities to a pilgrim from Korea who had arrived only minutes earlier.
I have reached my journey’s end for the day, at least the walking part of the journey. The monastery experience deserves its own post once my stay here is complete. And so, more to follow somewhere further along THE WAY.
Thanks for walking with me!
