Flash Back

Yesterday.  Yesterday.  Yesterday, during a quick spin through Instagram posts, I found one from a friend who has spent most of her adult life living in Florence, Italy as an American formerly married to an Italian.  Her children were raised in Florence, speaking both languages as does their mother. Her post was simply a photo of a child's drawing.  It was done by her now-adult daughter who resides in California, when she was five years old.  She found the artwork as she was looking for something else and clearly, the little stick figured princess moved her to a place she was not at that moment seeking.  I know the feeling. I also have adult children and the line drawings to prove that there was a yesterday. As rusty as my brain may be, there are moments I recall in detail and the two days that I spent sifting through year's-worth of art, prose and poetry done by tiny hands as we prepared to relocate from their early childhood home, come back at a moment's notice.  I've never cried as much as I did that day.  I don't ever want to go back there. I think I understand how my friend Katherine rode out her trajectory and I was back in touch with the belief that women, no matter where they are in the world, no matter what they are doing with their lives or have done, share emotions.

Yesterday.  Later in the day, I decided to find a recipe in a cookbook.  Not on-line.  In a hard-copied book, one from a small collection that I keep on a shelf in my basement.  I've weeded the cookbooks out over the years and kept only those I really love for one reason or another.  A few are really "old" and have been in my collection from Day One for various reasons that perhaps only I can explain.

The Day Before Yesterday.  I started that day with coffee at my neighbor, Pam's house.  Coffee and talk.  We're the same age and have lived lives beyond the walls of our condos.  We're both content at where we now are but know the show's not over by any means. We talk about the now, the future and the past as kindred spirits and validate each other as we go along.  Pam told me that every now and again (and more often now), she has flashbacks, reliving moments in her life, recalling details of events, and she wonders why.  I admitted that I also have flashbacks and that I know, from observing my mother-in-law's behavior, that they will one day occupy most of my ancient brain if I live long enough.

Yesterday.  I came back upstairs with a "neutral" cookbook in my hands.  One that I could easily bear. It has no history.  It was a hand-me-down from a friend. A big, fat book with lots of recipes inside.
I sat down and started to cry.  Joe was in the kitchen and he sat down opposite me, ready to assist me in my time of need.  I felt safe and ready to share my feelings.  "I'm so sad"....."I know you are".....
"The cookbooks make me so sad"....

I touch them and I flash back.  I leaf through pages and I recall all kinds of things.  Early married days, kids, holidays, comfort foods, different kitchens, expectations, successes, failures.  Children bounding in from school at this time of year, filled with stories, needing something. Cookies, cupcakes, casseroles. Gifts from my own mother, signed and dated.  My own mother.  My own life.  I'm sad.

It isn't about cookbooks.

The days are growing shorter.  The moon is full.  The evenings are colder.  The morning sun raises after I do.  The wind is blowing.  The guard is changing.

Today.  Summer is officially over.  The new Equinox is upon us.  We usher in Autumn.  It all happened so quickly, like the pages I turn in the books. It's not that I loved the passing Summer.  I didn't.  I love the coming Fall.  I truly do.

But, as each season comes and goes, I flashback more and more.

Beverly

I treated myself early this morning.  It was the first morning in a long time that I woke up feeling as if I hadn't gone ten rounds with a prize fighter.  We talked about mattresses yesterday at lunch and I got out our old blow up bed, blew it up, and slept on it.  My theory might be right.  It may have been our mattress all along.  Within minutes of getting up from the bed of less air than I started out upon, I made my coffee and grabbed the little stack of writes that you put into my hands before we departed yesterday.

I felt like jumping for joy.  Your stuff is good Bev.  No, it's great Bev.  I read the three new essays and re-read the shorter piece that you shared at lunch.  I hung on every word.  Why you lack confidence in your ability to deliver is beyond me.  You hang the moon.  I think a book of your written gems would be a great seller.  Maybe not a best seller, but a great seller.  You'd miss capturing that vast audience that begs and calls for violence, smut and cranked-out crap.  You would not appeal to the crowds of Americans who don't breathe, who don't process feelings.  Yours would be an audience of sensitive, intelligent people who appreciate the beauty of the written word and see that  it is through words, and words alone, words beautifully chosen and interwoven, that stories are told. The size of your audience is what scares me about life.  The fact that you write so freely about prayer shifts the balance.

You tell stories, Bev.

We've been writing together for over six years now.  Can you believe it?  I adore and love you and feel that every moment you give to me is a gift.  Your life is busy and filled with things that I can only wish to have.  Yet, each time we meet, you make me feel special and honored. You make me want to write. You affirm my belief that it is when we write, we learn about ourselves. You affirm my belief that words make worlds and sometimes bring us into worlds begging for more words.

Look at yourself.....who would have guessed that you would become the prompt.

You are the story, Bev.

Buen Camino

The Scallop shell was used by early pilgrims as a vessel for water, wine and food and therefore was adopted as the symbol for the Camino.  It is one of the most important route markers and is seen in variations all along the hundreds of miles.

Not a week goes by when I am asked if I have written about our Camino yet.  Not a day goes by when I have not given hours of my thoughts to that very idea.  Before setting out, I promised myself, and lot of other people, that I would stay in touch through my writing and that they could do a virtual trip with us.  I fully intended to use my writing as documentation and to fill spaces with photos that would capture moments and bring them quickly across the sea into the lives of those who chose to follow us. Alas, it did not happen that way.  Oh, yes, I did document.  But Instagram became the perfect repository for those photos and quick thoughts became the only ones that documented those moments that were too magical and too powerful for what it would have taken to have sat down for a greater write.  Life on The Camino de Santiago is life unlike anything I had before encountered and it has taken from May until now, to process it all.  My week of magical thinking.  I am a fan of the late and great Leonard Cohen.  I think of his Hallelijah  as my personal theme song for this life-event.  It contains a multiplicity of positions and, while it is complex, it is stirring and moves me.  Not surprising, it was the song done by a young busker, that greeted us and overtook my emotions when we arrived in the Cathedral square at the completion of our journey.  It has several different endings and it took Cohen five years to write it. Five years.

It's only taking me four months.  R.I.P. Leonard Cohen.

The Camino in its entirety, stretches over five hundred kilometers from France through the top of Spain.  Completing a full Camino takes a month or more and pilgrims who traverse the route carry everything they may need in packs on their backs.  Packs are heavy at the start and become lighter along the way as the decision to "downsize" is made,making burdens easier and walking less strenuous. By the time they reach what was our starting point in Sarria, many already have lighter packs.  Metaphors are born on the way and this one is an easy one to get.  Our Camino was the shorter version, the one hundred kilometer Camino Frances, spanning only five days of walking with day packs.  We stayed in hotels each night; our luggage went from one to the next each morning via vans. Each evening,  clean beds, hot water, private bathrooms and lovely regional dinners awaited us.  We had few expectations as we did our planning, but the knowledge of a meal, bed and hot shower at the end of each day, were on our list.

Sarria is a lovely little city, located an hour and a half's drive from the airport of our arrival, Santiago De Compostela. (Yes, we started at our completion destination!) A river runs through it and an ancient stone staircase sits in the outskirts awaiting pilgrims as they follow the yellow arrows  that became the first of many for us to follow.  The arrow and the simple lines of a scallop shell, painted yellow against a brilliant cobalt blue background (my beloved high school colors) are the singular route markers.  Follow them and you stay on track.  Realize that you haven't seen one in a while, stop and think about where you're going.  It's best to not lose track of the markers for to do so results in back-tracking or becoming totally lost and alone. No taxis!

 One of the questions we were asked often when we returned was "is it crowded?".  While hundreds
of people travel the Camino routes daily, there are few times that one senses that there are many
others on their path. We passed and were passed by at least a hundred others - no conversations or introductions needed.  Each and every person offers the universal salutation of "Buen Camino" to each other. "Have a good journey" One of the basic beauties of the Camino is the quietness and tranquility which allow for meditation, contemplation and prayer.  Each sound of feet hitting surface or walking poles making their connection became for me,  a tiny symphony and lent to the heightened awareness of the gift I was unwrapping. Those poles, by the way, made for a safer trek.  Yes, we did look like giant insects but our agility levels were so much greater than they might have been.  Ancient pilgrims used sticks found in the forests.  Modern purists still use sticks but most are found in shops along the way.  In ancient times, pilgrims simply walked out of the doors of their homes, turned left or right, and continued until reaching Santiago.  No special equipment.  No planning.  No Ace bandages. And no bathing. More about that later.

After departing Sarria, our days went on filled with new terrains and fresh experiences.  We found ourselves walking through forests of eucalyptus trees, over slippery rocks in streams, through mud, on hard pavement, over dry-packed soil, up hills and up hills and up hills. 
        

Just as in life, there were hills that were tough to climb.  There was no way to avoid them, and no turning back.  Each became a challenge and I approached all of them with different sets of resolve.  Some, I zig-zagged up, slowly.  Some I simply stuck the brim of my hat down over my eyes and, sticking poles into the ground,  climbed, allowing myself the surprise of arriving at each new plateau.  Others, I sprinted up, just because.  Each climb became a lesson.  Many of them were filled with prayers of thanksgiving for the ability to move is a gift. The spirituality of endurance.

Sarria to Porto Marin to Palas de Reis to Melide to Azura to Amanal and finally, to the beautiful city of Santiago De Compestela.

The Way or the route from Sarria to Santiago is part of the Camino Frances. Completion of the last 100 kilometers or roughly 62.1 miles, allows for certification in the form of a document, written in Latin,known as the "Compostela"  It is the route of choice for the older set but neither this route nor the 500 kilometer is mutually exclusive.  For almost a thousand years, millions of pilgrims have walked to the Cathedral De Santiago.  I'm not sure when the first "Compostela" was bestowed but I do know that the "Crudencial", the Pilgrim's Passport which is issued at the start of the journey must be stamped twice each day, in order to receive this document from an official office in Santiago. Forgetting to do this would be akin to forgetting to renew a driver's license.  Our  beautiful Compostela certificates, affirm the fact that we did, indeed, walked the required 100 kilometers. It does not, however, take into account the days before or after, times we got off-track, or walks at the ends of the day. 

We claim more like 161 kilometers in five days.

 That glorious day, after having received our documents, we attended the Pilgrim Mass at the Cathedral. The Romanesque and Gothic structure, first opened in 1211.  Tradition has it that the remains of St James the apostle, beheaded in 44 A.D. by King Herod in Jerusalem before being brought to Galicia, repose.  At the top of the altar, a large bust of the saint overlooks the full nave of the cathedral and lines of visitors make their way up a narrow stairway to put their arms around his shoulders and give him a hug. We came, we saw, we hugged.  It was he, after all, who brought us there in the first place.  Who could resist?  While hugging St James was an event in itself, it wasn't the highlight of our visit to the cathedral.  That came in the form of another ancient ritual.  The swinging of the Botafumerio pouring out incense at the end of the Mass was something that I wasn't sure I would ever see. It isn't done at every Mass. Six men are required  to swing it and due to modern day economics, the ritual is usually reserved for special occasions. But, on this day, due to the contributions of a group of worshippers, it was swung in all its glory. Had it not been for the kindness of a stranger, a lovely little lady of Santiago who grabbed my arm and ran with me through the crowd  until we reached the perfect vantage point.  Had she not done this, I would have missed it and I would have been unhappy.  Uniquely unhappy.  Devastated. It is said that while on Camino, you meet at least one angel along the way.  I did.

The Botafumerio is a censer suspended from a pulley mechanism on the roof of the cathedral.  Made of an alloy of brass and bronze and plated with a very thin layer of silver, it holds 40 kg of charcoal and incense.  It swings in a 65 meter arc, making 17 cycles for 80 seconds.  Each time it is swung, it costs 450 Euros and requires the work of 8 red-robed men known as "Tiraboleiros".  The custom of swinging the Botafumerio originated in 1604 and is thought to have been a way of ridding the cathedral of the odors brought in by early pilgrims after many weeks on The Way.


 Walking eight hours each day, I don't think we were so much focused on the details of where we were as much as the feelings that were evoked at each turn of the road.  What was this Camino stuff all about?  I had read so much before about the spirituality and the life-changing.  I, unlike a host of people who traverse the Camino, had no underlying reasons for my choice.  For me, seeking a way to celebrate a landmark birthday, it seemed like the perfect challenge.  God has been good.  I was not healing from a crisis, nor was I seeking spiritual enlightenment.  Simply put, I had, over the course of the year before, lost seventy pounds and had turned seventy in January so.....walking seventy-plus miles was my choice for the celebration.  I guess you could say that I was fairly skeptical about the whole thing and looked on it more as an adventure than a life-altering journey. I was awaiting a Saint Paul, a white horse, groups of angels, visions, raining holy water.  Nothing.  With my poles, click-clacking, I eventually started to hear a rhythm. Music to my ears?  Needed or not, I used those poles, dug in, and a sacred partnership formed.  Together, we forged on as if they were speaking to me, urging me, coaxing me and finally, celebrating with me the mystery of the Camino, one message at a time.  And finally, I got it. It was as if the soil beneath my feet leached and from it rose the spirits of the thousands of others who stepped upon it before I did.  Without words, without white horses, without visions, it clarified and beautified itself. The Camino provides.

 To understand Camino Magic, one has to do a Camino. Quickly, you learn that you do not "do" a Camino.  You become the Camino.  And there is the the magic.

Life moves forward, like the Camino. In Spanish, this moving forward and continuing one's Camino is summed up in the word Ultreia. It's a special challenge, to keep the experience and all the magic alive each day, to live what was learned, to change patterns and habits that took seventy years to build.  But, for those five incredible days, I removed what was not needed to be me, and slowly found a new reality of who I am, a shell seeker...... in small daily doses of wonderment.  My only regret is that we did not have more time, that we had to return to the burdens of another world too soon.  I would have liked very much to have slowed down, to have spent more hours on the paths that twisted and climbed and reached to the sky.  I would do it all over again, in a heartbeat.  Next time, if and when, I will take the advice of the spirits and not be in such a hurry. After all, I was just on my way to meet myself.

Buen Camino and Ultreia!!