Cold and cloudy, contemplation

Again, this morning was spent with a sense of sadness.  The last of my friends left several days ago.  Giving offerings yesterday resulted in a strong sense of closure to the spiritual aspect of my journey.  And on top of that, the rain has slowed the flow of pilgrims to a trickle.  The season of pilgrimage is coming to a close, and I find myself alone in a small town with the rain, a few fishermen, and the elderly.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been finding myself thinking more and more about my return home.  Among other things, dreading the inevitable search and return to work.  I struggle a lot with this part of my life.  And, not surprisingly, I've been receiving a number of harassing emails from my former employer.  Ick.  Classic bad relationship.

I have a week till I go home, and nothing to do.  I was feeling a bit lost, a not unfamiliar place.

But about mid day, doing yoga, it came to me that this was the perfect time to focus on my work, career, and related relationships, to regain inspiration.  I am actually very excited.  Among other things, I began reading "Sacred Economics", an excellent book on money and the economy.  I've decided to get coaching.  This feels like an excellent time to change these relationships.

So sweet.

On death

This is the end of my trip - an appropriate time to reflect on death.

Probably the most difficult thing I saw on my trip was a cat, close to death.  I was walking down an old cobblestone road, in what could have been anywhere.  I spotted a cat on a wall, and approached her to say hello.  I noticed she looked strange.  As I got close to her I realized she was missing an ear.  And then that she was in fact missing most of the top of her head - it was an open, gaping wound, bitten off.  Her skull was showing for about half the top of her head, the blood dried and hard around the edges.  I was close enought to her to see maggots falling off the side of her head.  About to vomit and cry, I had to leave.  The cat just sat there, staring at me, as if nothing were going on.  Within a few days, she would either recover or be dead.

Seeing her made my blisters seem like a very small thing.  I can't imaging any human approaching death with that kind of courage and acceptance.

But death has been present all along the Camino.  Two German pilgrims a day in front of us were struck by a car, in the middle of the day.  Deforestation of hillsides has been a common sight - completely torn down, trees felled, land ruined.  And in sharp contrast to the pilgrims health, our way has primarily taken us through very rural areas, inhabited by almost exclusively the elderly.  We have been surrounded by the old and infirm.

But death isn't a bad thing.  Difficult, yes, but also, at times, very appropriate.

Yesterday, I was very sad about the end of my trip.  These three months have been a pardise, of sorts. But for a couple of weeks now, this phrase has been running through my head:  "Paradise is not for the living".  

I think what it means is this:  I've been living in a charmed world, that of sacred pilgrimage.  Close to a font of divine knowledge; living in a particularly beautiful world.  But I can't stay there.  I was given life to do something, to figure something out.  I have to go back to the mundane to enact, embody what the divine has given and shown me.  To express it.  Perhaps to grow it.

After my sadness had passed, I was left with a deep sense of appreciation for my journey.  I had received so much, and enjoyed it immensely.  I was so satisfied.  So what could I do at this point?  My thoughts turned to giving rather than receiving.

continued...

On giving; and a recipe

I had been thinking about all that I've received on this trip when it struck me that I hadn't thought much about what I had given.

The first layer is simple, mundane.  Three months of my time; a lot of physical, mental and emotional effort;  the comfort of home;  about $9000 when all is said and done; letting go of a job I liked.

Those things don't seem very significant to me.  I'm not sure, but perhaps the most significant thing I have given has been my participation.  Life is a story woven from little things given to others.  From sharing.

I've done what I can to share with an open heart, as open as I can manage.  I still have more to learn.  I hope I have been a boon to the people who's lives have intersected with mine.

Somewhere towards the middle of the Camino, I had a strange dream, about a slave woman.  She wanted to show me where she lived.  I may have been her master.  She was a classic slave woman, big, black, middle aged.  She may have been too poor for clothes.

She took me into the place she lived, a barn.  Many other slaves lived here, with nothing.  At some point, I grabbed her breast.  It came off in my hand.  The woman didn't object, but instead gave it freely, and with good will, even though I had taken it from her.  

She continued to show me around the barn.  She took me into the upper levels.  There an old man was sleeping on the floor, and had nothing besides a blanket.  He offered me a blanket, out of generosity.  

The building began to shake - it was so poorly made and taken care of that the addition of my weight  made it about to collapse.  At some point, I gave the woman her breast back.

The dream was about how I relate to life.  I take without regard for others.  We humans take without regard.  And somehow, life keeps on giving.  Being generous.  But the world around us grows frail, poor, about to collapse.  Unless I learn to ask, to receive, and to be grateful, the world will collapse.  

Our culture treats virtually everything like a slave.  We've told ourselves nothing else has a soul or feelings, and can thus be treated like an inanimate resource to be used, exploited.  We don't realize the peril and poverty we've created.  Willful blindness, the pain is too great. 

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I began this trip asking to learn how to love life.  The other day, a recipe came to me:

1)  Put in everything you have.

2)  Loose it.  (It helps to have someone hold you here)

3)  Recover and realize you somehow have more than you started with.

4)  Repeat.

Somehow, live and love work like that.  Mysteriously.

Finisterre and the end of the world

Yesterday afternoon, I escaped the oven that is Santiago, and finally arrived in Finisterre, the end of the world.  A place where, at sunset, the spirits of the deceased leave this world for the other side.  Where pilgrims burn their old shoes and clothes.  The final destination of my three month journey.  I am here to rest and recuperate after walking across Spain, 860 kilometers - nearly one million footsteps.  And to reflect on what I have experienced, learned, and been given over this journey.  What have I given?  To see if I find perspective.

Finisterre is a small and not particularly impressive town.  Most of the buildings are new and fairly standard fare.  The land is surprisingly sparse and dry, the coast jagged.  But the land here is strong, as is the ocean.  That is an understatement.  I feel like I could step into the sky, take a few steps, and be on the other side.

Behind town is the beach that faces west, into the sunset:

There is a long and quiet beach here, where some of the more adventurous pilgrims have set up a make shift camp:

I sat here for a while last night, meditating on my trip, waiting for the sunset.  Here are some of the things I've gleaned so far.

When I started this trip, my request was to learn how to live well and love being alive.  I think the single strongest and clearest lesson has been about not planning things.  Not to try to control things so that they look how i think they should.  Not to force my expectations on things, but instead to watch how things work out on their own.  Perfectly.  To have the sense and perception to move with things - to walk with mystery, and step into the unknown.  To trust.  As some put it, to dance.

The Camino itself is a very special practice.  I have been outside, all day, every day, for a month.  Moving slowly, at the speed of my feet, and with the elements - sun, rain, trees, flowers, wind, fog, roads and dirt paths.  Sharing time and space with everything, especially people.  I developed a deep sense of peace as a foot powered nomad, and thus a clearer vision into my own illnesses.

I have also been given another special gift.  On the first day of the Camino, I met someone who I became particularly close with:

I think we held hands almost the whole way.  

Having someone to share this time with has been an important lesson.  In the past, I've done a lot of traveling alone.  Maybe it's obvious to some, but for me, the enjoyment and ease that comes with another person has been a revelation.  Stepping into the life's unknown and experiencing its beauty is so different when you're with someone.  It has been a clear illustration of the importance of relationship.

That's all for now.  Maybe more later.  It's lunch time, and there is an amazing Italian restaurant waiting for us to sit down in it. :)

Sunset, Cape Finisterre, September 23, 2013, the last day of my Camino.

Santiago, where the sidewalk ends

Sunday September 22, around 1 pm, I arrived in Santiago.  Im still not sure what I felt on arrival, beyond hot and tired.  As much a sense of accomplishment as of relief.  Just like the beginning of the trip, I was entering new territory: I was no longer a nomad.

Here is the main cathedral square, with pilgrims arriving every minute:

The Cathedral:

I've been thinking a bit about this moment, the end of the trip - where would I go from here.  What would come next.  What had I learned?  I won't be able to answer those questions immediately.

Instead, I found a nice place to stay, took care of some errands, and then had a very enormous and delicious dinner.  And, as it were, a friend and I decided to travel in to Finisterre, the end of the world.  This would be my place for reflection.

Camino Day 29

Today is day twenty nine! I will arrive in Santiago in two days.

Today was relatively easy but slow, as yesterday was the longest day of the trip - 40 kilometers.  Twelve hours on the road.  We stayed in a huge old monastery last night.  I wish I could write more, but it's just about bed time.  I'll be traveling on to Finisterre after Santiago, so I'll have more time for reflection then.

Things have been great.

Last nights bed:

Camino Day 19

It rained for two days, and we still covered about 18 miles a day.  After a while, you are just completely wet through, and as soon as you stop moving, you start getting cold.  Really cold.  So it makes for an intense day.  Lots of people got injuries from the additional exertion.  But when the sun finally came out, it was so amazing.  And we had good excuses to just hang out on the beach.  We've definitely been taking it a bit easier since the rain.

In good news for me, my foot has pretty much completely healed, which is really nice.

I got adopted by a cat.  She was so freaking cute.  She climbed up on my shoulder, and would have stayed there if I let her.  We named her Peace Lavender because she was so friendly and she lived in a big purple house.

Also, I found my dream house.  Well, actually, I've found a bunch of dream houses, but this one was especially awesome.  Literally on a cliff right above the ocean.  You're all invited.

firsts, il monstro

This trip has had a lot of firsts: first time in Spain, first long distance trip, first time using a bidet.  In fact, this is the same bided Martin Sheen used while filming 'the Way'.  I have such beautiful memories of Spain...

In a similar vein, I no longer have feet, I have hooves.  One of my hooves has been impregnated by an alien.  Or perhaps 'a tumor the size of a grape' is a more delicious metaphor.  Anyway, I named it 'il monstro'.  

Il monstro recently met a timely and painless death.

Camino Day Twelve

The Camino has taken a toll.  I'm currently sitting outside a train station, with a few other casualties.  We are waiting for one of our fellow peregrinos who is at the doctor, and then we will gladly be taking a  train to our next destination.   I have a blister on the ball of my foot I've walked on for 60+ miles, and at this point, my foot is practically sprained.  Luckily not painful, but also not functional.

I have very little access to the Internet, especially because we usually arrive at out destination late and quite tired, and then self-maintenance comes first.  We are usually sleeping in churches or schools, and they always turn the lights out at 10PM.  They come back on promptly at 7. 

All this being said, the trip has been incredible.  It has actually been really nice not to have much access to anything other than the Camino.  I am very much "in the zone".  I usually pack a little food for the day, and then just take off.  There are a handful of us that travel as a loose group, from all over.  Lots of different languages to listen to.  Curiously, I've only met one American so far, and no one from the UK.

I really get to space out.  The route is fairly easy to follow.  We take breaks whenever, but I wouldn't mind going slower.  Right now, we are walking about 18 miles a day, which definitely gets long.  But mentally, I'm just drifting through northern Spain.  It is really beautiful.  Similar to the California coastline, but more expansive, rugged, and empty.  Lots of old stone farm houses and beautiful old abandoned buildings.  Way greener and way cleaner.  And the ocean is so clear and clean.  I think this part of Spain may be the most beautiful place I know of.  I've really been enjoying spacing out, just floating through the country side.  I hope to return sometime.

Hopefully I'll be able to remember enough to tell some stories, but we'll see!