... nothing to see

[Diane Grust]

Carlos, Robert

I could not agree with either of you more.  I understand the time limits and
constraints of modern life but at the same time I think the Camino does do
something different to you when you surrender to it.  We tend to surround
ourselves with a "daily routine" and by giving over a month to the Camino we
have to surrender this routine (I believe there is some statistic that it
takes 21 or 28 days to break or make a habit) and I believe that it forces us
to live in the moment and yes to feel the November sky.  And no I don't
believe that happens right out to the gate from either Roncesvalles or St.
Jean.  I remember in the beginning being very worried and centered on the
physical aspects...feet, back, ankles, etc.  But after the first week that
focus turned inward.  Would it have if I had to catch a bus to somewhere
else...in my opinion no.  I remember printing out and carrying with me this
e-mail from Michael a pilgrim on the other list at the time and to me he
summed it up so beautifully that I will take the time to retype it and share
it.  I hope he does not mind as I don't have his address but I was so moved
by this.

Just my thoughts,
Diane

Michael wrote (and thanks for your thoughts):

I want to pick up on one aspect.  I am at the moment, as I brood on my time
on the Camino, fascinated by the different qualities of different sections.
I was very lucky to be able to walk from Roncesvalles to Compostela in five
weeks.  I was struck by the different "qualities" of the section and the way
in which they, as you say, mirror back an identity to the pilgrim, but also
seem eerily to parallel what is going on inside.  This seems to me no small
part of the spiritual dimension of the walk.  For example, the walk in
Navarra and La Rioja seemed to me saturated with the historical identity of
pilgrimage:  Roncesvalles, Puerta La Reina, Estella, Najera, Santo Domingo de
la Calzada and San Juan de Ortega, to name a few.  In all these places, I was
very aware of the reinforcement of the pilgrimage historically (structures
nearly 1000 years old, certainly 800).  I was also aware of the strong sense
the Associations of Friends and the Confraternities had that they were
continuing an inherited tradition and that present pilgrims were being
invited to recognize themselves in this historical current.  Only in this
section did I come across priests offering the pilgrim blessings.  Only in
this section did I also come across the Opus Dei as a present influence in
the pilgrim hostels.  That ended at Burgos.  Stepping out onto the meseta, I,
at least, had a strong sense that now "I" was becoming a pilgrim; I realized
"I" was committed to walking this whole thing.  Oddly, that stretch of the
walk with its emptiness, does reinforce that sense that I had of ownership; I
no longer need the training-wheels of Navarra and La Rioja.  It also struck
me that the sense of "reconquista" was overwhelmingly strong on the meseta;
towns established by sheer will rather than by any sense of natural appeal or
convenience, towns as boundary markers or benchmarks, whose names "bark" at
you -- Castrojeriz, Carrion.  I found myself walking alone much more often
here it seems.  Navarra had been very chatty and companionable: I joined up
with a group deliberately.  In La Rioja, I loosely met up with folks, but had
no sense of walking "together."  In Castilla, I would spend entire days on my
own, and often had no sense of where other pilgrims were; some dropped out of
my trajectory and I never saw them again nor knew where they ended up.  Leon
was the next big transition for me.  I stayed with the Carbajal nuns and was
grateful for the reminder of the "spiritual" or "religious" dimension of my
walk.  It felt like I was being tuned up for the final stage, somehow
recommitting myself.  Nearly everyone talks of the Cruz de Ferro and O
Cebreiro.  The two big mountain passes of course had a sense of challenge,
but also of risk.  One of the men I had walked with died in the ascent to the
Cruz de Ferro (heart attack), and I passed his roadside cross and stopped
there to remember him and pray for him.  Somehow, I had a sense of clear
"project" in those ascents.  Having owned pilgrim identity on the meseta,
here I sensed that I was "proving" it on these heights.  I think that is a
natural reaction, but self-deceptive, because (as Coelho so clearly proves)
one can think one has done what there is to do -- very testosteronish.  Again
here, I formed partnerships (some welcome, some not), and had a strong sense
of walking together, helping each other make it.  In Galicia -- very
estrogenish -- I nearly lost my mind.  Lush green, yes Celtic, yes magical,
rolling hills, little paths, flooded streams, cowshit -- all of it
disorienting, because the historical and religious underpinnings on the
Camino dissolved.  No confraternities looked after the hostels, no great
castled reconquered cities marked the stages, no churches loomed, though the
ambiguous witness of Samos was there.  For the first time, I had no idea if I
was walking west or north or...  But in all this, the gift was that
pilgrimage was reduced to essence, simplified, boiled down -- just me walking
in the woods, keeping my vow.  Pretty zenny, when I reflect on it.  The
deepest joys I felt washed over me in Galicia; I stepped into the deepest
peace there.  The worst storm I walked through I walked through here.
Companions were incidental, but welcome.  Monte de Gozo was like an
inoculation, a sampling of plastic and chrome McCulture, a reminder that this
dehumanizing is also a human achievement and also is the world.  Zen without
beauty?  Probably not, since there is no evidence of mindfulness.  But it was
a good reminder that I live in THIS age, not in the Middle Ages nor in a
fantasy. What will I do to return?  And how will I manage it?  Santiago,
then, for me, was very joyful.  All those grinning saints in the Portico de
la Gloria were grinning with me...