[Gocamino] Transformations

[Blaroli at aol.com]

Hello you all,
In June 1999 my sister in law Liz, who looks like, and is,  a 
Saturday-Evening-Post blonde from Savannah, Georgia, told us that she had just gotten a 
specially made bicycle from Seattle, outfitted in a suitcase, and that she was on 
her way to Northern Spain to bicycle the Camino de Santiago.
She had been talking about it for a while, but I guess none of us in the 
family really believed her  After all, she did not speak a word of Spanish then, 
or any language other than English, and is not overly religious as an 
Episcopalian. When it became clear that she was going everyone in the family became 
alarmed at the thought of this super-USA looking Southerner bicycling, by 
herself, hundreds and hundreds of miles in a Latin country.  I gave in to the urgings 
of all my in-laws, and the repeated pleadings of my son, and agreed to go 
along, just to be on hand in case of need, linguistic or otherwise..
I had never really heard of the Camino before then....or paid any attention 
if, in fact, I'd heard about it. (To me Spain was Andalucia.... period).
My thought when the family "emergency" arose was to take a bunch of books, 
precede Liz from town to town and spend my time  reading under  trees or sipping 
wine at bars with the locals.
We flew to Pamplona where we were going to spend a couple of days to get over 
jetlag, put the bicycle together, and get set for the (to me) ordeal. We 
stayed in a charming  little hotel called "Leyre", and when I asked what the word 
meant a lovely young woman at the desk told me that the hotel was named after 
a medieval monastery nearby. Intrigued, I deigned to look into a book that Liz 
had taken with her and had been raving about,  and which I had purposely 
ignored because I was there "against my will" so-to-speak. The book was Linda 
Davidson's superb (and the best of them all in the genre in my view,.. bar none) 
"The Pilgrimage Road to Santiago".  While looking up "Leyre" I saw the pictures 
of San Juan de la Pena which I thought fantastic.
I suggested that we get a car and go to  visit those monasteries.  Leyre was, 
and is, reputed for its Gregorian vespers which are sung every evening, and 
we timed the visit accordingly.  But, after viewing the impressive museum and 
the old basement with the many columns, each with a different capitel, and made 
our way to the church there was an air of such profound solemnity and intense 
emotional involvement in the ceremony that it was evident that something very 
deep and significant  was going on.
It turned out that the Monks were observing the anniversary of the beheading 
of seven of their brethren in a small town at the foot of the Atlas mountains 
in Algiers in 1994.  They read the letters which each beheaded monk had 
written before being killed.  The monks had had every opportunity to leave the 
country when it became evident that the lives were threatened, and they refused to 
do so because such action would not have done honor to the example set by 
Christ.  Indeed, their Abbot himself went there to try to persuade them to leave 
and failed. The monks ranged in age from 22 to 84 years, and they had 
maintained a school and a hospital in that area for decades. They were beheaded in 
front of each other . Their heart-rending letters explained their reasons and 
feelings.
After the ceremony I was distraught,  stunned and in pain.  I had never heard 
of those beheadings, and while I had heard that some nuns and other 
Christians had been killed in Algeria, I had never given a second thought to what they 
may or may not have felt or thought; I thought such killings were mere acts of 
war..
When I first heard, and then read, the letters of the seven monks a storm of 
shame, and confusion, raged within me.  I felt fake as a Christian.... merely 
going to Mass and celebrating Christmas and Easter. I felt hypocritical,  
selfish, weak and superficial and unworthy of calling myself a Christian, nor 
addressing anyone as such.
In total confusion, and with my self-esteem and identity evaporating from 
under my feet, I did not know how to deal with myself, and although I went to 
confession and the priest tried to calm me down I couldn't absolve myself of my 
spiritual sloth and of my using my religion as a set of clothing inside of as a 
part of my heart.
I cried and cried, couldn't sleep or eat...and. hardly spoke, but I 
accompanied Liz to SJPP for the beginning of her pilgrimage, and, still in turmoil, 
while there, almost mindlessly,  I bought a pair of boots, a backpack, a walking 
stick, and began to climb . And then I just walked, and walked, all the way to 
Santiago. It seemed about the only thing that felt right to do.
That is how the Camino transformed me....nay, ...how it turned me inside 
out..
Many of you have asked me why I devote so much of my busy-New-York-lawyer 
time and energies to the Camino;  well, perhaps this will explain it.
And while I still feel hypocritical, sometimes,  as I call myself a Catholic, 
I do try to catch the instances on time and mend my ways. 
That  walking stick that I bought in SJPP  hangs on the wall in my bedroom;  
copies of the monks'  letters are in a drawer of  my nighttable, and I read 
them from time to time.  And, of course, the Camino, and thoughts of the Camino, 
not only  have enlarged and enriched my existence, but have often illuminated 
my conscience as well.
I hope it will be so  until the end of my days.

Big hug!
Rosina