Walk. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. (Camino Fiction)

Posted on March 28, 2018 by barbmorris

THIS IS A SCENE FROM MY CAMINO NOVEL-IN-PROCESS. PLEASE SEE THE FIRST EXCERPT, “THE MESSIES,” WHICH INTRODUCES THE NOVEL AND WHY I’M POSTING THIS WRITING IN ITS RAW STATE.

The next town is coming closer. Martha doesn’t want to be with people tonight. She wants to sit with this place in her soul. Enter it and not be distracted. Not have to interact. She understands now those peregrinos who have passed her, unspeaking, earbuds in, no eye contact. They were simply finding solitude.

The gravel Camino becomes a cobbled street as Martha enters the town. She looks for an albergue with a bench and flowers out front – it’s her rule to look for flowers. Three doors up on the right – geraniums – Las Aquedas. The door is open. The hospitalero* is seated behind a rickety blue table covered with paper, his guest register open on top of the pile.

“Hola, señor. ¿Tiene una cama?”

He looks up, taking her in kindly. “Sí, señora. Tengo una cama para usted. Bienvenídos. Pasaporte y credential*, por favor.”

Martha shrugs off her backpack and digs out her American passport and pilgrim credential. The hospitalero writes her name, passport number, and nationality in his register. Solemnly he inks his albergue stamp, presses the stamp carefully into her credential, and dates the stamp. In this way, she’ll prove her journey to the volunteers at the pilgrim office in Santiago to receive her compostela* at the end of this ridiculous walk. “¿Cuanto cuesta la cama?,” she belatedly asks.

“Seven euro,” he answers, in English. “If you want breakfast it will be ten.”

“Breakfast, please. Grácias, señor.” She hands him a €10 note, picks up her backpack, and goes to find an unclaimed bed. As late as she is, it’ll almost certainly be a top bunk. Which makes the inevitable peeing in the middle of the night an unwanted adventure, but so far so good. She hasn’t killed herself yet. All the bunks along the walls are claimed, top AND bottom. This albergue, like many others, has crammed more beds in to take advantage of the increased pilgrim traffic since Americans and Koreans have discovered the Camino.

Damn Martin Sheen*, she thinks, not for the last time. And, also, bless him, Lord. That, too. I’m here because of him. And so are all these other people. She spots a bottom bunk smack in the middle of the big room full of bunk beds – almost all with backpacks propped beside them and a few clothes – shirts, pants, socks – strewn on them. Most hospitaleros frown on pilgrims putting backpacks on the beds. She’s not sure why.

Some of the beds have clotheslines strung in front, with towels draped on them for a little privacy. She puts down her backpack, sits on the bed, and carefully takes off her shoes and socks. Then, slowly, she removes the betadine-soaked gauze from Max to see how he’s grown. He’s thriving. Tonight, she thinks, it’s time to try the needle and thread. Enough is enough. Crocs on, she gathers her albergue clothes, towel, washcloth, and Dr. Bronner’s lavender castile soap (the all-purpose Camino cleaner), being careful to remember her ziploc-bagged passport, credential, cash, and credit cards, and goes in search of the showers.

Would these be co-ed?, she wonders. Would the hot water last? Would there even be water pressure? How long will it take her to figure out the controls? Would there be a way to keep her clothes and valuables dry? Would the lights go out mid-shower? Would there be a door, even? There wasn’t, always. So many unknowns, every night. And every night, it seems, she learns another thing she’s taken for granted that is evidently up for grabs in a Spanish albergue.

After the blessedly warm shower, she washes her other pair of underwear, her socks, and her t-shirt. Everything else could wait a few more days. Out comes the all-purpose Dr. Bronner’s lavender castile soap again – lavendar to repel bed bugs, an occasional problem on the Camino. Some peregrinos wash their clothes in the shower, also frowned upon by hospitaleros and other pilgrims.

Supper, as she promised herself, she eats alone.

The next day, as usual, she’s one of the first ones out the albergue door. Even though she paid for breakfast the night before, she’s left at the crack of dawn. Not before the crack of dawn, like some potentially annoying peregrinos who strap on their headlamps when it’s still dark and rustle their belongings into their packs and creep, they think quietly, out the albergue while the stars are still out. She’s not that driven.

But she relishes the half hour or so before sunrise – the brightest stars are still shining, and there are only a few other pilgrims as the sky lightens and she walks through a mostly quiet village – the only sounds the crunch of her shoes, the tap of her poles, early birdsong, and roosters waking up. She loves this time, she’s discovered, when rural Spain smells like wood smoke and sheep shit. She’ll stop for breakfast – toast and café con leche – at the next village. For now, it’s just good to walk. Hospitalero coffee is never as good as the café con leche she’ll get in the bars. And somehow the toast isn’t as good either.

What is it about Spanish toast anyway? Who knew a 60-year-old American woman could walk for miles fueled only by toast?! Surprising – she who spent decades as a carbophobe. She sort of lives for Spanish bread. With jam and lots of butter, at breakfast. And a chocolate croissant for a snack. And tortilla. Ensalada mixta* for second lunch or for dinner, because it’s the only vegetables she’ll get all day. Fresh-squeezed orange juice she’ll discover later.

I want to travel, Martha thought. I want to live in Spain for awhile. I want to really BE here. Maybe a volunteer hospitalera? I promise myself I will not let myself be tethered. I will not let myself be caged. What’s an Airbnb in Madrid in July and August? Or Glasgow? Or Belfast? Or London? Or Galway? It’s so easy to get tied down. No No No.

Her mind panics. How would I support myself? How would I live?

And then there it is. The Voice. Writing and art, Martha. Writing and art, poppy seed. Writing and art and living REALLY cheaply. What do I need, after all? Clothes (a few), a place to sleep, food to eat, a way to keep clean, a way to make a living (computer and art supplies?)… I don’t need so much. I don’t need a car. I don’t need a wardrobe. I’d LIKE a little dirt.

All of this as she walked the first couple of miles of the fifteen she had planned for the day. She already knew it was going to be one of those Camino days full of voices – days that were coming more and more frequently. Shirley McLain’s* got nothin’ on me, she thought.

We make choices that lock us in before we know any better, she saw. We believe the lies about achievement and career and A to B to C in proper order. We believe the lies about rules and earning love through compliance and being useful to others. I just want to be WILD. I just want to be free for a change. That’s what I want. That’s all I want.

And immediately the fear and the doubts creep in. As she walks she can feel them. They’re a constriction around her heart. I’ve never even written so much as a short story, she thinks. And what about helping people? Aren’t I supposed to help people?? I’ve never sold a painting. I’m going to make a LIVING at this?! What the FUCK am I thinking?!

Then below the panic, below the fear, the ground, she heard the Voice say, “Artist.”

You are my artist. You are one of my artists. You are one of my poets and painters and storytellers. You have the heart for this work. You’ve been a teacher. Thank you, my dear. Those kids needed you, and I’m grateful. Now it’s time for something new and deeper and unknown. Teaching was the freest path you could take when you believed the lie that you had to earn MY love and your worth.

I don’t know how to do this, she answered. Also, who ARE you?

You know who I am. The Earth Voice continues. When you feel afraid, it’s because you’re believing something that’s not true – like there’s a right way and a wrong way, you have to look competent, you have to be right, you have to get it right. There is no such thing as right.

Martha thinks: But how will I do this without a plan?

Earth answers: Here’s the plan, dearest: there is no plan. We don’t need no stinkin’ plan. (The Voice is evidently a fan of classic movies.) You show up and create – let out all that stuff inside you – bottled up and wanting to move through you – and that’s the plan.

Martha answers, This is crazy. This is batshit. You know that, right?

Then, after a few minutes of walking, she whispers, Can I really DO this?

What would happen if you didn’t, my love? replied Earth. My strong beautiful artist, I love you so much. You are SO strong. There’s no statute of limitations on creativity, dearest. There’s no statute of limitations on being who you are.

*CAMINO PLACES, NAMES, AND THINGS WHICH WILL NEED TO BE DEFINED, OR PERHAPS I’LL INCLUDE A CAMINO LEXICON.

The Little Door (Camino Fiction)

Posted on March 16, 2018 by barbmorris

This is a scene from my Camino novel-in-process. Please see the first excerpt, “The Messies,” which introduces the novel and why I’m posting this writing in its raw state.

Two massive wooden doors block the cathedral entrance– they’re at least twenty feet high and ten feet wide, each. They’re made of slabs of oak six inches thick joined together, carved with birds and flowers and creatures and vignettes from the lives of the saints, with enormous latches and locks. Martha doesn’t have a prayer of opening these doors. But then she notices, in the right corner of the right hand door, a little door. It’s about five feet tall and two feet wide, carved to blend in with the massive cathedral door of which it is a part. She tries the human-sized handle. The door creaks on its hinges. She pulls the small door toward her and steps onto the bottom piece of oak over which the door swings. She perfectly fits this little door. She stands on the threshold, peering into the darkness beyond, and stops.

She thinks, I’m no longer who I was, and I’m not yet who I’m going to be. If I go in, I’m no longer out. But backing out doesn’t seem to be an option. Neither is staying put. I seem to have lost part of myself.

This inner darkness will change me. Do I want to be changed?

After some moments, Martha steps onto the stone floor of the cathedral. She feels the rough stone through the sole of her shoe. It’s cold and hard. She sets her backpack down on one of the hundreds of rush-seated wooden chairs, takes off her shoes and socks, and begins walking through the dark cathedral. She feels every hill and valley of the cold hard floor with her sore tired blistered bare feet. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, arms outstretched, hands wide open, she walks, eyes looking up and around as the dark begins to be cut with dust-filled shafts of light from clerestory windows so high she can’t see them, only the sunlight they admit into this filmy cavernous space. She breathes the old cold air stirred by currents of incense and lilies. In the north transept is a shrine to St. Agatha, who’s proudly holding her platter of breasts. Martha sits on the wooden pew in front of the altar. One lone candle burns at the saint’s feet

I should be MOVING. Yet here I sit, inside this quiet cold dusty ancient space that seems to be abandoned and empty. I have crossed the threshold. I’ve entered the unknown space. I’ve answered the invitation.

Now what?

A hymn tune wafts through her mind: “Immortal, invisible, God only wise, in light inaccessible hid from our eyes. Un___ing, unchanging, the ancient of days la la la la la la thy great name we praise.”

Martha hears those words as if for the first time. How rude. If God doesn’t change, and being unchanging is the ideal, now can little in-process me ever hope to be holy? Did the Desert Mothers strive for unchangingness? Was that their goal, with their fasting and praying and body-denying life?

I don’t want to do that. I want to make peace with being a woman in process. And not only make peace, but celebrate. Affirm. HONOR. Honor my yearning and striving and efforting and growing – HONOR my fits and starts and dead ends. Because they are all part of the process. Even the years I’ve spent stuck were part of my journey. What a load of bullshit – that there’s only one way to be and my job is to find it and be it and never change it. God the Father will never be an affirming God for me. Never.

So here Martha sits, inside this Spanish church, having entered through the little door. She’s getting better at waiting for the next step to show up. She’s learning not to rush. It’s taking awhile to learn not to rush. Some days she’s only walked ten kilometers. It may take her three months to get to Santiago. Maybe longer. But she’s so tired of going in a straight line from point A to point B, never deviating, focused on the goal, covering the material with > 80% success as determined by weekly benchmarks, quarterly testing, and annual achievement scores. She just wants to sit and wait and be a human woman who sits and waits when waiting is called for, and who moves with purpose and strength when movement is called for.

This time, in this dark church, is a time for waiting. She’s given up questioning these seemingly strange impulses that seize her unpredictably. She’s becoming an instinctual being – following a deeper, more rooted guidance system than the map in her backpack and her frenzied brain. She’s becoming feral – a creature following her gut and her heart and her nose, rather than Brierley’s* stages. Sometimes her body throms, like at the track to Eunate*. And she’s learned to pay attention to salivating as a sign of portents.

Martha’s been seeing drawings and paintings in her mind for awhile now, on the Camino. She sees the ink and water colors she’d use to paint THIS place. The clerestories far above, where the sun shines in straight lines, illuminating the swirling dust – the windows would be ink drawn in strong lines. The shaft of sun is yellow watercolor. The stone of the church is blueblackgrey wash. And the dust is droplets of some dark color, splashed over it all with a fine spray from a toothbrush.

And what does the shaft of sunlight illumine? For the sun has climbed higher in the sky so the shaft reaches further down into the sanctuary, the heart of this dark cavernous space. Martha sits and watches the sun as it moves lower and deeper into the darkness — slowly, inexorably illuminating a gilded altar, upon which are a cloth, two vases with plastic flowers, two unlit candles, and a crucifix.

She’d hoped for more – a sign, a symbol, a portent. What she got was more of the same.

Perhaps the waiting – the responding and the waiting – was the point.

She heaves herself up onto her hurting feet, feeling the stiffness and the cold that’s seeped into her bones from this tired cold place, and walks back through the dark church to where her shoes and backpack wait beside the little door inside the big door. She heaves it open and steps over the threshold back into the bright, hot Rioja sun.

Time to find a bar, have a café con leche* and something sweet, she thinks, then walk a few more miles before finding tonight’s albergue*. A little time sitting in the sun would feel so good. I’m tired of feeling cold. Maybe Cola Cao* instead of café? Mas calories y menos caffeine.

Martha walks to the bar across the plaza from the church. She hadn’t noticed it an hour earlier when she’d crossed this plaza, feeling pulled toward that little door and wanting to know what was on the other side of it. Now, sitting in the sun with a cup of hot milk, a packet of Cola Cao, and a slice of tortilla*, she rests her feet on the plastic chair opposite her and looks critically at the church. Templar* architecture, she now sees. All thick walls and fortress lines. It fairly bristles with animosity – full of the self-righteousness of those men who built her a thousand years ago. Of course there was nothing there for her. Why had she expected otherwise?

The Camino, she realizes, is the same. Or could be, depending on how a peregrina* walked it. It could be a straight line from Point A (SJPP)* to Point B (Santiago), walked with focus and no tolerance for deviation from the goal, following Brierley’s* stages religiously. One could learn something about one’s self that way, she supposed – that’s how education is set up, after all. A linear progression from Point A (preschool) to Point B (grad school). Or, she thinks, the Camino could be a jumping-off point for exploration and return. It could be organic, although the pilgrim who walked it that way would definitely be swimming against the prevailing current. A pilgrim could use the Camino for general direction, swirling away and coming back as inspiration and yearning struck.

So why doesn’t anybody walk it that way? And why couldn’t I walk it that way?

Maybe I got meaning from that cold hard church after all.

*Camino places, names, and things which Will need to be defined, or perhaps I’ll include a camino lexicon.

The Messies (Camino Fiction)

Posted on March 14, 2018 by barbmorris

I walked the Camino de Santiago with my husband in 2014. Last year I had a vivid Camino dream about a small door within a large door that opened into a Templar church. From that dream emerged a series of scenes that have become the bare bones of a novel. I’m posting some of the scenes in their raw form, starting with “The Messies.” I’ve done some revising for readability; however, in the spirit of Martha’s messies, what you have here is pretty much how this scene emerged onto the page. It’s not perfect, and I’m letting it out anyway. I invite you to share your reactions in the comments.

The hero of my story is Martha, a newly-retired school teacher walking the Camino de Santiago by herself. This scene happens about ten days into her Camino, a journey which will take her about six weeks altogether.

I am a mess, Martha thinks. I am just a mess. Maybe I’ll always be a mess. Maybe being messy is just how I am.

Of what does this mess consist? Memories, dreams that never saw the light of day, abandoned goals and desires – What do I do with all this mess?

Walking by myself I can’t be distracted. The lid wiggles loose and the messies start to crawl out. Am I big enough to contain my messies? There are so many of them! They seem vaguely malevolent. They’re wild and angry, exulting in their newfound freedom and room to roam. They surge out of the jar and crawl all over my insides. I can feel them clinging to my chest wall and hanging on my heart. They’re crawling all around inside me. They crawl up into my arms and down to my hands. They gleefully grab my organs and skitter down my legs. They’re so glad to be free – these messies. They’re blue and black and red and green, with wild fur and eight legs and googly eyes and fangs. I’m afraid of them. They’re a little crazed, a little frantic.

I really am going a little crazy, Martha thinks. But let’s go with this: I’ve taken the lid off – the lid has wobbled loose on the Camino. Day after day of walking has jostled the lid loose. Day after day of being a stranger in a strange land has jostled the lid loose, and the messies have taken their chance. They’ve rushed up and out. They’re now crawling around my insides – around my chest between my lungs and chest wall, around my heart, up to my shoulders and down my arms. They like the bones for traction.

Martha’s mind is going crazy with dismay and worry.

It feels good to have the lid off. It took so much energy and effort to keep them hidden. Oh. They’re different things – some of them are dreams. Many of them are emotions. Some of them are memories. Some of them are joy, too.

I can see some of the ways I’ve kept the messies bottled up: other-focus, codependence, addiction, busyness, distraction, rule-following, being nice, staying quiet.

I have to loosen the lid if I need to stuff another messie into the jar. They resist, and they try to escape whenever I open it. I’m pretty good at keeping them contained. But now, here on the Camino, as I walk mile after mile, the lid has loosened enough that they’ve popped it off and they’ve escaped.

Tonight, in the albergue, someone will say, “Hola, Martha! How was your Way today?”

My answer, if I wanted to tell the truth, would be, “Today on the Camino I discovered that in my heart I keep a jar full of everything I don’t want to know – the messy things – the inconvenient truths of my life. The sadness I don’t want to feel. The unkept promises and failures. The losses and the rage. The dreams I’ve let languish. The pain and the betrayals I didn’t want to see. All the stuff I didn’t want to do but I did anyway. All the things that didn’t fit with being perfect. And the joy it wasn’t safe to express. Now they’re out. And they’re crawling all over me, inside and out. And I can’t put them back in.

Martha walks, smiling and weeping. She’s beginning to suspect there will be many tears on this Camino. Every pilgrim she meets, she sees their jar of messies. We all have them, she sees. We all have our sequestered messies.

The jar is very old. It was given to me when I was a little girl: “Here’s your jar. Please put into it everything about you that we don’t like. Don’t ask questions. Just do it. No messies allowed. Or aloud. Either one. Your job is to sequester your messies so they don’t bother us. We only want to see the smart, pretty, nice bits. Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter. We’ll teach you how to identify, capture, and contain said messies, since you’re just a girl. Before you know it, you’ll be so good at it you can do it without thinking. Expect to feel listless and depressed at times. That just means you’re doing it right. Anytime you want to do something irrational or have a feeling we don’t like – catch that messy and STUFF IT INTO YOUR JAR. And NEVER let them out.”

“Oh, and by the way, a little joy goes into the jar with each messy. That’s normal. Pay no attention. Not a cause for concern.”

It takes a lot of energy to keep the lid on. That’s why I can’t commit to anything else. I have to hold back some energy at all times so I can contain the messies. Don’t ask too much of me. I have to keep the messies in. “Don’t let loose, don’t let down your guard, or the messies will get out.” So no going flat out and giving something all I’ve got. Never let myself get too hungry or tired or enthusiastic or passionate, or carried away with ANYTHING. If I do, the messies will erupt.

For additional Camino information, please click here. 🙂

©barbmorris.com

The World’s Heart – A Mystical Camino Moment

Posted on January 23, 2016 by barbmorris

On the Meseta, Day 17 (22 May 2014)

A chilly rainy day on the Meseta. May 22, 2014. Camino Day 17. I was walking by myself, surrounded by other peregrinos. Tired, cold, and wet.

Walking, and walking, and walking.

Then – the dawning awareness of a massive heart beneath us, in the Earth, supporting us and buoying us. Loving us. My heart was connected to this heart, as were the hearts of all the pilgrims around me. All our hearts were tethered to this one great Earth Heart.

Through this Heart we are all connected.

I’m connected, through this Heart, to the child atop the Mumbai garbage heap, to the American sex trafficker, to Donald Trump.

I’m connected, through this Heart, to all the woody green tree hearts, the flinty granite rock hearts, and the wild blue ocean heart.

I’m connected, through this Heart, to raven hearts, rattlesnake hearts, and otter hearts, too.

I think it’s probable that Earth Heart is connected to Moon Heart, Mars Heart, Orion Heart, etc. And that all those interstellar hearts are connected to Universe Heart. But I don’t have any data to back up my hypothesis. 😉

I think our connection to Earth Heart is what we call “God.”

This connection is how prayer works.

This connection is why my choices matter.

This connection is why I must heal what’s broken in me.

Because we’re all connected through this Deep Heart.

All of this is, of course, completely unprovable by any quantitative measure.

And I know it’s true.

Pilgrimage: Die Before You Die, and Have Fun Doing It!

Posted on July 29, 2014 by barbmorris

On the Meseta — May 25, 2014

Why walk 500 miles to Santiago de Compostela? I mentioned my struggle with this question to a very thoughtful friend, who said, “It used to be that to get to Compostela you had to walk to Compostela.” That’s clearly no longer true. In our modern world, with instant communication, almost-instant travel, and diversity of religious beliefs, walking to Santiago de Compostela is a choice. Most of us no longer believe that making pilgrimage to a saint’s tomb will give us a free pass to heaven, even if we think we need such a pass. We don’t believe that the relics in cathedrals, even if they are really from the true cross or the corpse of some long-dead holy person, confer any special mojo — any special forgiveness of sins. (Related question: what are sins?)

Indeed, there were moments on Jed’s and my recent pilgrimage when walking to Santiago seemed the opposite of holy. It seemed possibly cruel and probably a sign of mental illness to walk through pain. I have been wondering why we do it. Why I did it. Yet people who make this choice seem to benefit from their walk. Why?

Here’s my current hypothesis: We go on pilgrimage to practice dying, and because pilgrimage is really fun.

1. Pilgrimage as practice in dying: Pilgrimage, like any discipline, is practice in letting go of ego and expectations. It’s an expansion of our comfort zones in order to commit to what we truly value. Daily prayer or meditation, intentional service of others, eating a vegan diet, writing three pages every morning, whatever — discipline is learning how to do the hard stuff. God knows it seems easier to stay in life’s comfortable shallow end, trying our damndest to keep pain and fear at bay. For most of us, life will bring painful stuff — illness and death and loss in all its forms. C.S. Lewis said, “Die before you die. There is no chance after.” Pilgrimage is an opportunity to “die before you die,” to practice staying present to pain and fear, to practice letting go of control and expectations. When we stay present and open to pain and fear, we become more resilient and confident in our abilities to choose love in the midst of pain.

Pilgrimage allows us to do hard things in a relatively safe context — supported by ancient history and tradition, following directions and instructions that are millennia old, and in the company of others doing the same work.

2. Being a pilgrim is just plain fun. Even when I felt tired and sore, the Camino’s freedom and focus, hospitality, intellectual stimulation, companionship, rich social life, ample outside exercise, and incredible beauty were simply and juicily fun. I never stopped saying and thinking, “Honey, we’re in Spain. We’re in SPAIN!” The gift of being in the pilgrimage bubble, outside of normal time with its demands and constraints, was priceless. I felt at home in my body again — at one with my “god pod.”*

So, these are my answers for why modern pilgrims leave their homes to walk miles and miles: To practice doing hard things, and to have vast amounts of fun.

There’s a lot more to unpack, which I will be doing over the coming weeks on the blog now that my thinking is more coherent.

Thanks for walking with me. ¡Buen Camino!

Photo credit: Joe speetjens, a fellow peregrino from mississippi.

*”God Pod” coined by fellow martha beck coach susan hyatt

Five hundred miles later…

Posted on June 12, 2014 by barbmorris

Jed and I arrived in Santiago de Compostela yesterday morning around 9 am. I feel immensely full of gratitude and awe. We did it!

I am confident that the end of the Camino is the only the beginning of something amazing. People who have walked this Way before us say it takes about six months to feel like they’ve processed their experience, so — more to follow! Thank you all so much for your thoughts and prayers.

Love,
Barb

“The Sweet Confinement Of Your Aloneness”

Posted on June 3, 2014 by barbmorris

Today is Day 29 of our Camino. The Way has felt hard. And I feel so blessed to be here. This poem of David Whyte’s has bubbled its way to awareness these last two days as I have walked through western Spain — over mountains, through tiny villages and cities, and among vineyards and cherry orchards.

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

— David Whyte
from The House of Belonging
©1996 Many Rivers Press

The Camino has provided space and opportunity to realize that I have cluttered my life with things and people and activities that do not bring me alive. The Way is so huge that the smallness I have allowed is starkly apparent. I am seeing into my heart — seeing glimmers of the things and people and activities that are life-giving for me. I am learning in my innermost being that my heart, Earth’s heart, and God’s heart are one and the same.

Barb Morris

Writer, Teacher, Facilitator, Artist

Tag Archives: pilgrimage