Tag Archives: Spain

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS 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.

So here our three travelers are, Hope on the floor and Martha and her mom on a soft couch covered with an Indian throw, safe and warm in the arms of the Hospital of the Soul. Hope is happily eating sugar cookies off of prettily-flowered china and chattering away. She licks her fingers with gusto and relish, licking the sugar and crumbs off, then swiping the crumbs off her plate with her finger. Hope is content, and so is Martha as she watches Hope’s contentment. She’s aware in a corner of her mind how truly bizarre this is – sitting in the warm living room of a house in Spain called the Hospital del Alma with her dead mother and her little daughter who until just a few hours ago was curled up in a chest freezer nestled in her chest, naturally, right beside her heart.

Martha realizes that her heart has been keeping Hope alive all these years, and the Hospital of the Soul is the perfect place for the three of them to be.

 I wonder if others can see all three of us, or if I just look crazy and alone from the outside. But I choose to believe the evidence of my senses – here these two are. Hope is eating cookies. My mom is next to me, drinking chamomile tea with honey. I feel warmth from the wood stove. I can see and hear María outside building a mosaic in the patio’s east wall. A pine tree I don’t know the name of overhangs the glass ceiling of this room.

 I am simply grateful to be here.

I love this space. I love the earthiness and the colors and the constant surprise. I love the hospitality of it – not a Parker House hospitality, but a hospitality of the heart and home. This is a place on the Camino designed for one purpose only – refuge for peregrinas’ souls. A Hospital of the Soul. I love the complete lack of expectations and judgment. “Come in and sit.” That’s all. Warmth, nourishment, comfort, welcome. All it needs is cats.

And at that moment Martha see kittens in the back, on the patio, and the place is complete. She could sit here forever.

This magical child who’s evidently not an apparition will need some clothes. Are those rubber-toed red sneakers adequate to the task of walking at least a little every day? They’re from a time when support in kids’ shoes was nonexistent. Martha hears herself worrying about Hope’s shoes, because she has no idea what she’s going to say to Maria at dinner when she asks for their story.

Here’s all she knows: she retired from her teaching job, a job she loved for many years and was good at, because it was time. Class sizes were growing, the kids were getting harder to reach, and she had less time and creativity because of mandated curriculum and tests every other week, it seemed. So it was time. She would have done a few more years, but then the district sweetened the retirement deal for older teachers and she jumped ship.

My kids didn’t need me, I’d seen The Way and done a little research, and I knew I needed a Thing to Do right after retirement. An intentional journey wanted to happen and the Camino met that need – cheap, flexible, set up for solitary walkers. A week after I turned in my school keys I was on a plane to Madrid, then a train to León, a bus to Pamplona, and another bus to SJPP*.

Everything had been pretty normal for the context of doing this crazy thing of walking 500 miles to Santiago, for the first week or so. Little stuff had started happening around then. She’d found herself taking unplanned side excursions and detours, sitting by the side of the track for a few hours, walking by herself a lot. These things just seemed to happen. But once on the Meseta, they’d come fast and furious, getting odder and odder all the time. The voice in the Templar church. The cougar who talked. The jar of messies. She was beginning to get used to it. Retrieving her daughter from a freezer in her chest and having her mom come along to help thaw her out was only the latest. It was also, she knew, of a completely different order of magnitude of crazy. These two seemed to be real people. Her mom she could explain, sort of. This little girl dressed in clothes from the 1960s, not so much. What will they tell Maria, she wondered.

Just then Hope got up, wiped her hands on her 1960s trousers, and climbed into Martha’s lap. She put her arms around her mom’s neck, said in a muffled voice, “Thank you for unfreezing me,” and fell asleep. Martha glanced at her mom and found her mom looking at her. They shook their heads, smiled, and returned to silent fire-watching. El Hospital del Alma, indeed.

Eventually they heard the back door opening and María making noise in the kitchen. “I’ll go see what I can do,” said her mom. She heard her mom ask in Spanish how she could help. María evidently found her something to do, since the next sound she heard was voices and occasional laughter. The sounds of wine glasses being filled, along with cooking noises and smells, came from the kitchen. Her mom came to her with a glass of Riojan wine.

Martha reached out a hand to take it, saying, “Mom, I’m so glad you’re here with me. I don’t understand it, but I’m glad. I think I might be crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, sweetie. You’re wondering how long I’ll be here, right?”

“Thanks, Mom. Of course I am. And I’m also trying to just be here now and enjoy this gift. Since I’m not crazy.”

Her mom smiled and returned to the kitchen. Martha sat, a daughter she didn’t have this morning on her lap, and drank her wine. I’ll take it, she thought. I’ll take it. I won’t get to keep it, I sure as hell don’t understand it, but I’ll take it. I’ll enjoy every minute I get with these two, and I won’t mourn them before they’re gone.

Supper starts with a salad of baby greens and peas, because it’s June in Spain and Maria’s garden has just started producing. The flowers and tomatoes will come later, in a month or so. Chicken and rice, and quejada for dessert. Hope has been pulled up to the table on a stool, and she’s digging into her chicken, cut up for her by María, and her rice. She eats the peas with her fingers, eschewing the lettuce. It’s her first real meal in decades – she’s been kept alive by Martha’s heart but she’s hungry for real food.

This meal is delicious. “Gracias, María. Es delicioso,” Martha says. María responds, “Y gracias para ustedes. I am happy you are here.” Hope keeps shoveling it in, humming happily. Then she looks up and says to Maria, “I’ve been frozen next to my mommy’s heart for a long time. Today she found me and unfroze me, and here I am!”

Her mom added, “And I was walking along and saw Martie sitting on a rock in a field of poppies, this one on her lap, and I thought they might need help so I went to see what was up. As I got closer I could see that I knew them. Then I saw that they were Martha and Hope, both of whom I was surprised to see. Martie because I’m dead and she’s alive, and Hope because I hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl.”

Okay then, thinks Martha. She won’t be any help explaining this to me, or anyone else. Maybe when you’re dead you just take weird shit for granted.

María simply nodded and took another bite. “There were angels all round you three,” she said. “You were glowing when you entered my house. It’s called El Hospital del Alma for a reason.”

*SJPP is Camino shorthand for St. Jean Pied de Port, a small, charming Basque French town that’s served as the Camino gateway over the Pyrenees into Spain for a millennia or more.

Camino Fiction by Barb Morris

The Emergence of Hope, Part Two (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS 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.

Martha is sitting in a field of poppies with a frozen child in her lap. She notices that although poppies are soporific in stories, on the Camino she hears them say “Wake up!” She croons to the child, strokes her, puts her cheek to the little girl’s cold face, listens to the Meseta wind and watches the poppies sway, for what seems like hours. Softly holding this frozen girl – waiting for signs of life.

She sees peregrinos walking in the distance – they’re far enough away that she can’t tell them apart – occasionally one will notice her and wave. She waves back so they know she’s okay. A woman leaves the road and walks through the poppies toward them. Martha watches the expressions cross the woman’s face as she gets nearer. She sees surprise, concern, comprehension, and finally immense kindness.

“Hola,” she says. “How can I help?” They recognize each other’s American-ness by all the nonverbal cues – North Face and Osprey, smiles and eye contact.

“She’s frozen. I’m thawing her.”

“You must be tired. Let me take a turn.” Martha realizes that, yes, she is indeed tired. The woman takes her towel from her backpack and spreads it on the ground, then sits on it and reaches her arms to Martha. Martha gently hands her the curled up girl child.

The woman asks, “Where did you find her?”

“In my chest,” says Martha.

“Ah,” says the woman, and she looks at Martha with deep brown eyes. “I understand.”

Martha knows those eyes. She’s looking into her mother’s eyes. As their eyes fill with tears, the girl child stirs. Martha reaches out a hand to the girl’s face. It’s warm, and she catches a tear softly falling down the girl’s cheek. Thawing is happening rapidly now – the little girl is breathing and stretching and making little noises as she wakes up – Martha sees that this child is younger than she thought – maybe 4 or 5 – red rubber toed sneakers, little jeans, a pink shirt, fine brown hair cut like a bowl on her head like the Beatles used to have – and deep brown eyes looking up at her and her mom.

“Hello, sweetheart,” says Martha.

This is weird, she thinks. I’m sitting in a field of Spanish poppies with my mom, who’s been dead for twenty years, and a little girl I found in a freezer in my chest. Okay, then. Smiling, she lies down in the sun in the poppies, looks at her mom cradling the smiling child, and closes her eyes. She feels the rocks beneath her and knows she’s getting dirty and damp, and she doesn’t care. It’s totally worth it to feel the Earth along her entire body. Ground below; air and sky above. Poppies all around. She reaches out her hand to the woman sitting next to her, places it on the woman’s nylon-clad leg, and relaxes. As she falls asleep she wonders – will they be here when I wake up?

They are. They are deeper in the poppies, holding hands, the little girl bending to smell each flower and laughing as they sway in the breeze. The sun was halfway between noon and the horizon. Martha is hungry. She sits there watching the two dear creatures, listening to her daughter’s tinkling laughter that sounded like a creek in the summer and her mother’s low murmurs in response.

That’s surprising, she thought. That’s who she is to me. Martha stands up, brushes the dirt off her legs with a swish, and says, “Hey, you two. Let’s go find supper and a bed.”

They turn and start toward her. Her daughter lets go of the older woman’s hand and runs toward Martha. “Mommy! (That settles that, thought Martha.) You’re awake! Grandma and I were looking at the pretty flowers. She says they’re poppies! Let’s go to that town over there!”

She pointed her little finger toward the town they could see beyond the trees – a large church and monastery at the base of a terraced hill with a ruined castle plopped on top. Who does that? wonders Martha. Who’s designing these quintessential Camino vistas?

She shoulders her backpack and takes her daughter’s hand. Her mom folds up her towel, wipes off Martha’s pants with it to get the last of the dirt, stows it in her backpack and puts it on, straps on her poles, and heads through the poppies back to the road.  There are just a few pilgrims still walking as Martha and her girl follow the older woman to the road, holding hands.

Martha understands that her Way just got a lot more complicated. And more companionable.

I don’t know how long I’ll have my mom with me, and my daughter probably isn’t real either, she thought. This is so interesting, and I’ll ride this wave as long as it lasts.

An hour later they walk up the cobbled street through the old gate into Castrojeriz. Martha and her mom have taken turns carrying their little girl, whose name it turns out is Esperanza, almost always called “Hope,” most of the way. As she explained, “I’m tired. After all, I a little girl, and I just woke up after being frozen for a really long time.” Martha suspects she also wanted to feel her mothers’ arms around her, holding her, singing to her, telling her how glad they were that she woke up.

It was like that, that this one, now three, arrived at the door of El Hospital del Alma. And how it is that they are the fortunate pilgrims who find themselves sitting in front of a warm wood stove, drinking chamomile tea with honey, eating cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries off flowered china plates, asking the hospitalera where to stay, and are invited to stay in her one guest room that just happens to be empty that night.

“I will cook for you dinner,” says María, “and you will tell to me your story.”

Camino fiction

The Emergence of Hope, Part One (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS 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.

Martha is walking. Always walking. Although the sun is shining, for now, yesterday’s rain is still very much present in the deep Meseta mud and the puddles. Her shoes are muddy. The hems of her pants are muddy. Her mood is muddy.

What the hell am I doing out here? Martha thought, not for the first time and almost certainly not for the last time.

“You’re here to heal,” said the Voice.

Oh, God. Not you again. And what does healing look like? Healing looks like wholeness, and connection to Source, and health. So that’s wholeness, holiness, and health, right?

The Old English root* is very happy right now. As she walks, she takes those words one by one.

Wholeness. Opposite of split apart. When something’s whole, everything is attached and doing its job. Wholeness has good boundaries – intact boundaries. There’s an “in” and an “out.” I know what is inside me and what’s not inside me. I know what’s me and what isn’t me. And I feel and am aware of ALL of me. I don’t split off the shadowy parts – the parts that remember bad stuff and feel shitty.

 And what does “feel shitty” mean? It means feel sad and hurt and small and powerless. That sounds like childhood stuff. Wholeness means feeling the feelings of the little girl hearing her brother being beaten; watching her dad drive away with her cats to the pound; losing her dad, brother, sister, and mom – oh, my – that’s deep pain. And no one saw me. No one cared. It’s the anger at being powerless and invisible, too. So “wholeness” means welcoming and loving those memories and that knowledge. Wholeness is gathering in ALL of me in and feeling those feelings. Wholeness is care for ALL of me – body, mind, soul, emotions.

Walking and thinking. Thinking and walking. That’s Martha’s Camino, today.

Holiness – knowing I’m going to die?! Being open to the More in which I live and move and have my being. Trusting what I know from that place in me that’s connected to ALL THAT IS. Holiness is fostering that connection, or is that “health”? Health is everything I do that fosters holiness and wholeness. And there’s actually a lot of overlap between wholeness and holiness. Holiness underlies wholeness. Holiness is the foundation of wholeness. Wholeness without holiness is struggle. It’s knowing that I’m held in Love that makes wholeness possible – it’s faith in the ultimate okay-ness that allows me to invite the memories and the old feelings back into the light. The submerged and frozen feelings – like a chest freezer in my chest! A good place for a chest freezer, right?

She is suddenly afraid of her post-Camino life. Eventually she’ll have to stop walking, right? Eventually she’ll get to Santiago, or Finisterre, or run out of money, or her body will give out somehow, and she’ll have to face her future. A wave of panic sweeps through her – heart racing, breath shaky, hands quivering, skin sweating – what will she do with herself when this is over?

The Voice asks a question: “Sweetheart, what do you WANT to do?”

And she knows that the roots of the panic are in the old tension between doing what she thought she should do and what she wanted to do. It’s been a long time since she’s known what she wants to do. Really, truly, deep in the core of her being wants to do. A very long time.

Martha understands her job now: pay attention to what she really, truly, deep down in the core of her being wants. And the parts of her that she split off – the girl with the sadness – have wisdom for her. The girl who knows what she wanted got left behind – frozen in the chest freezer – for safekeeping, it turns out. She’s there, along with powerlessness, invisibility, anger, and deep hurt. She’s so sad and wounded. She’s lying in there, all curled up, covered in frost, eyes closed.

If I thaw her out I’ll be a crazy person. But she knows what I really, truly want deep down in the core of my being. She knows. Did I put her in the freezer? No, I did not. I didn’t know she was there. I didn’t know I was there. She’s a part of me.

 Okay, then.

Martha walks off the path and sits on a rock in the sun. She reaches into the chest freezer and picks up the frozen girl child. The child is solid and sturdy. And cold. So cold.

Martha cradles this girl to her body, gently stroking her, putting her warm cheek against the child’s frozen face, and waits. Hours pass. She notices, for the first time, that she’s surrounded by bright red poppies. Poppies everywhere, white daisies and sky-blue cornflowers mixed in. The Meseta breeze blows. The flowers sway. The trees in the distance move, too, and she feels the warm air on her skin.

* Our modern English words heal, health, whole, and holy all find their root in the Old English word hāl, which means “healthy and entire.”

The Rain in Spain (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS 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.

It’s a cold rainy day on the Way. A perfect day for pondering discomfort. Rain on the Camino means you walk in the rain. Unless you stayed the night in a hotel and you can book another night, you have to leave. You could go find a bar and sit there until the albergues open at 2:00, but, really, what’s the point of that? You might as well walk. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain – decidedly NOT true. Galicia is famous for being rainy, and it’s NOT in the plain.

One of the best pieces of advice Martha gleaned from the American Pilgrims on the Camino Facebook group was to buy an Altus poncho in St. Jean*. She’s grateful for it today. It’s big enough to cover her backpack – it comes with a pouch that snaps in and out – and it covers her legs, mostly, too.

The downside of not using a backpack cover is that if she needs something in her pack she has to get under the poncho somehow. The upside of the Altus covering her pack is that her pack stays dry, unlike the packs of the people she sees around her that are covered only with the backpack cover. The rain, especially this windy rain, will find its way in and around the cover. She’d rather have a wet body and a dry backpack.

Fortunately, along most of the Camino, there are frequent bars for getting warm, or at least warmer. This morning they’re packed full of wet walkers. Martha wedges her way through the pilgrims congregating in the main room jostling for the barkeep’s attention, and finds a place for her backpack, poles, and poncho where it can drip a little and hopefully not on someone else’s stuff. It’s dark in this bar – nooks and crannies all packed with pilgrims seeking refuge from the deluge outside. It’s an incessant rain. A thoroughly wet rain. NOT liquid sunshine. Feeling inside her layers for her passport and money, she pulls out a few Euro and joins the throng of peregrinos waiting for coffee. She’s pretty sure some of them are feeling impatient. They want this process to be efficient and orderly, but this is Spain. The land of six-hour workdays and afternoon siestas. Spaniards don’t rush, and they don’t like loud, pushy Americans and driven Germans.

She waits, drifting along with the tide of people toward her turn to order. “Café con leche, por favor, señor,” she says. “Y tiene tortilla? No? Pan tostada? Bien, gracias.” Toast it is. She ponders, again, the wonder that is Spanish toast. This is breakfast. Perhaps she’ll find tortilla further along the Way – or perhaps this will have to do until lunch. She’s already hoping for soup to go with her bocadillo*. Bread, bread, bread. All this lovely bread. It would be hard to be gluten-free on the Camino. It’d be easier to be vegetarian, by far. She sees out the door on her way back to a table in the corner, squeezing between dripping peregrinos, carrying her coffee and toast, that it’s still raining.

Everything on the Camino is a metaphor. How you do anything is how you do everything. She’s thinking about her students. Her FORMER students – how some of them were so open to screwing up, and some were so resistant. It’s about how well you tolerate discomfort, she knows. She knows this about herself, too. Her first instinct when she’s uncomfortable is to run home to mama. Go back to where she felt safe and warm and dry and unthreatened. It’s taken a long time to train her brain to overcome its first impulse. Part of that training comes from working with kids for as long as she has – she pretty early on noticed the disconnect between her wanting to be good at something right out of the gate, and encouraging her kids to explore and be messy in pursuit of a goal.

There they are again! Messies are part of learning. She knows this. Being okay with messies – seeing messes as compost rather than mistakes – has been huge in her life. Part of her goal, Martha realizes, on this camino craziness, is to get really good at messes. To take her best shot, to leave before she’s ready, to follow her gut and listen to her heart. To see the messes as holy – sacred – inevitable byproducts of growth. Necessary for growth.

Maybe messy isn’t even the right word, she thinks. Maybe it’s like the furrows left by the moles – or pencil shavings – or a snake’s skin, or dead leaves and shed branches or a beetle’s carapace after metamorphosis (do beetles shed their shells?) – like the chrysalis a butterfly leaves behind. Every process requires a mess if it’s deep enough, maybe?

Is my former life a chrysalis hanging on last year’s yarrow? I kept thinking the chrysalis was my forever home. Every metamorphosis, every turn of the wheel, every ride around the change cycle, leaves pieces behind. Every death and resurrection leaves a trail – a bundle of clothes inside a tomb. A memory.

 I am so fucking wise, she thinks. When did I get so smart?! But it’s true. We all have these cycles. Cycles within cycles within cycles. And even though the Camino is a line from pt A to pt B, it has cycles within it. There’s the big beginning à middle à end à beginning again one from SJPP* or wherever, walking for 30 or 40 days, ending in Santiago, then going home. Within the big one, which is ALSO embedded in the larger cycle of my life, there are smaller cycles. There’s the cycle of each day, and the meeting walking parting cycle of ephemeral relationships, the cycle of each mile, the cycle of each step, even the cycle of each breath. There might be an accumulation and letting go cycle, too. Breathing is like that. Eating is like that. We breathe in O2 and exhale CO2. We eat food and let go of pee and poop.

So maybe messes aren’t negative at all – maybe they’re inevitable byproducts of changing ang growing. They’re our shed skins and chrysali (Gk?) and fallen leaves and husks of seeds. We are designed to grow and change. Learning is our job. And the only way to learn something new is to do something new. And the only way to do something new is to do it. And the only way to do something new is to embrace the feelings that go with not knowing how to do something and doing it anyway. Some of us are better at than than others, but ALL of us can learn it. (Or relearn it.) We all used to know it, when we were babies and we didn’t know about mistakes. Then school got ahold of us, and parents who needed us to be certain ways – to be competent so they felt competent, maybe, and we learned that learning was supposed to be seamless or we weren’t doing it right. And if we couldn’t do it right, we probably shouldn’t be doing it at all. If we couldn’t get it right pretty quick, then it wasn’t what we should be doing and we needed to go find the thing we COULD get right really fast, because that was our calling. And then we needed to keep doing that one thing over and over for the rest of our lives.

Does anyone do the Camino perfectly? Martha wondered. What would that even look like? Let’s see. You buy all the right gear the first time. You always walk as far as you intend to walk, and you always find a bed in your preferred albergue. Or, if you don’t, some lovely local gives you her spare room and you become friends for life. You never pee behind a bush or take a shit in the trees. No blisters and no injuries. You always have exactly what you need, and are able to give to less-prepared peregrinos from your excess.

Ewww. That sounds awful! That sounds dry and sterile and dead.

 How about THIS  for perfection: you do enough research and then you go and you survive. A lot of stuff goes wrong or doesn’t go the way you hope it will. There are times you’re uncomfortable – tired, cold, hungry, unsure, sore, scared – and yet here you are. You get through it, increasing your tolerance for feeling tired, cold, hungry, unsure, sore, and afraid. You roll with it. You surf the waves, rather than having a reeally good expensive boat. You’re IN it, rather than on it. And there are moments, even hours and days, of bliss and joy and exultation and warm happiness and simple true connection – of feet on the ground, breathing and walking and listening and seeing and smelling and tasting – feeling how strong your body is and how big your heart is and how delicioso it feels to be wild.

 The rain continues to fall steadily as Martha leaves the damp warm dark bar. She peers out from beneath the already-dripping hood of her Altus poncho and finds the arrow* embedded in the rain-slicked cobbled street. She follows the arrow, hoping to get another ten kilometers under her belt before stopping for the night. 

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

 

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

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS 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)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoThis 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 World’s Heart – A Mystical Camino Moment

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On the Meseta, Day 22

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.