Camino II — Day 1

Easy Way Walking

Today we walked a little over 17 miles. I’m not going to lie — I can feel it. Some of the path was easy, boring even. For the first seven miles, We walked on board walk with the sea on our left. It was just putting one foot in front of the other, a little like daily life for most of us. You know? You get up, get dressed, get a cup of coffee down, or two, or three, and then you work through your day — one foot in front of the other. That’s not a bad life, but we get a little bored.

In the above photo you have sisters Suzanne and Leanne, then Janet and Sally, followed by Bob and Vern. They’re talking and walking, just one foot in front of the other. It’s daily life and it’s not bad. Most days, I’ll take it. And I’m betting that you would too.

Hard Way Walking

But then at times today it was tough. We were trudging along then, still one foot in front of the other, but each step was work, dang hard work, blister forming, muscles burning, backs aching, just plane tough. We sloughed through, heads down, pushing ahead, hoping that this didn’t go on too long. These are the days when shit happens and just keeps on happening and we put our heads down and we push through. We push through because there is no other way through. Can’t go around. Could go back, but then what. You just put it off to another day. You have to push through.

Meet Aly

Aly is from Pennsylvania, but lives in Iceland. So you already know that Aly is not your average young person. One year ago, Aly lost her mother to Covid. It was a surprise. It shouldn’t have happened. There were a lot of unusual circumstances around mom’s death, and Aly felt that somehow mom dying might have been her fault. One of our group, a nurse, Janet, listened to Aly’s story and tried to assure Aly that “It wasn’t your fault, honey.” That was the mom talking, I think, not the nurse. “It wasn’t your fault …”

Aly had a year of tough walking. You get that, because you’ve had a time like that, or you will. I know this is true because it’s true for me, and you and I are both humans and times like that are a part of being human. It sucks.

Aly could hardly get out of bed some days. Her boyfriend helped. Her twin brother helped. But no one could make her well. And she knew it. She said it. — “I had to do something.”

Hello Camino!

”I didn’t know anything about the Camino. I mean, I heard of it, yeah, but I had no idea. Then one day I got this urging, this call, I guess. And I thought I’m going to do it. So I took some time away from my PhD studies, got on a plane to Porto, Portugal, and today I started walking. I’m doing this for my mom, and for myself too. I’m doing this because I had to do something to get my life back.”

And Aly wanted to talk about her mom. She talked to many of us who cared enough to walk along side her and just listen. We did that. She never cried and neither did we, but I’m crying now. It’s probably because I’m tired and sore and sitting in bed wanting to say something worth saying and all I can think of is that this young girl lost her mom, and partly blames herself.

There are so many stories like this on the Camino. Some will break your heart and others fill it will hope.

Meet Kesho

Kesho is a retired professor out of Grinnell College in Iowa. Yes, Iowa. We connected immediately. She describes herself as “a badass.” She is from Detroit, was a Black Panther in the 60s — “I moved on from there but still care that sense of urgency in my soul.” Kesho was the keynote speaker at the 2017 women’s march in Des Moines, Iowa. “I was hitting it, you know.” “Actually, I do know,” I said. Because I do. I know that feeling that you are “hitting it.” It’s a preachers high.

Kesho’s daughter was born and raised in Iowa. “I wear Hawkeye stuff all the time,” she says. “I’m in Texas now and people say to me all the time, ‘YOU from Iowa? And I say, ‘Damn right.’” I like this girl. In fact, I like them both. Mother and daughter intend to make change happen. They are walking the Camino together to do this together, to strengthen a bond that is already strong. As I walked behind them I noticed they often locked arms and leaned into each other. Nice!

My Camino

I’ve discovered that people are here for many reasons. I came because I want to do stuff like this for as long as I can, because I know the time is coming, and soon, when my body won’t be able to do this. And I want to do these things with Sally alongside. I want to strengthen the bond, and make some memories. Like Aly, the day will come when memories is what we have left. So make some good ones!

The Camino is a Way not a Place

We met this lady along the way. I don’t know her, couldn’t speak her language, nor she mine. She was cleaning fish and feeding the entrails to a black and white cat. Two guys sitting near her were teasing her about talking to us, but she just gave them a STFU stare and smiled at us.

She has a story, and it’s one that involves easy days and hard days. Your neighbor has a story. And your workmate does too. The guy you play pickleball with has a story. Every single one of us has a story, and we ache to have someone come alongside and walk with us for a while and listen to us as we talk ourselves to wellness.

The Camino means “way”. As I walk along and pass others, or more often now have others pass me, I say “Bom Camino — Good Way. “May you have a good way today.”

Aly had a good way today I think. She found us! And, of course, we found her.

Can you find Aly? She’s in the back. You have to work hard to find her. People like her are often just hanging out on the edges. You can see her smiling face there under Leanne’s arm. Leanne’s the one with the floppy hat.

Aly’s been found by people who didn’t even know she was lost. We almost missed her by the way. Now she’s gone ahead of us. She’s going to be okay. Not because of us on this one day. I’m not that full of myself. But because she’s on a way that has on it people like us, who are willing to see people like her.

Bom Camino.