June 2, 2024 Reflection

The Pilgrim’s Way or Camino which Nancy is now walking is one of the great medieval Christian routes that brought travellers on foot from all over Europe and beyond, to end at the glory that is the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela, where tradition says the remains of the apostle James are buried.

For over 1200 years, this Camino has been walked by the faithful, seeking salvation and forgiveness for their sins. 

Although almost 450 000 pilgrims walked these seven routes last year, now we modern pilgrims likely walk to experience the Divine, to uncover a deeper meaning in their lives, and to find deep answers to life’s inevitable suffering.  For some the Camino is a long prayer of petition for a suffering loved one 

Those who walk also experience the sheer delight of it. We certainly did. Perhaps it is the simplicity of the task at hand—just to walk.  Perhaps it is the pleasure of being with good people with a common purpose.  Perhaps it is being in the sunshine and nature for days and days or perhaps the cares of daily life fall away in these new surroundings.  For sure, it is the laughter that wells up around tables each evening as stories of the day are shared.

The path is beautiful.  Small cafes along the way sell food and coffee or sangria or cold beer. Other pilgrims are friendly, and the scenery is varied and rich. And I wanted to go.

When we talked about it last spring, Roger, being the great husband he is, set about making this happen.  Marc Coulombe had done the walk the year before and he put Roger in touch with the organizers of his trip. 

Soon Marc and Roger and I were sitting in the coffee shop at Parkgate.   Marc opened his knapsack and produced, among other things, a lovely map of the journey we would take–and  a bag of socks!  While he preferred the double socks, he also had brought some with toes.

That’s one thing about the Camino:  Most conversations begins with even strangers asking, “How are your feet?  When Nancy decided she was going, Roger showed up next day in her office with toe socks and walking poles. That’s because this particular spiritual practice is done with the body.  It is  praying with your feet.  We did one step after another, up to 30,000 steps per day, 145 km–  That’s a lot of prayers.

But Marc also asked us: what is your intention?  This is where the Camino becomes personal.  I pondered that question for a long time.

As a child, I had believed that not only were we Christians good people, but that Christianity itself had been a force for good in the world.  But everything I learned as a young adult led me to a different conclusion.  I became judgemental and unforgiving as I considered the history of my faith. As young people will do, I eventually rejected the church.

So when personal disaster in my late forties sent me looking for a spiritual practice to sustain me, I took up the Buddhist path.  But gradually, I had returned to the Christian faith.  I had come to love Mount Seymour and the United Church.  But I was still angry about the past.  I longed to come to terms with our history.

And since I was going to be a Pilgrim, walking through Spain, home of the Spanish Inquisition, among other horrors, making a pilgrimage to a massive Cathedral built over the putative bones of a saint,  What better time?

So my intention on this pilgrimage became: to redeem Christendom.

And so we went to Spain. We were a group of 9 pilgrims.  We began our walk in a tiny village in the hills right beside a huge 18^th c. Benedictine monastery meant to house 200 monks.  When we toured it, we learned there were 8 monks in residence. After centuries of offering hospitality to pilgrims, they could barely keep their doors open. I soon understood that the old ways were struggling to survive in Spain.

Every village had a church, that was true.  Most were open and we stopped each day to light a candle and pray and leave a donation.  But more often than not, the church had services only once a month and few came.

 I soon realised that the Christendom I was angry at was in my mind.  That my judgements were what I needed to pay attention to, to redeem.

Each morning after breakfast, our group gathered on the sidewalk and said a prayer for the day, for the learnings we would have, for the strength we would need, for the people we would meet along the way.

At first the walking was very hard, As the day went on, our strength would wear thin, and we discovered the weaknesses we couldn’t hide.  But we also learned  the depths of our reserves, and found strengths we didn’t know we had.  We became resourceful, finding ways to go on when it didn’t seem possible to take another step.  (They were called taxis.).

Because Roger and I began to respect our age and stage as the elders in the group and we learned to not make life more difficult than it needed to be.  We learned to laugh, to stop when we were tired, to rest (but not for too long) and most of all, to keep on keeping on. 

Sometimes the group walked a while together.  Mostly I walked alone.  I didn’t walk with strangers though others did.  Sometimes, especially late in the day, when weary, Roger and I would find each other and walk together.

We stopped at every single church, lit candles and said prayers for everyone that we knew who was struggling– and we prayed for ourselves. We each kept on facing our own demons in our own particular ways.

At the end of each day Julio, one of our leaders, would be waiting at a café to take us to our hotel, his smile wide, his arms open. A survivor of the genocide of his people in Guatemala, the Camino had given him back his joy seven years before and now he walks each year, to remember and re-release.

I walked a while with a woman in our group who was in deep pain about her relationship with her daughter.  This conversation triggered my own sadness at the distance that had recently grown between me and my daughter.  I walked alone for most of that day, pondering this.  At first I stayed with my complaints and disappointments, turning them over and over in my mind. Then, slowly, I began to remember the joys this relationship has also brought. I began to recognise with my heart that my daughter and I were both changing, that she was a blessing in my life, because she was forcing me to change and grow, that, instead of holding on to what had been, it was time for me to practice letting go and trusting life.

At the moment, I saw a pure white stone, almost smooth, at my feet.  I picked it up and put it in the pocket over my heart. I carried it for the rest of the Camino and laid it at last on the altar to Mother Mary in Santiago, committing to offering my Mother-love but from a different, wiser place.

At the beginning, I did not really like everyone I was travelling with.    But then, as we shared our days with each other and offered our experiences with open hearts, as we laughed together in the evening and (literally, each morning) bound each other’s wounds, I noticed I Ioved them, love this community we have made. 

On our final day, as we approach the Cathedral we hear the piper.  We walk through the arch to the sounds of this music and now we are in the Cathedral Plaza celebrating with other pilgrims the feeling of completion, of having done what there was to do.  We are laughing and crying with joy.  Here we are!   We have done it!

We took the obligatory pictures and stayed there celebrating for a while.  Then, as one does, we went to our hotel and did our laundry.. 

That evening I squeezed into the Cathedral.  It was packed with pilgrims and tourists for the Pilgrim’s Mass.  Pilgrims who are Catholics are invited to receive Mass.  The rest of us are not.  We are invited, our Catholic friend told us, to receive a blessing.  We would indicate this to the officiating Priest by crossing our arms on our chest.

I stood in the line, arms at my side, waiting my turn.  I realised my heart as beating hard, as hard as it had when I first saw the hills I thought I couldn’t possibly walk over. I reached the Priest. Lifting my arms, I held out cupped hands, held them out for the consecrated wafer, for the body of Christ.  He placed it in my hands and I put it on my tongue. It was dry and thin and stuck in my throat.

I don’t know how to tell you how much that act of sacred defiance meant to me.  It dissolved my anger at the historical church, l dissolved my judgements—and my self righteousness.  It was a holy moment, an experience of inviting God into me.  It was what I had come for and it was more than enough.  I had claimed for myself this ancient holy experience, this uniting sacrament of Christendom.  As the Mass ended, the censor swung spreading incense over us, the organ pealed out and a choir of voices burst into song somewhere high above.  Perfect.

After that experience in the Cathedral, the Camino ended for me.  Roger and I prepared to go home.  (picture of Nancy again)

I know you understand that each pilgrim walks their own Camino.

And as I think of Nancy there, walking that Path , I wonder: what will her Camino will be?