Número cuatro

 I’m sitting outside in at a cafe in Madrid at the Plaza de Juan Goytisolo near Atocha train station.  I’m eating a delightful salad of mango, avocado, and tomato, which is a bit of a surprise.  The only thing I don’t really like about Spain is the food.  Far too much meat.  

Why am I here in Spain?

The most basic answer is that I’m here to walk on the Camino de Santiago.  

I’ve written some version of this post on three other occasions—in 2007, 2009, and 2024–to explain why I was called to walk as a pilgrim.

In 2007, I walked from just over the border of France to the sea.

In 2009, I started in Le Puy, France then realized I wasn’t all that into speaking French, then took a train to Spain and walked about three days and left after realizing it wasn’t the right thing.

In 2024, I walked about 500 miles from Pamplona to Finisterre to celebrate turning 50.  I wanted to be proud of myself and of my body.  And I was.  I wanted to kick off my 50s feeling great.  And I did.

But then came a tough couple of years at work and a tougher couple of years in the United States.  I don’t feel strong and proud anymore.  Honestly, I feel just the opposite—weak and ashamed.  

After my first Camino in 2007, I said that I didn’t need to come back except in a few defined circumstances.  I wrote this:  “I think it would also be a good place for me to return to if I was trying to work out something difficult in my life.”

So I guess that’s why I’m here.  Two years ago, I arrived ready to walk.  The preparation made me feel powerful.  This time, I haven’t trained.  But I’m ready to walk my way into feeling better about myself and our world.  

It will be a different kind of walk—very short days until I’m feeling more confident.  I’ll have lots of time for reading and thinking and visiting with other pilgrims.  I hope to write, too. (Ask me about my exciting trifold Bluetooth keyboard that works with my phone!)

I don’t really know what to expect.  Maybe it will be the right thing for right now.  Maybe it won’t be.  We’ll have to find out.  It will be an adventure either way!  

numbing

 While discussing the stressful state of the world as it relates to addiction, my friend asked me directly, "Are you numbing yourself?"

Immediately, I declared that I was not.  But just a beat later, I replied, "Well, yes.  I'm eating sugar."

And it's true.  I've been relying on food, especially sweets, when I feel stress.  I'm sure there are subtler and more productive ways to go about handling that tendency, but I've decided to declare Sugar-Free April instead.  Starting tomorrow, I'll have no processed sugar for 30 days.  (Thank goodness it's a short month!)

It's been on my mind to try cutting out sugar for a long time.  I know I have a dependence on it.  I know I eat too much of it.  It wasn't until that conversation with my friend--the association with addiction and numbing--that it came into focus just how much I rely on consuming sweets when I'm upset.  

I expect unpleasant physical withdrawal symptoms.  The internet tells me that could last for weeks.  I really hope not.  It frustrates me to admit that my dependence is so extreme, and it intimidates me to consider the daily difficulty of resisting sugar, but that seems like all the more reason to challenge myself.

Thinking about the role of sugar in my life and how to keep healthy is part of a larger project of taking care of myself and others during this time.  We need to protect ourselves however we can.  We need to take control of what we can.

nature lies

9/11/2001 was a perfect day.  Perfect temperature, perfect skies.  The sun shone warmly on my face as I walked from my apartment in Arlington to the local hospital to see if I could donate some blood to help the victims at the Pentagon just a few miles away from my home where a plane had crashed into the building.  The juxtaposition of the weather and the terrorism was extreme, striking.  How could there be such a beautiful set to a horrific disaster?  It was jarring.

I feel that same disorientation now, too.  While winter's bleak slumber has given way to an explosion of blossoms, American society crumbles more each day.  Nature is taunting us.  Spring should bring renewal and hope to the soul; instead, there is a confusing backdrop of brilliant, flashy colors accompanying the determined destruction of the federal government.  The thrill of growth is offset by the demolition--not slow decay--of our proud institutions. 

blooming

Every year I go to see the D.C. cherry blossoms that encircle the Tidal Basin. Every year, I have to dig around for something pink and appropriate to wear. Not this year!

All month long, I’ve been planning for the joy of seeing this ephemeral delight, which is an especially precious experience given how little joy there is around in the Washington DC area right now.  I bought a preposterous pink hat.  I bought a sparkly pink sequin blouse.  I made a sign.  I was prepared.

I've been thinking a lot about joy and humor in the midst of the consuming and pervasive pressure of the "hostile government takeover."  That song--it makes me laugh.  It keeps me grounded.  Also, I watched Conan O'Brien's acceptance speech of the Mark Twain prize, which was powerful partly because of the expectation that he would make light of the times.  Reviewing Twain's career, he argued that humor is a vital tool to combat oppression.

Arriving before sunrise, I wandered from tree to tree past the assortment of visitors.  Peoplewatching is one of the pleasures of the yearly pilgrimage.  I met up with some friends, and together we marveled at the fluffy blooms.  Some strangers took my picture.  (One of them even sent it along to a friend of HERS who turned out to be a friend of MINE!)  Many people complimented my sign in solidarity.  I did have to explain the meaning of "blooming" to several folks, which was a bit of a challenge without using profanity.

It was a happy morning in the midst of a terrible time.

the death of democracy

    My beloved country is dying.  My country as I know it, as I knew it, as we knew it, is slipping away every day, and the tumult of feelings that accompany that painful death is acute and overwhelming.  
Like a death, it has been coming for a long time, yet, now that it’s here, it feels so sudden and consuming.  How will I live?  How will I go on?

The first amendment is at risk. Federal jobs are at risk. My students are at risk. The arts are at risk. Every single aspect of our health and safety. Every single person I know--even those in other countries--are at increased risk.
The other day when I was describing how I want to spend my summer protesting, I found myself repeating one word:  “exaggerated.”  And one of my friends asked me what I meant by that.  “Why do you keep saying that your feelings seem ‘exaggerated’?”  I guess because I can’t believe anything this massive, any shift this tectonic could be taking place to my home.
My home.

I feel so helpless. I don't really know what to do, but I do know how to write. So I am resolving to do that, just a little bit each day with whatever voice I have left to speak.

Day 48: Finisterre to Cabo Finisterre - 3.2KM

 I had a deliciously lazy day. I ate, snoozed, took a bath, ate ice cream, got a massage, and snoozed some more in my hotel room with a sea view. 

I planned to visit the lighthouse at sunset and was feeling a bit unenthusiastic about it. I didn’t know anyone to go with and it seemed more like a chore than a celebration. But I started following the yellow arrows and they led me past a restaurant where I saw two friends from earlier in the Camino who I hadn’t seen in about a month!  They introduced me to a new pilgrim, and we all started hiking up the hill toward the end.  On the way, we ran into someone I had met just a couple of days before from the United States.  We convinced her to turn back around and accompany us to the sunset. It was so nice to end my Camino this way:  with old friends and recent friends and brand new friends watching the sunset over the sea and the pink clouds stream by.

Day 47: Hospital to Finisterre - 26.5KM

 I walked to the sea and swam!

Day 46: Lámelas to Hospital - 17.3KM

Today was so much better than the past two days. Sunrise was beautiful. My walking day was short and sunny. I walked alone during the morning but met German Jana at breakfast and walked together for the rest of the day. 

I did laundry, showered, napped, and ate plenty of protein. I’m ready for a long walk and a short swim tomorrow.  Only 27km remain between me and the sea. So exciting!  I hope it feels like a joyful day tomorrow. I plan for an early start. I have no pressure at all to get there at any given time.  The Atlantic will be waiting for me. 

Day 45: Negreira to Lámelas - 21.7KM

 My body is tired.  I am trying to channel these two women I met earlier in my Camino who would pause outside of a town to enjoy arriving rather than rushing in.  I only have two days of walking left; I should savor them. Tomorrow is only 17km.  That will be the shortest day I have had since June 8. I’m looking forward to it. Now if only I could have some sun, too. Today was gray and misty. I still feel chilly from my arrival in Santiago several days ago after 9 hours of walking in the rain.

Today I found a walker who was my speed. Luis, aged 82, was a local Spaniard—not a pilgrim—who was following Lola the dog through his little town. He held an umbrella in one hand and a walking stick in the other.  We chatted for a while before I bid him goodbye.  It’s good to be able to speak Spanish with townspeople.

I’m staying in a tiny settlement. There are only a handful of pilgrims at the albergue. This is the final albergue I will be staying at.

Galicia continues to be green and beautiful.

Day 44: Santiago de Compostela to Negreira - 20.9KM

I nearly quit this morning as I was trudging out of Santiago, but a friend gave me a pep talk. I carried on. I could stop walking, but my ultimate goal was to make it to the sea, and I think I would be disappointed in myself if I didn’t do it. As Santiago fades into the distance, I dream of coming over that last rise and glimpsing the ocean.

There was a steady rain for most of the day. I walked by myself except for the last little bit during which I talked with Adrienne, a Virginian. We discussed being 44 and working in higher ed.

The walk was pretty.  I usually try to be present to people who pass me while walking, but I listened to music all day and sang to myself.

The Finisterre Camino feels quieter and more contemplative.  People often keep to themselves.  I arranged to have dinner with a pilgrim who I had met very early on who was on his way back from Finisterre and Muxía.  Another returning pilgrim joined us. For the two of them, that was their last night before arriving in Santiago the second time, so we discussed a lot of big picture ideas about our own experiences about what we have learned over the past several weeks.

I have three more days of walking until I reach the sea.