taking care of myself

Today, for the second day in a row, I´m sitting in an internet cafe, lolling about and blogging instead of writing. I woke up in the middle of the night, in a huge airless room of dozens of sleeping, snoring women, and I realized that I couldn´t sleep. I realized that I had a fever. I realized that I was achy. I realized that I felt utterly miserable. I realized my hair hurt. (I realized I would have to take back all of the nasty things I ever said about Ryan when he whines about how his hair hurts when he´s sick.)

I panicked. How am I going to walk tomorrow?

The answer came quickly: I´m not.

Ever since I started walking the Camino, I´ve been amazed at how hard people will push their bodies just to arrive to Santiago before they have to catch a flight home. There is a kind of fervor, not even a religious fervor necessarily, to arrive, to get there.

Sometimes pilgrims are simply willing to endure pain. For example, pilgrims will walk with raw and hideous and excruciating blisters just to make it a bit further down the road. Others will continue on while they have terrible coughs and colds.

Other times, people don´t just suffer, they actually put their bodies at risk. Muscle pulls and unexplained pain that would cause people to sit still and not exercise for a week at a time at home are ignored. At home they would refrain from an hour of exercise, but here they walk for 6 punishing hours.

I´ve mentioned that most of the pilgrims are in their 50s and 60s. One day, I said to a pilgrim about my age who was trying to decide what to do with her injuries, whether to go on--"They only need those bodies for another 30 years, max. I might need mine for 60. Jimbo´s bones can wait."

I´ve learned to take a more balanced attitude toward my body, toward how it looks and how it feels. I am learning to make good, conscious decisions about what I try to push my body do in contrast with what it is capable of doing. Some days I want to walk further and my companions want me to walk further, but my body is not interested. So I stop. Or, if I go, I make sure that it is okay with my body. Some days my body wants to push on. Sometimes I need to pay attention to the pain in my blisters so that I can stop and care for them. Or I need to take a rest. Other times, it´s better to suck it up and keep moving.

One of the reasons the Camino is good for me is that it teaches, mandates balance. I don´t respond well to subtlety. I´m much better at intensive lessons. And this can be quite extreme.

So, early this morning I managed to get my things together and leave the monastery (yes. monastery). I lugged my unbelievably heavy bag (having feverish aches adds about 20 pounds to a pack) through the city to a hotel. People on the street looked concerned as I stumbled by. Some wished me a questioning "Buen Camino?" I begged my way into a hotel room at 8 a.m., trading my 3€ per night accommodations for 37€. I took Tylenol. I slept for endless hours. I feel better, though I still have no desire to eat a chocolate croissant, which should tell us all something.

I have quite a bit of practice with this balancing act when it comes to my brain, but thinking so carefully about my body is different. Thinking about the connection between my body and my brain is an even more excellent and useful project.

I have a fever about as often as I walk 500 miles--almost never. And I have a psychiatrist who forbids me from going without sleep. It´s a Rule. I don´t follow many Rules, but I follow that one. So here I am. There´s a lot of sunshine and a lot of vegetables and a lot of pilgrims who are going to be very happy to learn that I will be walking with them tomorrow . . .

(I´m fine, Mom. Really. I´ll call soon.)