To be a pilgrim

Notes from the Camino, 1

Photo by José Antonio Gil Martínez

‘This is the journey that we cannot Not take.’
—Phil Cousineau, The Art of Pilgrimage

Dear reader,

Last week I went on a pilgrimage in northern Spain, walking the last 115km of the Camino Francés—one of the routes on the famed Camino de Santiago, (the Way of St. James). The experience was at once painful, joyful, complicated, simple and profound.

I have always loved walking and hiking, but this was something very different. I think that pilgrimage is a rite that everyone, however spiritually or religiously inclined, would benefit from partaking in at some point in their lives.

It is a journey that I will reflect on for some time, and I wanted to share some of those reflections with you as they come to me. The first of these is a poem.

To be a pilgrim

It would all be easier
if I hadn’t made so many mistakes.

In the darkness, I can hear the hammer
strike the nail deeper
into Christ’s flesh, splintering the woodwork.
With every blow he whispers to me
’I know, I know.’

Buen Camino.

Life doesn’t come to you,
it’s waiting for you
to start putting one foot in front of the other.
Sore legs, split skin, broken hearts—
these are proof of living, proof
that you’re on your way
even if you’re uncertain
where it is you need to go.

Buen Camino.

At Mass on Sunday, the pilgrims light candles
for their loved ones. I watch a man’s soul crumple
as he speaks of his dead wife. I watch
as a young woman shines through her tears
telling the story of the refugees she teaches,
how they were forced to walk away from their lives
instead of through them.
We cheer one pilgrim’s 70th birthday,
we shroud the room in silence
as we hear of the stage four cancer
that was recently diagnosed.

Buen Camino.

After my walk is done I sit cross-legged in the Plaza,
socks sticky with dust and pus and sweat.
I’ve made it—but to where?
Nearby, a man is lying flat on his back,
hands folded in prayer. He stays there for hours, the tourists swirling by.
A middle-aged couple make the final steps
kissing each other on the mouth
while weeping.
A group from Korea arrive
and start jumping for joy
hugging each other
and waving their walking sticks in the air.
Two girls, tired but trying hard to be fabulous,
spend a few minutes taking pictures of themselves
for Tik Tok or Instagram—smiles, pouts, backs arched,
packs positioned to frame the cathedral just so.
Then they leave.

Buen Camino.

I knew my knee would fail at some point,
but when the moment came
and I could barely walk
I met Randy from Knoxville
and we’d talk about fatherhood
and what he had to give up after his heart surgery
and how it would all be easier if I hadn’t made so many mistakes
and what kind of God would die on a lonely hill
in order to whisper to you in the darkness.
I don’t know. But I gave my pain to the conversation
and the miles just let us go.

Buen Camino.

There’s nothing inherently sacred about The Way.
It’s holy because there are people on it,
struggling through their journey, doing their bit
to help each other along the road.
I realise (I really should have known)
that there’s no point getting anywhere
if you get there alone.

Buen Camino.

©Gideon Heugh

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