Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 23
Miguel's concerns for mental and physical health weigh on him as he searches for answers.
I wanted to erase the memories of Modena and Rome, leave them like footprints on the trail behind me to be covered over, and for a rain to wash out to the ocean to be forgotten. My mother once said that the ocean helps heal the soul. It was where she went to heal after her father’s passing. I was far from the ocean, but hoped my ache would find a place there to dissolve in the waves. The sun had pushed the morning clouds to the north. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, and then opened them again. It was about midday; the sky had brightened and the air had grown still. I heard a whisper.
“God loves you.”
What?
“God loves you.”
“What?” I looked back and to my sides. I was far ahead of my companions.
“Listen.”
I looked around again, hoping to see someone.
“To what?”
The sudden brightness of the sky vanished. I roved on, forgetting about where I was headed or why. I wasn’t dizzy or disoriented, but in a haze. I slowed down and dragged my feet, and before I knew it, I was upon the hermitage of St. Nicholas.
It could not have been the wind. There is no wind. No voice had boomed from the heavens. It wasn’t sunstroke or overexertion. I’m fine. My feet were still wrapped in pain, but that ebbed and flowed. I was not thirsty or hungry. The sky had brightened and a voice had clearly spoken. I checked my pulse, remembering that in Berlin I had gone two days on three hours’ sleep and my body had rebelled: an irregular heartbeat, a cold sweat had soaked my T-shirt and I had been unable to sleep though my body begged for rest.
“Listen?” I asked again.
Sandra arrived with Sakura and we entered the hermitage, as Sakura planned to spend the night there, though it was only 1:30.
The long narrow building resembled an old church on the exterior, but inside it was cozy. The beds were on either side of the building. It was spotless, but not clinical—a building of this age could not be. Originally built in the thirteenth century, it had been restored to feel like a true resting place. A long dining room table was set across its center. A voice called and then came close.
“Ciao, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Are you staying?” asked the woman, with skin made bright red by the sun.
I had not planned on stopping so early.
“Are you staying?”
Sakura looked at her watch.
“You are victims of the clock. You should not worry so much. You are on a pilgrimage.”
“But it is early,” Sakura replied. “And the weather is good for walking.”
The hospitalera replied, “If it’s the Camino telling you to continue, fine. If not, you should consider staying.” Sandra said nothing and again I turned toward the caretaker who smiled and said, “Listen, you have come from far, and we have too, but we have to listen to what the Camino is calling you to, no matter how long the distance or how short the time.”
We stepped to the door. Sakura spoke for the three of us, “Gracias, pero nos vamos. Llama el Camino.”
“Bene,” the caretaker nodded. “Va bene. Buen Camino, pere-
grinos.”
“Gracias.”
I felt fine, but confused. What was that voice? A breeze tugged at Sakura’s kerchief again. As we entered Itero de la Vega, Sandra’s left foot continued giving her trouble, and I hoped it would stop her for a day or two and allow me to rest without having to leave her. Blood dotted on her gray sock. Every so often, she would remove her shoe, check her foot, and walk on—the slight limp after each pause vanished after only a few steps. She was a machine.
I walked behind her and Sakura behind me. I continued to pulverize the thin layer of tissue and skin between my heel bone and the ground. My sneakers surrendered to the trail. By attrition, spiritual concerns gave way to physical needs.
I should have stayed in Burgos. No mindless marching, no weird voices. God loves me? Not my feet. What the hell am I doing here? No voice. No bright sun. I should have stayed in Burgos. Anger and pain blocked thoughts. All sights and sounds were sucked down by a whirlpool that led directly to my heels, where they were crushed. The scraggly patches of grass no longer cushioned my feet against the pain.
When we finally arrived in Frómista, my feet throbbed and an unquenchable itch emerged. My soles were dotted in pink, white and red. I could see and feel them throbbing. A small lump rose on my left ankle. This no longer made me ask for signs. Sandra and Sakura rushed off to shower. I lay down and prayed. God, I know you led me to the Camino. I must stop. Silence? I will. Pilgrims shuffled in and out of our room, in and out, in and out. To the shower and back.
*
“Miguel. Miguel.” Sakura shook me awake. “Miguel, you better shower. It’s almost time for dinner.”
The shower restored some energy, but I limped around to do my chores. I scrubbed my clothes, paying particular attention to the armpit areas of the T-shirts, where salt and sweat had cooked into a shiny, yellow substance that resembled mucus. I hung them to dry just as Sakura called me to go shopping for next day’s breakfast, and then we went to dinner. My blue sandals made my feet appear even redder, and I could feel every pebble, every stone, and crack in the pavement.
We sat for yet another menú de peregrino. There were varying degrees of quality and care in the preparation of these meals, but the consistency of the offering was machine-like. It seemed as if a factory had shipped them to every restaurant from Roncesvalles to Santiago.
After dinner, Sandra and Sakura strolled while I limped to St. Martin’s Church, a Romanesque treasure from the past. Swallows chirred and cheeped while circling the building. Many consider the church a wonder of preservation and restoration. Built as part of a monastery in 1066, it was restored between 1895 and 1904 and had received intermittent attention since then. Decay and neglect would have claimed it, just like the hospital outside of Navarrete. Its fawn exterior walls contrasted with the white, pristine atmosphere inside.
Columns lined the burly walls like the ribs of a large dinosaur. Many of its bricks had small pits and other marks of time and they were tinted red with age. I shook my head. The Camino is about 1,000 years old (at least in Christian terms), and although these buildings always reinforced that bond with the past, it felt like a revelation every single time. “Wow,” I said softly as I entered the church, recognizing that my two aching feet were standing where thousands—if not millions—had walked in centuries past.
The walls, the ceiling and the furniture had no paint, no carvings, and no figures. A lone crucifix behind the altar was the single element of warmth. Light streamed in through the windows of the dome, making it feel like walking surrounded by fresh-fallen snow. There was some decoration, but it was so subtle and it seemed more pagan than Christian. Figures with exposed genitals seemed to be depicting the Garden of Eden. Others were simply portraying sex acts. There were whispers and snickers, and I wasn’t in the mood for a lesson on ancient erotic art. I wanted to just be with my thoughts.
My companions weren’t in much of a sightseeing mood either, so we walked out and over to the church of San Pedro, where it was quiet, dark and completely abandoned. The altar and the ceiling didn’t offer much art or many history lessons about the people who built it, so I sat and closed my eyes.
“I’m not asking for anything, for a wish or to bring her back. I know you won’t bring her back. Sometimes I think I’m fine with that and sometimes I wish I could just make her reappear, but she’s gone. I’m glad I still have her letters. For now, I just need to know why I’m here. My feet hurt, they really hurt, and my heart is aching, too. I’m even hearing things. I just seem to be on a long walk through Spain. I’m tired.”