Day two of walking. My legs thought it was day two-hundred. I managed about twenty kilometres, mainly on rocky paths through mountain forests. By the time it was eleven am, the heat was stifling.
When I walked the route three years ago, I spent this second day in a deep and wonderful conversation with an Italian man. I could feel myself looking for him again, asking around each corner, ‘perhaps Francesco will be here?’. No Francesco, but I did have fun struggling to explain what gravy was to a curious Korean.
With walking done by midday, there were many hours to fill with writing, resting, and reflecting. I asked a Dutch woman in the albergue (hostel) to choose one of the forty remaining poems. ‘Number 10’, she offered.
It has been a favourite of mine, and it hit home. Deciding to walk this camino was not easy – there were many *reasons* not to. But: the stars did begin burn through the sheets of cloud, and there was a new voice, which I slowly recognized as my own.
(thanks for the recommendation, Marcia Christen)
Day 3 - The Journey – Mary Oliver (1935-)
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – – –
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – – –
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – – – determined to save
the only life you could save.
When I walked the route three years ago, I spent this second day in a deep and wonderful conversation with an Italian man. I could feel myself looking for him again, asking around each corner, ‘perhaps Francesco will be here?’. No Francesco, but I did have fun struggling to explain what gravy was to a curious Korean.
With walking done by midday, there were many hours to fill with writing, resting, and reflecting. I asked a Dutch woman in the albergue (hostel) to choose one of the forty remaining poems. ‘Number 10’, she offered.
It has been a favourite of mine, and it hit home. Deciding to walk this camino was not easy – there were many *reasons* not to. But: the stars did begin burn through the sheets of cloud, and there was a new voice, which I slowly recognized as my own.
(thanks for the recommendation, Marcia Christen)
Day 3 - The Journey – Mary Oliver (1935-)
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – – –
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – – –
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – – – determined to save
the only life you could save.
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