[Camino Poem 27a] Bring Me Sunshine

This is an 'extra entry' within a series of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. It is about a poem that I wrote whilst in Camponaraya, on the 27th day of walking. 

A few times on the trip, my visit to a town had co-incided with the end-of-summer fiesta. Each time, I had taken a look, but inhibitions and over-walked legs asked me not to stay long (once I got a second-chance: the party was still going when I started my journey the next morning!). 

This night, I went and stayed. You could hear it a long time before you saw it. There was a huge stage, with live performers belting catchy pop tunes over the sound system. Restaurants and cafes spilled out along the edge of the town square, full of families in warm conversation. In middle of the plaza, hundreds of people were dancing. My favorite - the countless pairs of grandmothers chatting as they masterfully spun each other around. 

With encouragement, I joined. My body was relieved to be freed from its 500km template of right-left forward progress. I liked it. Couldn't stop smiling by the end. Wondered where that simple pleasure had been all my life.

Later that evening, I couldn't sleep. I found myself full of words. Found myself thinking back to June, when my mother got re-married. Found myself remembering the collective joy of witnessing her first dance with her new husband (David), as the band played 'Bring Me Sunshine'. 

Found myself deciding to get up and listen to the words.


One more thing: in his wedding speech, my new-step father (David) shared how both he and my mother had lost their first spouse, and that there was something bittersweet in recognizing that the joy of this day was only possible because of that loss. Brought me sunshine, hearing that. 


Bring Me Sunshine (for David)

Bring me sunshine, they sang

And how the world shone

When you danced together

And we looked on, proud 
and tearful,

Astonished by the joy

Of this late love.

Earlier that day, you spoke of loss

And how you both had met it hard.

And I want you to know

That you were my hero that day.

As if you took that broken child in me,

Saying

“Dear boy, it is ok to grieve

It is ok to miss your papa,

I will never be he

And your loving him is no threat

To your loving me.

So hold your sorrow gently,

And give it room to heal.

And see, dear boy, how we live again,

how you too might learn to feel”

And so it is, three months later, in a small Spanish town.

An end-of-summer fiesta has filled the streets with dancing.

And I find myself remembering the wisdom

Of rhythm, and sunshine, and elders.

And how, when so much in life is down to chance

We should never walk when we can dance. 

* I 'adapted' this last line from a saying that Marshall Rosenberg attributes to his grandmother.