[Camino Poem No. 37] The Truelove

This is the 37th of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this, the 37th day, I walked 20km from Perdouzo to Santiago.

"and you want to live and you / want to love and you will / walk across any territory / and any darkness / however fluid and however / dangerous to take the / one hand you know / belongs in yours"

After five hundred miles of walking, arriving in Santiago felt anti-climactic. There were no cheering crowds, I did not know whose hand belonged in mine, and I had an argument with the person I was walking with.

Mid morning, I had stopped in a cafe to read the poem of the day. There was much that I enjoyed in it. In particular: it captured (and captures) the sense in which faith, and love, are active choices: they are a stepping out, a saying yes, a taking of an outstretched hand.

There were also parts of it that I was less sure about. Is anyone 'rightfully yours'? And can a single person provide salvation from years of struggle? Why not start offering a hand, rather than waiting for a hand to be held out?

Over dinner I met a pilgrim from Texas. I recounted the story of the poem What You Loved, and told him a few of the things that my father loved. After listening keenly, he looked at me and added, 'and one of the things that he loved was you.'

The next day I left to start the 90km journey to the ocean. That too was one of the things that he loved.

The Truelove (David Whyte)

There is a faith in loving fiercely

the one who is rightfully yours

especially if you have

waited years and especially

if part of you never believed

you could deserve this

loved and beckoning hand

held out to you this way.

I am thinking of faith now

and the testaments of loneliness

and what we feel we are

worthy of in this world.

Years ago in the Hebrides

I remember an old man

who walked every morning

on the grey stones

to the shore of baying seals

who would press his hat

to his chest in the blustering

salt wind and say his prayer

to the turbulent Jesus

hidden in the water

and I think of the story

of the storm and everyone

waking and seeing

the distant

yet familiar figure

far across the water

calling to them

and how we are all

preparing for that

abrupt waking,

and that calling,

and that moment

we have to say yes,

except it will

not come so grandly

so Biblically

but more subtly

and intimately in the face

of the one you know

you have to love

so that when

we finally step out of the boat

toward them, we find

everything holds

us, and everything confirms

our courage, and if you wanted

to drown you could,

but you don't

because finally

after all this struggle

and all these years

you don't want to any more

you've simply had enough

of drowning

and you want to live and you

want to love and you will

walk across any territory

and any darkness

however fluid and however

dangerous to take the

one hand you know

belongs in yours.

https://www.facebook.com/PoetDavidWhyte/photos/a.213444315348246/1095682727124396/?type=1&theater

[Camino Poem No. 35] Having loved enough

This is the 35th of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this, the 35th day, I walked 40km from Portomarin to Melide.

By now, the walking had become routine. What was not routine was the emotional closeness I was developing with my walking companion. When you walk hundreds of kilometers with someone, it gives you a lot of time to talk (and also, to play twenty questions).

Most of my life, I have been good at hiding from the pain that I feel. The aliveness and depth of our conversations was not giving me much room to hide.

In the months after my father died (when I was eleven), I found ways to cut off the part of myself that felt grief, rage and fear. By now, that part had been alone for nearly twenty years - so it also felt lonely, abandoned, and shamed.

That evening, I spent time writing to that part of me. I pictured him as an eleven year old boy lost on the moors, shivering in some ditch somewhere. I apologized to him. I asked him where he wanted to be  (by a warm fire, in a house full of loving people, with plenty of other children to play with). I said I was here to listen to his pain.

He liked the poem that day -

Having loved enough (Mark Nepo)

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I’m no longer searching

just opening,

no longer trying to make sense of pain

but trying to be a soft and sturdy home

in which real things can land.

These are the irritations

that rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while

but then we must listen,

the way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

but then we must lay all distractions

down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I too feel alone. But seldom do I

face it squarely enough

to see that it’s a door

into the endless breath

that has no breather,

into the surf that human

shells call God.

[Camino Poem No. 33] Working Together

This is the 33rd of of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this, the 33rd day, I walked 22km from Alto de Poio to Furela.

After a very late and somewhat hungover start we stopped for breakfast after a few kilometres, and were delighted to run in to the mid-aged French pilgrim that we had shared dinner with the night before. My notes describe her simply as 'wonderful' and 'very philosophical'.

She chose my poem for the day - number fifteen. It was (and is) a poem written by David Whyte for (wait for it) .....  The Boeing Company. More specifically, it was to celebrate the introduction of a new passenger jet.

Somehow, Whyte finds soul food in the aerodynamics of a plane wing. Just as the wing is crafted to give a hulk of metal miraculous lift, by receiving the power of invisible flows of air, so too are we to shape ourselves to take advantage of the unseen forces in our lives.

Applied to a camino, the poem's implications may seem straightforward enough: don't be rigid in your planning, and instead develop a flexibility that allows you take advantage of the diverse places, people and lessons that will miraculously spring up in your path.

We ended the day with my second stay at Al Chemista (the art cafe). A place of rock crystal mosaics, hearty paella, and 'great intangibles'.


Working Together - David Whyte

We shape our self
to fit this world

and by the world
are shaped again.

The visible
and the invisible

working together
in common cause,

to produce 
the miraculous.

I am thinking of the    way
the intangible air

passed at speed
round a shaped wing

easily
holds our weight.

So may we, in this life
trust

to those elements
we have yet to see

or imagine,
and look for the true

shape of our own self,
by forming it well

to the great 
intangibles about us.

[Camino Poem No. 32] Intimations of Immortality

This is the 32nd of of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this, the 32nd day, I walked 32km from Villafranca to Alto de Poio.

The first time I read this poem through, I was squatting on the curb in a dusty car park which also serves as Villafranca's intercity bus station. I wasn't even sure that she was coming. But sure enough, when the Alsa bus arrived at 9am, she appeared. 

[Camino Poem No. 31] The Owl and the Pussycat

This is the 31st of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this, the 31st day, I went backwards 60km by car, from Furela to Villafranca. 

In Furela, I had stayed at the art cafe. When I came down to the kitchen for breakfast, chanting emanated from a weathered black CD player. A veteran pilgrim made porridge with fruit while his two dogs played outside. The owner of the house - 'the alchemist' - appeared and, when I asked him how he slept, told me that he had been with the Gods all night. He added, 'either you will understand or you will not. Either is fine.'

[Camino Poem No. 30] The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver

This post is the 30th in a series of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage trail in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 30th day), I walked 10km from Triacastela to Furela. 

I trudged the first two hours through light rain. Mid-morning, I passed a sign which read, 'art cafe, 10 mins off the trail'. I wanted to send a postcard to a friend, and thought that this might be a good place to buy one. But, in the mood I was in, 10 mins off the trail seemed too much effort.

Half a mile later, there was a a second sign to the same place. It added the promise of 'meditation and stillness'. I was on my way.

[Camino Poem No. 29] The Song of Hiawatha

This is the 29th of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage trail in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 29th day), I walked 18km from Linares to Triacastela. 

A sluggish start after the 14-hour adventure of the yester-day. Occasional gaps in heavy mist revealed vistas of the valleys below. The road offered steep ups and downs before yielding to a steady descent into Triacastela, where I finished.

At a mid-morning stop, the poem.

Maybe I should write the introduction to my thesis in the same style?

(and oh, to live with rhythm such as this!)

[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!). 

[Camino Poem No. 27] Psalm 139

This is the 27th of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 27th) day, I walked 26km from El Acebo to Camponaraya. 

Frequently, I wonder why I do this. This, being pilgrimage, but also things like meditation and therapy. 'This' seeming to involve a lot of pain (think: the trauma and vomit in Rabanal). What I tell myself is, 'I am opening. Opening to feel what is there. Opening to life. And yes, some of that will be hard, very hard. But there is also the beauty - you get to open to that too.'

This day was testament to that promise. I was astonished by the joy of walking and talking with my new-found friend. Remember the dawn? The descent through the mountain shadows? How our words were so alive that we did not so much walk but glide?

[Camino Poem No. 26] The Lake Isle of Innisfree

This is the 26th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 26th) day, I walked 17km from Rabanal to El Acebo. 

I woke feeling raw and weak after the ordeal of the night before. Fearing I would not keep it down, I did not eat. What could I do but keep walking?

It so happened that today's path went up, and up. Up, in fact, to the highest point on the camino - the Cruz De Ferro. For years, pilgrims have been depositing stones there, as a way of representing the 'putting down' of some burden that they were carrying. There is a large wooden cross, now surrounded by a mound of stones so high you can climb it.

[Camino Poem No. 25] After great pain, a formal feeling comes

This is the 25th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 25th) day, I walked 38km from Hospital del Orbigo to Rabanal. 

'Will! Do you have a poem for us today?'.

Calling out to me from a cafe on the way in to Astorga were Susanna and Clare, two women who I had met previously (and briefly) some two and a half weeks before. They remembered my poetry project!

[Camino Poem No. 24] When You Are Old

This is the 24th of 42 posts about the poems which carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2017. On this (the 24th) day, I walked 36km from Leon to Hospital del Orbigo. 

At about 3pm, I sat down in an endless maize field, resigned. It was a grim day, blustery, grey and chilly. 'Why am I here?', I heard myself ask, and it was not just about the camino.

Over dinner I finally ventured into conversation, and was rewarded with the company of an Italian pilgrim in his 20s. We talked about philosophy, and the power of questions - the beauty of opening to unknowns. For example: it being ok to 'not know' why you are getting up every day and walking West.

[Camino Poem No. 23] Desiderata

This is the 23rd of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 23rd) day, I walked 18km from Mansilla to Leon. 

A cold day. Much of the walking was alongside busy roads as we approached the city of Leon. 

Resting in the hostel, hot tears. On my previous camino, I was greeted here by a group of dear friends. This time, I recognized no-one in the cavernous dorm rooms. I had been choosing solitude and had barely had a conversation in the past week.

[Camino Poem No. 22] Walking Around

This is the 22nd of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 22nd day), I walked 37km from Sahagun to Mansilla de las Mulas. 

Today, horizontal rain. Streets blowing dust into my eyes. My summer clothes not warm enough by far. All I could think of was the final lines of Inversnaid - after weeks of stale heat, I was delighted for the fresh wildness.

Spent much of my long walking reading poems out loud, singing to myself, and listening to the clearing skies. Gone were the tight hips and knees - I walked, and I walked and I walked.

[Camino Poem No. 21] The Tobacco Shop

This is the 21st of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. 

I took a rest day, staying another night in Sahagun. Self-care. I am learning.

In the morning, I stayed in bed, flicking through TV shows I did not understand. Later I worked a little on my PhD, bought postcards for my family, and joined the nuns at the local convent to hear them sing their daily vespers. 

Returning to the silence of my room, I found myself jolted into new layers of grief, pulled back almost two decades to the days and weeks following my father's death. There is, it seems always more. More grief. More of the fear that holds the grief in (will it overwhelm me? will it overwhelm the people around me?). And more of the anger that comes from wanting to have grieved more back then. 

[Camino Poem No. 20] Late August

This is the 20th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 20th) day, I walked 16km from Ledigos to Sahagun. 

Sahagun is roughly the half-way point between St. Jean and Santiago. I was tired.

On the way in to town, I passed a sign saying '4* hotel, special pilgrim price!'. One hour later, I was asleep in the crisp sheets, body still smiling from the bath I had just taken.

I spent the evening writing, delighted at the clarity that was flowing out of me about how to develop my PhD ideas.

And then this poem. I let my room number chose it (no. 33*).

[Camino Poem No. 19] Wild Geese

This is the 19th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 19th) day, I walked 23km from Carrion de los Condes to Ledigos. 

Picture me reading this poem, sat on a bench outside a small church, on a hill overlooking a weary village. Wheat stubble in the fields all around. Morning heat softening to end of day. 

Me, walking hundreds of miles through the desert, softly. And loving what I loved. Which was the walking, the outside, the solitude, the big skies. Me, no matter how lonely, excavating my place in the family of things. 

What would a life be, to hear that call each morning, harsh and exciting?

Wild Geese - Mary Oliver (1935-)

[Camino Poem No. 18] The Dolphins

This is the 18th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this day, I walked 34km from Itero de la Vega to Carrion de los Condes. 

Here is what I scrawled in my journal after my early morning start: 'walk alone in the furious dark. breathe deeper, see deeper into the darkness. Find only love.'

At lunch I met a pilgrim who was making the lonely journey of walking in the opposite direction, away from Santiago. She explained how she got to meet everyone once, and only once. She was struck by the intensity of what she saw in the faces of the many pilgrims she passed - the joyful, the angry, the sorrowful.

[Camino Poem No. 17] One Art

This is the 17th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 17th) day, I walked 31km from Hornillos to Itero de la Vega. 

For days, I had been allowing myself to be tired. To let myself walk shorter distances. It was as if I was unravelling months, even years, of fatigue - opening up layers of fear, sadness, and shame, and letting them gently release.

When I rose early to walk on this, the seventeeth day, I felt excited. Fresh. The pre-dawn landscapes were mysterious and inviting. I marvelled at the blinking red lights of the distant wind farms, beckoning in every direction.

Simple pleasures, really. To be walking, breathing, exploring. To be free.

[Camino Poem No. 16] City Psalm

This is the 16th of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016.

Today began the Meseta, a 200km stretch between Burgos and Astorga that is known for being flat, hot and shadeless. Vast wheat fields open to the horizon.

For me, it was very peaceful. By chance, the weather was becoming much cooler.

I finished my walking with the daily poem, chosen by two pilgrims who stayed to hear me read it. The words felt dense - 'the air bears the dust of decayed hopes'. We discussed it afterwards.