Why Are You Walking?

Crossing the ocean by myself, arriving in Madrid, spending eight hours in the city solo, finding the train station and navigating directions in my broken 1994-university language skills.... taking a train across the Spanish countryside to Leon, walking without a map, GPS, and only roughly-sketched directions to an unmarked hostel (albergue) in a church a mile from the train station... All of that paled in comparison to the adventure and the vulnerability that lay ahead.

Arriving at the Albergue San Francisco (which, by the way, sounded to me like something everyone in town would know and readily give me directions to find. They did not), I carried my tired 36-hour traveling body and 11-pound backpack up two flights of stairs to a room I'd share with a stranger (or possibly three) for the night.

I opened the door hesitantly, not sure what I'd find on the other side. My first foray into through hiking, international backpacking, group sleeping, and pilgrimage, I knew I was the newbie here. And, I was open to glean, absorb, watch and learn.

On the other side of the door was a room with four bunk beds. Blue plastic-covered mattresses lined the bunks and on one bottom bunk in the far corner, under the white wood frame, was a thin, muscular, short-haired woman with what could only be described as a peaceful demeanor and open presence.

"Hola," I told her, nailing one of the Spanish words I grabbed confidently from my internal dictionary. "?Como estas? Me llama Rebecca."

With wisdom beyond her 28 or perhaps 35 years, she responded in the most elegant and cosmopolitan French accented-English. "Hi, I am Clementine."

Clementine was from Normandy, France. She wasn't new to this journey, not at all. In fact, she'd been at it for 18 months. For more than a year and a half, Clementine walked the Camino pilgrimage, starting in France, journeying for weeks on end until her vacation days were used, at which point she'd return home, work, and compile more days. She'd already traveled 750 miles and she was near the end with only 250 more to go.

My first night, here I am with a veteran. I relaxed in her calm, poised, zen presence and knew I could learn.

Clementine told me of Daily Meals, a restaurant offering of an appetizer, entree, dessert and beverage usually for 11 or 12 Euros. She told me vital things like the importance of taking off your socks and shoes as soon as you stopped for the night so that your feet could air out. "You have to take care of your feet," she said. "This is your journey and your journey alone. Nobody can take care of your feet for you, and once your feet are done, you are done."

She told me of shedding ounces and milligrams, ridding oneself and your pack of any thing extra--absolutely anything. As an example, she lifted up her guidebook and showed me the spine with 200 missing pages, a testament to only carrying what you absolutely need.

Her example made me think of my own pack, with five tuna pouces, two sliced apples, a small Rubbermaid container of peanut butter, two small bottles of hand sanitizer, two days worth of clothes, soap to wash my body and my apparel by hand, medical supplies, and so on. I had pruned and weighed and discarded items before leaving St. Louis, but here, now, in this white bunkbed-filled room above a Spanish church, I knew there was more within my pack I needed to discard.

Then, it happened--the first of many inexplicable life moments and intimate connection points I'd have along my journey. I asked her why she was walking.

With no pretense, no mask or framing, and with an authenticity I've rarely experienced outside the community of pilgrims along the Way of St. James, Clementine told me.

"My dad died when I was nine," she said, "so all my life I've dealt with abandonment issues. I am walking to deal with that, so that I do not feel alone any more."

Walking 1000 miles in solitude to feel connected to life, Spirit, humanity...to not feel alone. Her authenticity prompted me to drop any coverings or shields I may have previously felt necessary, so it was easy to answer when she asked me, "Why are you walking?"

For the first time outside of my own heart, and perhaps the first time my own heart even heard it out loud, I had the beautiful chance to share with Clementine the things that had brought me on this journey. An empty nest. A transition in life. A loss. A heartache. A betrayal, the death of a dog, a discovering and rediscovering of my self and the truest part of who I am... A chance to grow in courage and power and resilience and focus. A chance to do the scary thing and a chance to be brave in the midst of it. A chance to live fully. All of those things were summed up in, "I left my job. My life is changing, and I am here to decide what is next."

She showed me around town that day as late afternoon shadows cast mystery around the walls surrounding the Old City. Guiding me to the Cathedral, said to be one of the most majestic in all of Europe, Clementine then left me to meditate, pray, ponder and explore. I got lost going back to the albergue and, by the time I found it in the dusk of an already-resting sun, I'd wondered five miles without GPS, map, or decent language skills out of my way. Famished, I scoured whatever food I could remaining from the evening's pilgrim meal--a carrot and fish soup puree--then made my way back up the three flights of stairs to my waiting bed.

Clementine was asleep by the time I arrived, so I showered in the dark guided only by the small glow of my cellphone screen. Tomorrow before I left Leon I'd buy a SIM card and start on my journey. But, it had already started, hadn't it? There, in the dark, I reflected on crossing the ocean alone, the Spanish countryside, Clementine's trek away from abandonment and my own into purpose and courage.

As I rest my head to sleep that first evening, my first life experience of shared sleeping in a foreign land, I knew three things: (1) tomorrow I'd take care of my feet because nobody, nobody else is going to do so, (2) I had extra things inside my pack I needed to get rid of--both such a great metaphor for life, spirit, and my heart-- and (3) this journey would be one of a lifetime.