Your Story

The days have mingled together, slipping by like the butter that slips over your morning croissant. Coffee, made the Spanish way, is the only constant in your month of walking. You have learned how to ask exactly for what you want now through elaborate games of charades. The early mornings have you walking up to five miles before breakfast. In that haze you admit your addiction. You admit that you are not strong enough, alone, to face the days. The daze of walking has become a trance that you fall in and out of. Each morning you will wonder if your feet still work.
They do.
Usually.
You have learned to find other pilgrims based on a specific way of walking. They call it the Diesel engine start. The movement that follows standing up starts slow, and requires some momentum to shift into a normal rhythm. "It does not matter how slow you go, so long as you do not stop."
But you do stop, often, in the bars scattered through the small towns.
You stop to say hello to the new flowers.
You stop to admire the walls of stone, reinvented by nature with moss.
You stop to breathe in air that everyone else on earth is breathing.
You start to feel the ebb and pull of the universe taking care of you. Intuition is gaining back her voice as you listen to and respect your body. Your story.
And I say yours because it is easier than saying mine.
Because everything I learn, I learn from you. From others. From reflections, inward and out.
Every fiber of life is vibrating with explanation, waiting for someone to listen. I have chosen to listen. I hope you will too.
This is your story, this is my story.
We walk and write alone, together.

Taped Together

Currently, tape holds your world together.
The rip in your shorts, the arch of your foot, the pain in your knee. Pretty soon, the world around you will start believing in mummies. As the days go on, the current parts of your body that are stressed will displace their stress to other parts. Tape is always there for you. Even though every time you walk into a new store tape has a new name to use to find it.
But you always do after elaborate games of charades. By now, you are sure you could enter charade competitions. .
Even though your body aches, it still works, surprisingly.
Walking 500 miles isn't easy. Go figure.
Sometimes you want to scream. And you do. And temporarily you feel as crazy as you are.
And when you look at your hand with the wine bottle line, taped together of course, you'll find yourself wishing tape could hold together your thoughts. That it could close that hole where chaos leaks in and out so that you can feel peaceful as you move across the Meseta. The Italian man warned you that this part of the journey is for the mind, and your mind, pulled by physical pain with hints of emotional turmoil, is active. Even if you aren't spiritual, you end up having to face your spirit directly. Not even a good riddle can stop you from thinking about yourself.
About who you are.
What you are.
You are nothing more than a collection of the earth on foot. And although strong, you are fragile.
Although fragile, you are alive.
And alive, you are inspired to find the things you can use as mental tape.
What holds your spirit together as it processes everything?
Each step has become half mind half will, and you will move through it all,
Held together perhaps....
By tape

The Speed of Life

You've got the entire world in front of and behind you.
And it is flat.
And it seems to end by never ending.
The wind mills spin in the silence of the rising sun and falling moon as a deer races across the path and the birds warm up their vocal chords. Mornings are for love. Soft and sweet and tenderly they wait to be seen, or not, but you are lucky if you remember to look.
When you can't find any other boot prints, you realize your desire to walk up the hill with the pink path over ruled your logic for the man made signs. And you have walked off the path onto another.
You turn around, trying to excuse yourself for your mistake,
But then you realize you do not need excuses; this is your Camino.

So you slow down. You listen to the birds. You look back at the city you slept in. You breathe.
And you walk by the edge of the road on the way down, watching the place where plants have dared to grow. In the middle, only footprints and rocks are left, while along the edges the blackberries, the fig trees and the thistles grow.
This is the speed of life.
The speed only your feet can take you, where you can see everything that is. The way that it is.

No Pan, No Han

The world becomes more cloudy than it is.
Not the pretty whispy kind  of cloudy, but dark thunderhead cloudy.
Your double shot of espresso has worn off. The twice run, same bean double shot, that is.
And even though you were convinced that there is probably more hydration and less caffeine content in your drink, now you're left to wonder. Will you make it?
Voices are speaking at you, and your usual sunshine patience is no where to be found.
The sunflowers that comb the hills seem to have sucked all the sunshine out of the sky, and words, for you, seem impossible. Then you remember.
Then you remember you ate a croissant 5 hours ago and have been walking since.
And your body is relieved that there is nothing wrong.
Nothing that bread can't fix.
You pull the still warm loaf from your bag, and the clouds begin to blow away.
And suddenly you feel sorry for your silent treatments.
And try to explain the word Hangry in Italian, and German, and Spanish.
And once you feel moderately understood, you continue to walk.
Because that is what you do.
This is Your Camino.
No pan, no Han.