Caught in my own trap

The busyness of the Camino.  When I first started this journey on the Camino I had expected to write a lot more often. But my efforts seemed to be thwarted by a self-driven sense of, “I need to get there.”  Every day I stopped to calculate miles/kilometers traveled versus estimated miles/kilometers to get to Santiago.  And as I focused more and more on the numbers and taking pictures along the way to remember places, I notice this idea that I’ve been driven by some sort of fear of not being able to complete the Camino at all or just as bad not beating the June 1^st deadline.  My experience of the Camino has been locked up in a trap, a mental trap that I set myself.

And as a result I focused more on riding longer distances taking on the harder days and sitting in the saddle.  Stopping frequently to get those pictures to show everyone.  And what I was missing was the disappointing part. By worrying about getting there I was avoiding meeting new people and getting to know them.  If you walk the Camino you have the intermittent opportunities to dialog with folks as you move along.  You may change your cadence to keep up or slow down.

But on a bicycle you’re pretty isolated.  Traveling at faster speeds and at times on different paths you have to maintain awareness of the terrain as it quickly changes second to second.  Walkers don’t need to focus that way.  Plus cyclist don’t usually have the room to ride two abreast of each other and so it’s not as common to build those relationship while traveling.

It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve realized these issues.  By staying in the saddle longer, stopping only to eat and sleep and based on the dynamics of cycling I haven’t been participating in the best part of the Camino: meeting people from all over.

Early on I had brief encounters with a few people when I was too tired to go on.  But it’s only been in the most recent few days that I’ve ended my days earlier and managed to put myself in social areas along restaurants, bars, and common rooms where people stop for early dinner/late lunch, a beer, or a coke.

I had dinner with a retired banker from Minnesota, catholic seminarians from New York, a stamp investor from South Africa, fund raising consultant from Hawaii’, an oil rig chef from Japan, married couple from Australia, two bosom buddies from Canada, and a Lutheran minister from Denmark.  ‘

I’ve met others, but these are the ones I’ve sat with and had lunch/dinner/snacks with.  These are the ones who I’ve had introspective conversations about life, culture, our shared experiences on the Camino.  Some offer wisdom that helps me understand better my role as a priest and pastor. 

I can say without a doubt that a conversation I had on Sunday has literally helped me clarify my role as a church leader and what I should be doing and saying to the people in my spiritual cure.

As I am getting closer to the end of the Camino, to Santiago I don’t feel the rush.  I can see the end is in reach.  And I’ll do my best to take these last few days to spend time where it matters and that is with the people that God has brought here at this time in place to take this same journey with me.

In preparing my congregation for my time on the Camino de Santiago I often referred to the pilgrimage as a metaphor for life.  I hope that we can take this life lesson I’ve learned along the Way and use our time on the journey to meet new people.  Hopefully we;’ll talk with them allow them to learn from us and us from them.

Contentment

She stands at the outer door, arms crossed and leaning against the doorpost. Waiting? For what?  It’s impossible to know without asking.  Is she thinking about this pueblo, this little village that she’s lived in or lived for her whole life?  How peaceful it is?  How much she loves it? How much she wants to leave it?  She watches me approach, and I see her?  I’m hungry and tired at the lunch hour.  Do you have a sandwich I ask? And through a series of exchanges she goes inside and begins to make a sandwich.  She seems neither perturbed at an intrusion to her solace nor elated to see a stranger ride in to her sleepy little town of Zariquiegui.

And the young boy in Navarette. He couldn’t have been older than 15 years. Standing behind the bar dutifully carrying out the tasks him mother gives. He has a simple look on his face and wears jeans and a provincial futbol team jersey.  Learning the ropes to one day take over this family business of serving those of us who pass by this town on the way to something bigger?  Does he care?  Does he want more?  Is he content with his life?  Does he look forward to the day he can run the business on his own or the day that he breaks away from the bar and the town?

As we pass through village after village all seemingly the same, small stone houses and narrow brick and stones streets I feel the sense of contentment.  Especially from the older people.  These are the ones who in the noon day sun stand under the shade of trees near the watering fountains to discuss, “What?” I don’t know.  But in each village it’s the same.  In the evening the old married couples stroll the vineyard’s adjacent paths and masonry roads; the cool air and a happy “buenas tardes” on their lips.  They are content.

They have a wealth of history and tradition.  Millions of dollars in gold chalices and leaf overlayed on alter pieces and statues show there is material wealth to be had if it is wanted.  Those things are held collectively by the church or the state as museum articles.  Outward appearances seem to show that the villagers have less individual positions relative to Americans.  And the villagers appear in my estimation to have less interest in upward mobility.

That’s not to say that they don’t aspire to better things in their individual lives.

It seems there is very little room in our world for a person to be content with their life.  That in order for a person to be considered successful in our country in our life we have to be upwardly mobile.  We must be making more money possessing more things.  We must be married with children, and on, and on, and on.

There are times when I am more aware of how messed up our American way of life is, and this is one of those times.  The imperative of the gospel of Christ is to be content with what one has.  It doesn’t mean to not aspire to great things.  But it means enjoy what you have and be satisfied. Give us this day our daily bread.

 

All things are possible.

Yesterday (Tuesday 6^th) was grueling. Pamplona to Muruzabal (Not even on the map) was deceptively easy at the beginning.  Leaving the city there were nicely paved asphalt and light gravel paths; I passed the occasional walking pilgrim on the way.  Under these conditions even some of the steep and short climbs weren’t so bad.  As the foot path parted from the adjacent auto-road I began to climb.  Moderately at first.

Just outside of Pamplona I climbed into the village of Zuzir… where I found St. Juanista Church and albergue.  Hosted by Francisco (Paco to his friends) and his wife they gave me water and encouragement.  He was impressed that I would take on this journey.  I asked to go into the church to pray.  I did.  I talked to God and cried a bit.  Water bottle filled I said goodbye to Paco and another walking pilgrim from Italy. Jacob (I saw him today, Thursday, in Viana) wanted to take a selfie with me and commended me for taking on the journey.

Rolling through and out of town I found a panderia (bakery) and had a delicious honey pastry that I devoured with fork and knife.  Believe me, I’m burning every carb I consume.  I got directions to the way, and off I went.  Again passing walkers I began to climb an easy gravel path, it became too steep and I had to dismount and push myself up a bit more.

One of the problems I struggle with on a bicycle is that if I’m in a stopped position I cannot restart facing uphill.  I need about five feet of movement to set my prosthetic foot on the pedal to start pumping again.  Most of the time I can turn the bike downhill, build momentum, and turn around to start climbing. But these paths were two walkers wide, too narrow to turn the bike.  So if I lose my momentum I have to walk up the hill.  I did a lot of that today.  At times I push the bike up 12 inches and step myself.  It’s slow going.

At one point I found the two older men I had passed a few minutes earlier were overtaking me.  I reached a stopping point to rest.  After asking me in French, Spanish, and finally English he kindly offered to help get my bike up the next hill.  The irony was palpable.  I thanked him for his gesture and declined.  I made it up that hill only to find a steeper albeit shorter hill.

I spent more time walking uphill today pushing and pulling my bicycle than I did riding it.  I’ve dubbed this move the Texas-12-inch step.  I can’t tell you how arduous it was, physically and mentally.  As a handful of walkers and cyclists passed me by on the way I felt the Overwhelming.  What am I doing?

Then came the heavy gravel.  Uphill and heavy rocks the size of cobblestone loosely lined the path.  Unsteady and dangerous the walkers managed ahead.  The one cyclist I watched with envy as he pumped left and right up the steep slope.  Impossible for me to do.  He was a local from a village, carrying only himself.

At one point in the late afternoon I was the last pilgrim on the road.  No one passed me anymore because the pilgrims behind me had stopped for the day.  Alone, looking up at the cobblestone path ahead I toiled up the side of a mountain. 

Behind me I could see Pamplona in the distance beckoning and I understood why Lot’s wife looked back.  The way back was safer and secure.  You knew where you were when you looked back.  It’s easier to go back.

The way forward was dangerous and unknown.  The way forward seemed to never end.  With each approach to the top of the hill I was greeted with another hill.

And at the beginning of the next climb is when my emotions swelled; I began to think, “I can’t do this.”  It’s not possible for me.  And through tears I thought, I tried.

And immediately I knew someone was praying for me.  And that mantra entered my thoughts: 

All things are possible

All things are possible  

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible

All things are possible with God.

I became like Samson.  I was overwhelmed with the strength of God.  My broken and tired body was carried on eagles’ wings.  Thank you! Thank you, those who are praying for me.

Each time I was discouraged I remembered.  All things are possible.  And each time I considered God’s promise I was filled with a strength that I didn’t have.

People have asked me in planning this journey, “Aren’t you going with someone?  It’s good to have a buddy.”  They’re right.  It is good and definitely safer. But it’s a heavy emotional burden for me to slow others down.  And it’s a physical burden to keep up with them.  And so I must go at my own pace.  God is with me.  And as you read, so are you.  I’m not alone.

I climbed a mountain today.  Literally, by the strength of God, I climbed a mountain.

Planes, Trains, and Automobuses...and Bikes.

"Get off the train!"  The conductor said to my friend Mark as he helped me get situated in my seat.  The conductor spoke in Spanish, and Mark understood.  Mark is the warden of St. George's Church, Barcelona and he has helped me get around these last two days so that I can begin my Camino. (The Way to Santiago de Compostela)
   

The last bit of help he gave me was getting me on my train with my over sized bicycle bag and my one man back pack.  Well it was a crazy way to say farewell.  Having the conductor tell you to get off the train.

That’s not the way I would have envisioned it. 

But off the train he went.  We didn't even get to shake hands.  We waived goodbye through the tiny window in the door.

And off on my cycling pilgrimage I go.

The train ride was peaceful; there were extra seat so no one bothered climbing over me to get to the water closet (train toilet).  For four hours I began to think that things were coming together.  Perhaps I'd even have the opportunity to get a bus ticket after all to St. Jean Pied de Port to start my Camino there.

The Pamplona station was just a concrete platform, a moderate sized ticketing room with an attached a café. Complete with flickering Coca-Cola light. 

I had five hours of daylight left and thought I might still make it to SJPP.
I made a few calls. There was no bus to St. Jean Pied, nor half way there to Roncevalles.  I felt like getting on the train was such a blessing that God would see fit to provide me a bus to St. Jean Pied de Port.  He did not.

I had a coke and a bocadilla con jamon y pimiento at the café. That's a ham sandwich on a baguette.  I wouldn't recommend it for the price. 

Once the crowd cleared the platform the area was cool and tranquil.  There was a little  alcove outside to the left of the platform that I could unpack and assemble my bike.  So I did.  I was missing one washer for the left pedal.  But decided not to let that disappoint me too much.  God would work it out. 

Facing East toward Jerusalem I read Evening Prayer.  I then and mapped out a few hostels (cheap places for pilgrims to stay) on my phone.  I road into the old city but couldn’t find the hostel.  Found some wonderfully narrow and ancient streets to ride on, and parks and plaza teaming with people, playing, exercising, etc. People walking their dogs in the park.  Old men walking their wives through the parks.  There were parks and plaza squares at the foot of churches.  It was beautiful.

At nine o'clock my alarm went off to read Compline (bedtime) prayers and I pulled into a green plaza just adjacent to San Miguel's Church.  I said my prayers and decided I had to give up on finding a cheap hostel tonight.  I'd either keep riding to the next town, sleep in the park, or spend a lot of money on a hotel.

I got on my bike to think it through, turned the corner and stumbled across Arrieta Pension. (Pen-see-own is a boarding house in an apartment)   A little old lady and her husband run it.  I only had to carry the bike up ½ a flight of stairs before little Maximo came up to help me with the other flight of stairs.  It was kind.  Pensions cost a little more than the hostels, but hopefully once I hit the small towns the hostels will be easier to find. 

I have had so many frustrations trying to get to where I want to start, that I've finally surrendered to the idea that St. Jean Pied de Port won't be the starting point for my Camino.

 

Plan and research and reading are thrown out the door, because what happened when I got here didn't fit the plans and research and reading.  After train reservations failed and bus routes never materialized the best solution I've managed is to get to Pamplona by today. 

So I've booked a room in a mom and pop boarding house and tomorrow I'm heading west to Santiago!

And each time my best laid efforts fail, I just have to say, "Well Lord, I guess we'll go with your plan.