Writing
All my writing this week has been of the boring, but lucrative type. Risk Assessments, Policies and Procedures, Minutes of Meetings.
Reading
In the Member's Slack attached to this website, Alan dropped a note pointing me to a blog. He rightly surmised that I would be interested, as Sean, the blog's author, was setting out to walk the Camino de Santiago with his wife.
I checked in, to discover that Sean and Jamie were to walk the same route that Stu and I walked; the Camino francés - starting from St Jean Pied de Port at the foot of the French Pyrenees. The posts were well-written, capturing the mix of excitement, trepidation and anticipation that every Peregrino (Pilgrim) feels. Sean is obviously a Christian, which I'm sure lends an additional element to the enterprise. He also seems very fond of peanut butter, but I'm not going to hold that against him.
I read about the journey to St Jean, which is perhaps not the easiest place to get to from Alabama. Poor Sean seems a little under the weather before the walk even starts. At daybreak our intrepid heroes set out on the steep climb. I remember the cracking hangover that accompanied my first steps on the Camino, that taste of the previous night's Armagnac on my breath. Mostly, I remember cursing Stu, whose idea the enterprise was, and Terry, in whom's memory we had vowed to complete the hike.
"We hike uphill for half a day..." writes Sean. My brow furrows.
Sean and Jamie have completed their first leg. Eight kilometres, or five miles. The word "Touri-greno" came to mind unbidden.
I had a word with myself. Throughout the Camino, we battled the urge to be judgemental about people who chose to complete the the hike in a whole variety of ways. Some people cycle. Some walk with support vehicles. And why not? It's actually quite sensible to start slow and short, particularly through the mountains. On our first day, we pushed all the way through to Spain, a full 25km. And it nearly killed me. Still the cynic in me took note of the cowboy hat in the photo.
I signed up for updates and thought no more about it.
Then, a couple of days ago, the first newsletter came through. "I wonder if they got as far as Spain?" Look, I'm trying to be a better person, but it's a work in progress, you know?
The newsletter linked to a post about the Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross), which is at the highest point of the Camino. Traditionally, pilgrims leave a stone here. A symbol for a burden to be left on the Camino.
My mouth fell open, and stayed open.
I stared at the mound of rocks.
“You have one more burden to leave,” the voice said.
That’s when I knew the cross wanted my hat.
This hat was my dad’s. Sort of. I bought this hat when I visited his hometown, decades ago. I visited his hometown for the sole purpose of forgiving him, so it was significant for me.
I bought the hat in a desperate attempt to forgive my dad for decades of domestic abuse, for trying to kill my mother, for killing himself at the age of 42. For making me a freak among my peers. For ruining our homelife with gun violence and incarceration. For giving me what therapists would term PTSD. For holding me and my sister hostage during his last night on earth, until the sheriff’s department stepped in.
I'm reading through all the posts that I missed, my cynicism firmly put back in it's box.
Resilience, you say? Read that blog if you want to learn about resilience.
I'm not even on the Camino, and it still teaches me.
Have a great week.
