Day 13 (?) Guemes – Guemes, via All the Emotions (3,5k)

Oh wow. Where to start. It’s 09:40 on Day 13, or is it 14, I don’t know anymore. But I thought it was 14, which is supposed to be a restart, and what a restart it’s been. I have too much to write already. I have content that will take weeks to present with the attention it deserves.

Pero bueno. My promise to myself is to write every day, so we will do what we can.

The first thing that strikes me when I wake up is anxiety. Of the kind I had before going. I have been having such a good time on the Camino that I forget, but before coming down here, I was really in a state. I woke up every morning in acute spiritual pain. It sounds so dramatic, and especially when you do manage to leave your bed and see the world and you realise how insignificant you are. Depression is really a very narcissistic thing. Understanding that you are one with all is the cure, but man, is it easy to forget. We can blame our consumerist society, we can blame our parents, our looks, the hands we were dealt in any way. But really, what I found most helpful in my darkest moments, was to rephrase that hackneyed, worn-out, favourite slogan of depression that whines, “Why me?”

Instead, really, we should ask ourselves – “Why not me?”

There is so much suffering in the world. It is a completely natural part of existence. And yet, one of the vilest, strongest and most power-trippiest guardians of my particular depressive prison is shame. Like, C.O. Piscatella would run away and hide if he saw C.O. Shame. C.O. Shame keeps me in separation by taunting me for not managing to be happier than I am. For not just getting on with it. For not being one of those people who can figure out life, and live it.

But anyway! The day. This preamble matters, though, because I’m starting to realise that my sad, scared and neurotic little self might not be going away. So instead of decrying its existence, I suppose I best learn to handle her. Like Buddha inviting Mara – the physical manifestation of lust, greed, anger, doubt and all things nice – to tea, listening to him, and therefore calming him down instead of forcing him to shout louder by trying to ignore him.

Well, I am Mara. I guess we all are. But the good news is that if I can have tea with myself, and better yet, act in ways that do not cause Mara-Me to throw a hissy fit, then so can others. Hence, maybe this narrative of acknowledging our fears and then not acting on them may help others. Quien sabe. If not, please go follow Tara Brach cause she doth know her stuff.

So. Woke up in fear. Just like before Camino. But hey, I’ve done a guided meditation or two in my life, so I accept it. I even think, well well well, if it isn’t Fortnight Two of the Camino: Less Sparkly Newness, More Reunion with Same Old Anxious Pre-Camino Self! Howdy, let’s go!

So I get up. Go to breakfast. Sit down at a table of friendly-enough looking people. Turns out they all speak a language I can’t figure out at all. Aaah. They are the youth group that intercepted my yoga yesterday! A pattern here. Well, I guess I’ll just eat my bread and jam and get out. This is supposed to be the morning I recommence my Questioning of Existence as We Know It, after all.

But. A little seed of Choosing Life in me has other ideas. So I ask if they’re speaking Flemish, and the one older guy of the group says yes, sorry, and explains that he is there with this youth group as part of a documentary about his organisation which provides shelter and coaching to young homeless adults. Jesus Christ. The kids I felt mad with for smoking and making fun of my yoga are fighting fucking homelessness. They’re on a pilgrimage to learn life skills, build self-esteem, prove to themselves what they can do.

Just like me, except I’m pretty sure none of my problems have anything on theirs. Yet again, the Camino reminds me to be open, to observe before judging, to take nothing personally, and to grow the fuck up.

The guy’s name turns out to be Musti Önlen. His non-profit is called Homie. He himself came from foster homes, spent time on the street, did a few Caminos. There’s a special place in whatever heaven you believe in for people like him. Support his project.

So that was breakfast. Okay. Everyone starts packing up. Me too, but I am slow. Even Gertrude leaves before me! Today is barely 15k, though, so I’m not in a rush. I ask a volunteer if I can sit down for half an hour to charge my phone and do some writing.

Father Ernesto overhears, and comes ambling over. “You are allowed to stay just as long as you need,” he says and puts the warmest, kindest, most grandfatherly hand you can imagine on my shoulder. “What is your name?”

So before I know it, we are talking about life, travel, what we leave behind in this world. As we discuss the spirit of the albergue, I comment on the many similarities between his philosophy and that of the Belgian youth group, who have just left – oh, and one of them took my shorts! He nods, asserting, that even though he is a priest he does not view the Camino as a religious endeavour. “Es una busqueda,” he offers. It’s a search. I could not agree more.

Where am I going today, he asks. Santander? I have no plan, as usual, but nod somewhat.

“Well, that’s not far. I am giving mass (is this how you say it?) at eleven. You can come, eat with us, and then walk to Santander. What do you say?”

Once, in Sweden, I met a woman who had grown up near Astrid Lindgren, the author of Pippi Långstrump. They were not particularly close, but she said, that every time she met Astrid, she would give her a special look. A look that said, ”I see you.” This woman had a very tough childhood, and I imagine she did not often feel seen. But some people have the gift for seeing. And in this moment, I realise Father Ernesto is one of them.

So I stay. He sends me on a tour of the property with long-time volunteer Marga, which entirely blows my mind, and then I sit down in a corner to try and communicate even a morsel of the experience in writing. Which is where I am now. It’s almost time for mass so I will have to return to complete this later. But wow. What a start to the second fortnight. I think maybe tomorrow I’ll need to spend a day writing, because I’ve only posted up to Day 8, and I want to start getting things out as they happen. I haven’t given the blog address to anyone yet. If you’re reading this, I guess things changed. Good. I want them to change. Being happy is fucking hard, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.

As it’s been a whole 12 posts and I haven’t even quoted a word of my hero Simon Amstell, here he is on how shame formed the basis of his standup comedy show Set Free:

“What tends to happen is I feel deeply ashamed of myself, I feel really embarrassed, I feel really awkward, I think I can’t ever say this particular thing out loud to anyone, because if I say it out loud, that’ll be it for me. I’ll have to leave the country. My life will be over. And then I will allow myself to say the thing that I’m embarrassed about out loud, and it turns out it’s not such a big deal.”

Of course I want to be set free, too. But also, Simon Amstell has helped me a lot with self-acceptance. It looks easy but it’s not. Not for everybody. So I think I should pay it forward by writing about my own shit, too, and if I can be less shit by doing it, so much the better.

Today feels like a shift. A start of something new. Something inside has been dislodged. I’ve even cried a bit. But that is all good, all part of serving up Mara’s tea. I even messaged a thanks to GIB for being part of my life and wished him well on his journey. Pure Little Miss Enlightenment ovah here.

Right. Time for mass.

We go to church by car. It’s a different one to the church the night before; older, of stone, and that’s about as far as my understanding of religious architecture goes. But it’s a church I passed on the way, and almost entered because of its beauty, but didn’t, because bed race. Now I get a second chance.

There are lots of people waiting outside the church, dressed in their Sunday best. Father Ernesto arrives in a checkered fleece shirt and grey sweat pants. I love the man. However, a few minutes later he emerges from the sidelines (church backstage) in full priest gear, and I realise my assumption that he’d deliver Sunday mass dressed as an off-duty lumberjack may have been taking his dedication to equality a little far.

Although, not that far – last night, he spoke after the choir finished singing about the importance of fighting the impulses instilled in us by the consumerist society we live in. Sure I haven’t been to church in a while, but I don’t remember the Catholics as exactly leading the anti-capitalist vanguard.

Then again, the next hour will have me questioning what I do associate with the Catholic Church. Of course we have all read the history books and know that horrors have been committed in its name, but nothing said during mass is that different from what I heard during my months of praying with the ayahuasca shamans of South America. Focus is on forgiveness and service. There, in the name of Mother Earth and The Great Spirit. Here, Jesus.

I suppose all roads lead to Santiago.

Afterwards, some of the volunteers invite me to beers and calamari as Father Ernesto delivers the same mass in the church we went to last night. Then we return to the albergue for lunch, which is just as amazing as dinner the night before.

And then. Oh, and then. Then my little emotions I suppose get idle, and as we all know, idle emotions are the devil’s workshop.

Basically, I start feeling that I’ve overstayed my welcome. For no reason whatsoever, except, of course, I imagine it’s what everybody’s thinking about me. Over beers a volunteer thought I was staying another night, which had not occurred to me until then, but she comes up to say she had me confused with someone else. No matter. I have reserved a room with two friends in Santander that night. It’s all good.

And yet. As I sit outside, braiding my hair, another volunteer comes up. She’s a lovely softspoken Canarian woman, who was also at mass and beers. She asks if I’m going. I nod, mumbling that I think it’s best. This could mean anything. That I need to get going. That I want to go. A polite way of turning down an offer without taking ownership of not wanting it.

I don’t even know what it means myself.

Well, Lovely Canarian is not so emotionally illiterate. “Why?” she prompts.

“Oh, it’s just best.”

She frowns. “Do you want to go?”

“Well, I think I should.”

“Why?”

Jesus. I have no more hedging in Spanish. But truth is I don’t exactly want to go, so I can’t say that. But I don’t want to stay unless I’m asked, either, and Father Ernesto hasn’t.

Lovely Canarian seems to clock this. “Let me go see what Father Ernesto thinks you should do,” she says.

Within one moment they are back. Of course I can stay, Father Ernesto says. I’m more than welcome.

I hope you’ve got your cringe belts on, because I start CRYING. Is this what happens at the Welcome in the World Graduation Ceremony? Thankfully, I have the wherewithal to go for a walk until I’ve calmed down, after which I can return and graciously accept the offer.

Mamma mia alltså.

So I stay for another night, spending the afternoon writing in the garden with a cute cat and then being roped in as E-Daddy’s translator during the evening’s meeting. Do not think the irony is lost on me of arriving suspicious of this cult-seeming place, and not even twenty-four hours later feeling inexplicably SEEN. These God-heads know what they’re doing.

Papa E

Anyhoo. That was Day 13, or maybe 14, who knows. Now for the second fortnight. I am up to date with posts but I’m thinking I might make the second fortnight a bit more introspective. A bit more sit-in-the-garden-and-write-in-your-paper-diary-y. We’ll see. Either way, these two weeks of writing every day have definitely started something in me, and I have ideas for creative projects again, which means I see a point to living again. So gracias, el blog-o. See you when I see you.

#writing #FatherErnesto #PippiLongstocking #soulsearching #depressiontheycallit #Christianity #thegreatCaminobedrace #TaraBrach #anticonsumerism #selfacceptance #faith #CaminodelNorte #ayahuasca #spirituality #cults #travel #SimonAmstell #AstridLindgren #anxiety #shame #Cantabria #anticapitalism #Catholicism #beginnings #hiking #CaminodeSantiago