Surrender? Or Perseverance?

Last night I made the hardest decision I've had to make since I let Gracie go.

For a year, I've felt the Camino calling. I've trained in all kinds of weather in preparation, from rain to snow to extreme heat. I've burned through three pairs of walking shoes. Spent innumerable hours doing research, and hundreds of dollars on gear. Made an emotional investment that was, honestly, more than I could afford.

And yesterday, 10 miles into my 300-mile walk, I was taken down by a cobblestone. Wrenched my knee hard enough to make it swell and hurt like a mother fucker (sorry, Mom). I didn't have walking sticks to lean on because when I'd checked where the local sporting goods store was, I found it was the exact opposite direction from where I needed to start. So I started without them, hoping a pilgrim would find theirs too cumbersome and leave them at an albergue (yes, that happens).

And I didn't have them when I tripped.

I made my way to the closest town and called a taxi to take me to a hotel. I checked in and hobbled to my room, cursing whoever snuck the extra rocks in my bag.

I threw my pack on the chair and lowered myself gingerly onto the bed, being very careful with my knee. I lay there for a while, tears streaming into my ears.

I tried to think but my heart seemed to have fallen into my knee; they throbbed to the same beat. I couldn't bear weight on it anymore, and I was pretty sure that wouldn't change in the next few days, or possibly the next few weeks. I was a crying starfish on an island of hotel bed, literally an ocean away from anything familiar.

I rallied for a bit, talking to my travel buddy Lu. What am I supposed to be learning from this? Was it a lesson in perseverance or in surrender? It could go either way.

I talked to people; friends and family both to get some perspective.

Was it pain? Or was it damage?

After a lot of time thinking about whether I even had the chutzpah to walk away from this, I made the second hardest phone call I've had to make since losing Gracie.

I called the airline. I explained the situation and after juggling my flight, the soonest they could get me out was Monday and that would be an extra $1700, plus whatever the fee was to get a rapid covid test at the airport. I would also go through 4 different airports so it wasn't going to be easy travel.

I tried to think through the disappointment and the haze of fear creeping in. There was no space in my "fancy" hotel for yoga. So I meditated. And I breathed. And breathed. And then I breathed some more.

I felt the hot flush in my face, the grains of sand that had crept between my eyelids and my eyeballs while I was crying. I felt the fatigue of the day blanketing me. I felt the blood rushing through my veins.

And I booked the flight.

I felt pain. Emotional and physical; I preferred the latter. It could at least be iced, taped up and I could medicate to help it.

But there was no salve for my heart. I sat with my new itinerary, hastily scribbled in the pages of the journal that was supposed to be the record of my thoughts and reflections for the next two weeks. Fat tear drops splattered the page, smearing ink I hoped I wouldn't have to read later. The picture of a broken heart and a broken spirit.

My Camino, supposed to take at least 16 days, lasted for 10 miles.

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I slept. Dozed, rather, starting about 2 AM after an intense conversation with Jason. I got up at 6:30 and slowly began gathering my things.

I listened to music while I cleaned up for the day. And while I did, I felt that familiar rush I get when I'm about to do something big. I sat for a second.

Why was I doing this? Any of it? The training, the flying, the walking, the emotionally taxing thoughts that continued to drain my swiftly dwindling reserve? The definitive step out of familiarity and into the unknown? Why was I walking the Camino?

Because Gracie led me here. Because the Camino called. Because I couldn't find peace in the monotonous familiarity of every day life.Read more