Tammy Hansen

(Grab a hanky, my lovelies. It’s about to get dark.)

I was afraid for the first time today, and then I was sad, and then I was bereft.

I left Marinhas alone under threatening skies. Brigit and I had parted ways the night before. “This is the Way,” they say. People move on. So, I pulled on my rain jacket and backpack cover and set off up an inland street in what I hoped was the right direction, as there were no longer boardwalk to guide me.

There is nothing like not knowing for sure where I am to get my nerves humming. So I thought of Kory. Because that’s what you do when you’ve been half of a couple for three decades, and it’s a hard habit to break. If you have someone you love, you do this unconsciously. You’re mind goes to the touchstone knowledge that someone far away loves you and wants you safe, and you feel better. When that is severed, you feel as if your very DNA has unraveled. Only a a few shredded strands remain. I would do anything to maintain these fragile bonds; to not let go, even nearly three years since they first ripped apart. Even though he’s utterly gone, I cannot imagine losing the connection of those thin lifelines.

I gripped a silver bead with a pink flower on my necklace. My neighbor made this beaded strand for me specifically so I could bring two of the Pandora clasp beads that Kory bought me years ago. I find textures comforting when I’m missing my guy. The feeling of something solid helps.

Soon, I found a yellow arrow to confirm I was heading the correct way. I was already weepy when I came upon a tiny, nondescript church. You can’t throw a rock in Portugal without hitting a church, but this one was unique in its simplicity. I found a bench in the back courtyard, dropped my pack, leaned my head against my sticks and ugly cried. I’m talking snot-nosed sobbing. Lonely doesn’t come close to the feeling of aloneness in these moments. I am unglued without him.

After a good long blubber, I used the bathroom (because bless the Catholic Church, there are always bathrooms for the pilgrims), and was on my way. The path left the town of Marinhas via a trail through birch woods along a river. Here was the beauty and peace I needed in order to regroup. Several pilgrims were on the trail. I let them pass so I could be alone.

I skirted couple of small towns, then climbed through a eucalyptus forest. My guidebook said this was a gradual, 500 foot climb; which was a damn lie. I cried off and on. I came across another church, and at the small desk where I got my pilgrim passport stamp, I borrowed the pen to write “Big Show ❤️” on a smooth, oval rock I had found. (Stamping your little booklet and leaving rocks of remembrance are pilgrim traditions.)

Then, it was back into the forest. I came upon a makeshift cairn in the woods. Pilgrims had left rocks and trinkets and photos of lost loved ones.

“No,” I said out loud. Leaving the rock behind felt like leaving Kory behind. It was too much. I kept going.

As I traveled through several little towns in these 10 miles, I visited the churches. I’m far from Catholic and closer to agnostic, but Mary? She’s my girl. If there is a god, she’s Mary, or a lot like her: someone who sacrifices for her beloved children, lets them go get broken by the world, mourns their pain, then gathers them back into her arms.

I ran into Mary a lot today.

At the peak of this exhausting but beautiful trail, about 6 miles in, there is a wildly ornate church. I went in, took some photos, and got my obligatory stamp. On my way out, and heading down the hill, I came across a stone carving of our lady of what god ought to be. And in the hollow of her clothing below her chin, a small, polished, red stone glowed. Someone walking ahead of me had also been communing with Mary. I stood there thinking, and again afraid.

One of my beads would fit perfectly there next to that red stone. Which would mean leaving it behind. Which would mean, maybe, cutting another fragile strand to what I know, I know, is already lost.

I thought, ‘Maybe try it. See what happens.’ And I laid the bead down there in Mary’s folds. And I left it behind. Which meant a lot more ugly crying in front of a lot of pilgrims.

The final, eucalyptus forest came next. There were puddles, and I took a photo of one with the idea I would claim it was all my tears. A sad little joke, but enough to let me know I would survive this day.

I have another Kory bead on my necklace, and my ‘Big Show’ rock. I don’t know what comes next for this particular aspect of my pilgrimage. I’ll know when I get there.Les mer