The
greatest of this is love, to paraphrase and steal. Seeing Susannah in front of the cathedral was
a moment permanently impressed on my bones, and it couldn’t have happened any
other way than that: the excitement, the giddy laughter, my poor attempts to
hold back tears despite the massive grin on my face.
These
moments are a blur – introducing Suse to my Virginia friends, the careful way
she guided us through the busy squares past souvenir stands and down winding
chaotic streets toward the former seminary turned pilgrim’s hostel in the
distance, the hasty and scrambled attempts to recollect and explain all that
had happened since we’d last seen each other on the dirty street in
Sahagun. She appeared stronger, calmer,
more complete than I remembered. She led
us with confidence and helped me lose some of my sense of panic at having
arrived and not knowing what came next.
She
had also bought proper pants and a new shirt.
We
made our way to Seminario Menor la Asuncion, an enormous stone complex on the
hills outside Santiago’s old city. It
struck me much like walking up to Downton Abbey – a building with multiple
wings that loomed larger and larger, causing my neck to strain upward. The entrance opened up into a grand stairway
that branched off into each wing, but thankfully the hospitalero’s office was
small and contained on the bottom floor – substantially less intimidating. We checked in and were given the option of
reserving beds for more than one night, then sent on our way. It felt much like wandering around the
Overlook Hotel; we went down stairs, up other stairs, across wings, until
finally we found our beds in a large open room like a war-time hospital. The windows granted us a view of the
cathedral spires in the distance and the low grey clouds of Galicia rolling in. I may have imagined it, but I could smell sea
spray on the air.
Showered
and composed, we found a meal of burgers and beer at a bar tucked into a stone
alley way not far from the cathedral. We
sat at an outside table and sipped beers; I worked on convincing myself that I
was finally in Santiago. It was an amazing
feeling to sit and enjoy the luxury of not needing to move on, of being right
where I was supposed to be, with friends and companions. Occasionally we saw pilgrims still carrying
their packs come walking by and I struggled with a sense of loss, that my burden
was no longer mine to bear. I have not
often been as wrong.
We
went to the pilgrim’s office to get our credencials, proud pilgrims in a line, and I
was surprised to see Pepper and Lisa in line ahead of us and pulled both of
them close in a tight hug. I bought a
book from the office, a binding of the Cardinal’s most recent essays on the
pilgrimage that I would read cover to cover on the plane ride home, tracing the
words in my mind again and again hoping to never lose this sense of seeking, of
longing for the spiritual life. When I
presented my pilgrim’s passport to the clerk and noted I had come to Spain for
spiritual reasons, I felt both immensely proud and full, graced and blessed.
Later,
there were tourist shops, massive mounds of frozen yogurt, several trips back
and forth to the albergue in the rain, and an excursion to the shopping
district to buy an actual pair of jeans.
So much of old Santiago was bristling with Camino-couture that the
sudden imposition of normal stores, where I could buy Levis or pens or Chuck
Taylors felt confusing and strange.
When
the rain cleared, we made our way to the cathedral to go inside for the first
time. Approaching the building, which is
beautiful beyond measure and was literally built by generations of prior
pilgrims, was intimidating in a way I have trouble describing. I wanted to do it right, for it to be
perfect, sublime. Yet I knew it was the
wrong time, that I’d go back the next day for the pilgrim’s mass and hear my
pilgrimage named by the priest with all the others, to officially become part
of the roll call of history, to take my time.
This day I bustled through, looked in awe and wonder at the transept and
the altar, the side chapels, became annoyed at tourists flashing photos and
jostling past me in fancy coats and expensive shoes, fought the desire to run
out and reclaim my God, the God of the quiet road behind me.
I
did go to the tomb that first day – I shuffled down into the small room facing
St. James the Apostle’s coffin, underneath the altar. There was a kneeler in front, and the tiny
area was packed with tourists who ignored the posted signs and took pictures
anyway. I wanted nothing more than a few
minutes by myself with James, with the remains of the man who had known Christ
in his time on earth, with the physical focus of the entire Camino, but I wasn’t
going to get it that day, so I left.
In
the gift shop I picked through little things I thought my family would like –
mainly St. James medallions and rosaries, small trinkets that seemed better
suited to my time in Spain than anything large and grandiose. I browsed in a sense of sadness and
loneliness, wondering how I’d ever bring this sense of spiritual immediacy home
across the ocean.
I
ran into Robert from South Carolina, the man who wanted to be a Jesuit, loud
and drunk as I’d last seen him, a sweaty, happy reunion that began and ended as
quickly as lightning and he was back out the door headed toward somewhere
else. I chose to leave the church from a
side entrance and found myself face to face with Father Samuel, the Franciscan,
who gave me his email address and told me to be sure to contact him to finish
our conversation about religious vocation.
I often, often think of his abiding sense of presence and peace in that
moment, his witness to spiritual joy that did more to point me in the direction
of God than any evangelism. We hugged
and said goodbye in the doorway of the church, and it felt right.
These
images and impressions are scattered, fragmented, abrupt. It’s how it was – there isn’t a better way to
describe the end of a pilgrimage in a place like Santiago. That night I joined Susannah and the
Virginians for a proper dinner of pulpo in the old town (pulpo, by the way, is
damn delicious although after a pound of octopus I was tentacled-out) and we
made our way to a bar for dessert and coffee.
That evening felt much like any other night in a city with good friends:
a little too much wine, a little too much food, plenty of laughter and a long
walk home after dark. My physical
pilgrimage was over. In ways I could not
know, my spiritual pilgrimage had only just begun.
I’ve
been reluctant to write about the Camino over the last month, partially because
I’ve been reflecting on the past year more deeply than may be healthy. It is hard to look back at myself and my
expectations of having successfully become a peregrino; in many ways I’ve
failed myself in the last year.
There
are things I couldn’t know then, unexpected events and changes. In Spain I would not have guessed that in
less than two months after returning to the U.S. I’d have become estranged from
my father due in part to the experiences I had on Camino. I couldn’t know that we still would not be
speaking nearly a year later. I couldn’t
know that Christmas 2012 would be one of the darkest periods of my adult life,
resulting in what might accurately be called a nervous breakdown – or that from
that point I’d work to leave my job of 5 years in the wilderness of North
Carolina to settle in my college town and begin working with an even more
troubled population of children. I
wouldn’t have known that within 6 months of returning home from Camino
wondering if I’d enter seminary, that I’d replay one of my most unhealthy patterns
in relationships – not once, but twice.
I wouldn’t have ever guessed that the community I found in Athens would
be the most joyful, wonderfully exciting and engaging incarnation of town I’ve
seen; I wouldn’t have known that I’d be lucky enough to get an amazing tattoo
honoring the Camino that feels like it’s always been there, covering my whole
damn shoulder. I certainly would never
have guessed that Pope Benedict would resign and be replaced by a pope who
makes me proud to be a Catholic and whose actions confirm and reinforce the
church I know and saw every day on the Camino.
In many ways, I went to Spain with one question in mind – whether or not
to enter religious vocation – and returned with scores more questions
unanswered and unresolved. But I’m more
comfortable in the confusion, in the doubt and difficulty, in the failure and
uncertainty, because of my time on pilgrimage.
I know exactly what kind of spiritual life I want, and I know what it
takes to get there. Trust that God’s
plans are better, and harder, and more challenging, than your own.
