My writing process generally begins with thoughts written longhand in my journal. For the next round, I move to the laptop. Right now, I’m on a train to Pamplona, and I’m writing in the notes app on my phone. The usual process is disrupted. This is awkward, translating and expanding quickly scribbled notes while using my pointer finger to type on my phone’s tiny keypad, but I don’t hate it. There’s something about the compactness of the screen that forces my brain to think in fragments and then try to piece those fragments together into something cohesive.
Like my last post, this dessert post is coming to you a week after I’ve written it. Unlike my last post, Jenn is publishing this for me (thanks, Jenn!). When you read this, we’ll have walked over the Pyrenees mountains and likely be exhausted and sore but (fingers crossed) relieved to be off our feet and sipping wine with other pilgrims in Burguete. This village was where Charlemagne’s troops were defeated in the 8th century and was a favorite fishing spot for Hemingway. It is also one of the villages where women were murdered for being witches during the burning times of the Spanish Inquisition.
Two days ago, my sweetie and I hiked a twelve mile section of the Cami Ronda on the Costa Brava, Catalonia. I felt awkward and plodding, frumpy and slow. It was hard, and even a little miserable during some sections, but I did it. It was our first long walk wearing our full packs, and by the end of the day, yes, I was tired and sore, but I also discovered I could keep going. I know I’ll have more miserable moments along the Camino, but walking this section showed me I could do it, and I’ll get stronger along the way.
Yesterday, after our big walk the previous day, I woke up grumpy and despondent. I was mad at my hyper-mobile joints and the brace I have to wear to protect my ankle. I was mad at the ugly sunhat and sun shirt I have to wear to protect my skin. There were tears.
We decided to walk just a few miles (no packs) until we found a good swimming beach. I didn’t really want to go, but my sweetie persuaded me. You NEED to swim right now, he said. I was hoping for a beach like the ones in the tiny, sheltered coves we’d walked through the day before. The beach where we ended up was beautiful, yes, but it was along a boardwalk, not secluded, not quiet. The sea was choppy and rough, not good for long swims and gentle floating.
One of the patches I glued to my pack is The Fool, the first card of the tarot. The fool is wearing a backpack and stepping off the edge of a cliff. This is the card of new beginnings, of starting a journey, of trusting intuition. When I stepped into the waves, my body knew what to do. Muscle memory took over. I moved so that my body was perpendicular to the waves. Feet pushing into the sand, I was ready to jump, shoulder-first, into the body slam of the next wave’s crescendo, absorbing the power of the water until it was time to let go and let the wave carry me forward into the churn and roar of the crashing sea.
Some swells were soft curves, gently lifting my body to their rhythm. I could rest for a minute, prepare for the next onslaught. I felt strong and competent. I trusted my body. My joints didn’t hurt. I stopped worrying about the sun. All that mattered was knowing how to read the waves—when to push into them, when to give in to their flow.
If the sea can give messages, yesterday it spoke clearly: you’re not on vacation. This is going to be work. This will take deep attention and you must commit to all parts of it.
During a soft swell, I let the sea lift me off my feet, and I sobbed, allowing the sea’s message to sink in. And then the next big wave arrived.