Whispers from the Camino—Day 15

September 19. Burgos to Hornillos. 20.2 kms

Wow. Every day is bringing a new experience regarding this issue of “home.” Three days ago I nearly drove myself crazy writing budgets and trying to come up with an airtight plan that would address my needs to be close to family, follow the calling of my work, and set me on the path toward financial retirement. Finding no perfect plan, I allowed the pendulum to swing the other direction and imagined a life of a wandering pilgrim depending on the generosity of people while I traveled by foot or bike for the next two to three years speaking and writing.

Neither of those options satisfied me. One gave me security but lacked the freedom to follow my call. The other allowed me to follow the voices in my head and heart, but relied on more trust and faith than I was comfortable with. So, I woke up the next morning resolved to be comfortable with the uncertainty of it all.

I had Anton in my sights for the day—an old monastery that was now an ancient ruin that still served its original purpose as a respite for traveling pilgrims. It was 30 kilometers out. A little further than the 24 kilometers I was averaging each day. I also knew that Anton only received the first twelve or so pilgrims and I would need to get there early.

Leaving Burgos in the dark

I rose early with a plan to walk the first hour or so before dawn to give me the best chance of getting a bed in at the Anton Monastery. As I emerged from my hotel I was greeted by not only the dark, but a chilly fog. I knew my hotel was slightly off the marked route. I would need to look for the yellow arrows again to get me back on the designated route. I found one arrow, but quickly lost the path again in the dark. I stopped at an early morning diner and tried to use the light to check my map against my GPS. It didn’t help much. I just couldn’t quite get my bearings.

Finally, realizing that I wasn’t finding the route I used my common sense. I knew the route followed the river. I just had to make my way through town and trust that when I reached the river I would cross the path. I knew the river was downhill which was on the south side of town. As I made my way through the maze of the city I made sure that I was either heading east or south, with more south than east so I could intersect with the river. It was still dark when I reached the river, but just across the water I could see the faint outline of a line of pilgrims cutting their way through the fog.

I joined them thankful that the uncertainty of not knowing whether I was nearing the path or not had passed. But I also aware that the “being comfortable with the uncertainty” of my future that I discovered the day before had passed. The mantra that had followed me for most of this Camino returned—“I just want to go home.” Again, I knew that it was not a temptation to abandon the Camino. It was a yearning to have a plan, any plan, some sort of a plan that would point me toward that feeling of home I was looking for.

The day was perfect for my contemplation. Much of the morning was spent in a fog that started out as chilly and then turned to refreshingly comfortable. Not too far out of Burgos a small chapel was perched on the left side of the road. Pilgrims were emerging with tears in their eyes and without saying any words communicated, “You have to go in there.” A older nun had a line of pilgrims in front her each as she asked each pilgrim about the purpose of their pilgrim and then offered a blessing and an anointing with oil. I received my anointing as well as I tried to radiate as much gratitude with my eyes to her as I could.

I continued on the path which opened up to a large endless plain. This part of Spain is marked by a landscape that seems to gently massage the soul into a place of contentment and peace.

Hornillos

As I walked I became comfortable with a plan that I thought I could accept. I would spend the next two to three years following my creative pursuits, and live a moderately simple lifestyle until I reached a comfortable retirement age. Unlike the two extremes of previous days where I either sought security or threw everything to the wind, this plan seemed to be a compromise of the two. Whether I would stay with that plan or not, I did not know. But, at least for the day I found my breathing more relaxed and my anxiety quieted.

I let go of my plan to get to Anton. I had not covered as much distance as I had hoped. Plus, I had a found a more accepting place and it just didn’t seem that important to push my limits. I arrived in the small village of Hornillos, essentially a town built on one single lane. There wasn’t much there in terms of services, but a small cafe on the other end of town promised live music.

That night over a good home-cooked meal of salad, bread and fish and plenty of wine we were treated to a man who played the saxophone and harmonica, and sang both Spanish and American songs in an over-the-top operatic voice. Any other time I would have considered it sort of campy.

That night it was just perfect. So much delight. So much freedom. So much life.