With belly clinching for food, feet demanding the day be done, and my skin, insisting in accord, that it was not of the humor or mood for getting drenched, I cinched in my backpack’s waist belt and shoulder straps tight against my body and broke into a jog.

Trot. Trot. Trot. Trotting heavily down the hill, squeaky with twelve kilos of clothing, camera and commodities, I ran directly into the front line of storm that had begun to grind its teeth with thunder and hunger for an appetizing little pilgrim hors d’oeuvre.

Picking up momentum with downhill gravity on my side, I felt myself shift into full-speed; jousting aggressively with the bullets of water riding the winds against me. Trees whip-lashing and winds howling, the shouts of the elements in my natural coliseum pumped pain-numbing adrenaline through my body till I felt it slam against the walls of my skin. At that moment, my stride suddenly widened and I recognized the feeling as the same as that instant — while riding a horse –- when the beast beneath pivotally breaks from a canter into a full gallop.

Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh. With the added weight pushing me down even faster, there were no more options for foot-breaking; my end options were only wall, fall or the eventual incline assumed to naturally follow the foot of every valley.

Now perhaps only because I fear speed, this plight was particularly liberating for me. So I threw in a few yelps, hoots and hops and in this manner ran swooshing and screaming head-on into the storm.

So a traditional happy ending would have me arriving into the town and stepping foot under shelter the moment the lightning cracked and clouds dumped. And although my pilgrimage was quite the fairy tale, no such convenient pumpkin morphed or prince appeared.

My speed and screams slowed with the gradual incline which, as correctly anticipated, existed at the bottom of the hill, and when I finally did stall I found myself, despite the distance gained, still a quarter dozen kilometers away from my destination.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. And an aggravated wave of rain sounded alarm by way of the leaves and crashed towards me. I actually watched the cement turn black as the footstep of the storm shadowed the street

…and overcame me.

While normally under such circumstances I might have run for the cover of a tree and dug frantically through my pack for my rain pants, poncho, umbrella and waterproof stuff sacks – this time – no such rational urges moved me.

Perhaps the adrenaline was still discretely pumping. Or maybe I just had no idea how close to the cliff of crazy I had been standing. For instead of cursing or worrying or defending or retreating – I unbuckled my backpack, threw it into the middle of the small creek collecting itself in the street, took a heavy seat on my bag, and began to chuckle. The chuckle evolved to a laugh and the laughing to hysterics. I laughed like a maniac. And only when I had finished wiping the tears of surrender-inspired bliss from my eyes did the sweetest idea, like a gift left anonymously on my doorstep, come upon me.

I unzipped the bottom of my pack and stuck a blind and scavenging hand inside – unsure and also curious as to if perhaps my imagination, too, had taken the opportunity to play prank on a girl with ego drenched and guard down.

But there it was. My hand clamped down on that little plastic sack hidden almost a month ago, for exactly this just-in-case moment for which I’d forgotten I had prepared.

The rain, having saturated my hair, formed small rivers down the creases in my face and my eyelashes did the windshield-wiping work for which they were originally designed. But not even these little waterfalls could have drowned my delight with the discovery of my forgotten backpack-buried treasure…

…a single squeeze-packet of Justin’s sinfully cinnamon nut butter.

Now I could conclude this tale with a chapter telling about how when I finally showed up in town, I found that all the pilgrim hostels had closed for the season. And I could share the story of how I wandered around, wet, hungry and exhausted, until the owner of one of the extravagant hotels took me in and let me sleep in the attic solidifying into my memory one of the purest and sweetest acts of kindness I encountered on my pilgrimage.

But there’s no peanut butter in that conclusion.

So instead, I close not with a traditional happy ending, but with an alternative happy ending; with the picture of a sopping wet girl, cheeks streaked with the tears of peaceful surrender mixed with the sweat of her captor, humbly subjugated by an element of the divine, sucking on a squeeze packet in the middle of the street in the middle of a storm, with not a single urge to seek retreat or shelter — from one of the most powerful drenches of Presence — she has ever experienced in her life.

(But the point of this peanut-theme is still to get to Senegal, and — thanks for your patience — we’re almost there…)

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

So where were we? Ah, yes. Eluding the croissant-pusher.

In Australia, I once learned that the Aboriginals used to track their way through the vast bush by secret songlines; riddles, in song format, of which each individual in a tribe held a single verse, and (only) when strung in line and sung in harmony, were these verses laced together to present an intricate map and lay of the land.

Now really, have you ever heard of anything so beautiful?

So while I’m certain our voices were never as skillfully in synch, we pilgrims also sang a song; more to the tune of rumor and gossip, but none-the-less, still an elusive code passed from pilgrim to passing-pilgrim, that functioned as a compass directing us, as a tribe of nomads united by common destination, across the country.

Having no maps, it was only on the note of one of these pilgrim songlines that, upon finding myself standing in front of a large painted arrow that clearly directed all down the hill – I turned right and walked up and away instead.

Having spent many months of my teenage years grounded and confined to walls of my dungeon-ous room, there was definitely a satisfying sense of trouble giggling somewhere inside my stomach; I had no food, no idea of the distance to the next town, no idea where I’d stay, and hadn’t yet seen even a single marker confirming existence of the rumored deviant route I fancied myself to be following. Yet something born of the womb of these unknowns was wailing with simultaneous relief and exhilaration; something whose unexpected cry led me to wonder if freedom was perhaps less about granted permissions, and more about emptiness of expectations.

But I have diverged from my divergence; let me get back to getting off track.

Sustained by this strange energy source, I walked with suspicious speed. Occasionally a colored marker and matching number would, in another tribe’s songline language, tell me — in a code I couldn’t read — exactly where I was. But as I have learned to be the grammatical structure of many universal languages, it is often less about the letters than it is the pattern they follow. And so on this pattern I focused, in faith of the rule of the universe — that every path leads somewhere, and where ever that was, would be where I was supposed to be.

About a dozen kilometers later, and on top of the dozen I had already walked earlier, the satchel of my enthusiasm for wandering without sight of destination waned. Approaching the summit of a significant little hill, I — hungry, tired and feet arches threatening to collapse — hoped desperately for a glimpse of something habitable on the horizon.

Now I am quite convinced that Southern France’s Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compestelle’s horizons present the originals of that which inspired the artists to sketch such likenesses into fairy tale picture books. And at the top of this hill, it was exactly those pointy church steeples, looming watchtower tops, windy cobblestone streets and chunky white-block walls – that made the 7-year old in me want to reach my hand out and touch the page.
In my awe, it took me a minute – before I noticed that what really made the colors of this picture pop with vividness – was the darkly shaded, indigo blue, of the heavy looking clouds laying low in the sky, directly behind the image.

The sky was threatening to cry at any moment and I knew that if I didn’t pick up my pace significantly, I would soon be soaked in one of its more infamous expressions of emotion. A strong wind swept my way from the picture book page I faced, and with one huge ominous teardrop of water left splattered on my forearm, added the dot to the exclamation point following its clear warning and command.

(sorry! super busy! to be continued!)

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Last summer I lived in the, “Nut Butter House.” Don’t let your mind wander far, for this description was frank; I lived with Justin, the innovative, young chef who concocted and stocked the shelves of natural stores with, “Justin’s Specialty Nut Butters.”

Before morning coffee, on lunch break, after work, late night; it was a favorite habit to drag a metal spoon across the shelf of glass jars in the kitchen and contemplate a question for which all answers were right: Heavenly Honey, Sinfully Cinnamon, Pumpkin Pie or Honey Almond? (Those are Justin’s jar names, not mine.)

And more than one morning, while loudly smacking around in my mouth a consistency of food that only peanut butter gets away with, I stuck that spoon into the jar, for one *promise myself* final swirl and held that gravity-defying substance into the early summer sunshine coming through the window and wondered…

“Just where do you come from?”

*****

Let’s walk forward; specifically about 460 miles forward…

Having walked for over a month towards the city of St. Jean Pied de Port, in Southern France, I was only a single, final day of pilgrimage from that which I had declared as my sacred site of drive and destination: the Pyrenees.

But I have to first tell a story, only because it is good for a great laugh at my expense, and I’m game for a little good-natured giggle at a poor-tempered pilgrim.

On this particular day, I cried.

Not out of happiness or in bliss, but the sloppy, wet tears of a full emotional breakdown.

Aren’t we all entitled to an unexplainable few? Well, this was my day. And technically what triggered this mental meltdown was the fact that I didn’t want to eat a chocolate croissant.

No really. This is true. Through tears, I cursed all croissants and licked the salt from my lips as I blubbered on (to myself, mind you): “Can I just be American? Just this morning? For just an hour? Please?!”

So there you go; probably the only claim to my citizenship ever recorded on sol.com.

A little background is essential to the explanation. And although I will get back around to the theme of nut butter, it won’t be for awhile, so please let go of that breath.

In France, all meals are sacred rituals. Eating is not an objective, it’s a meditation in mindfulness, right intention and presence; careful attention to all the details of each meal must be considered from preparation to presentation. There are no exceptions to the guidelines of eating engagements; not even whilst plodding the dusty roads of pilgrimage.

So after a month of sitting down every morning with my fellow French pilgrims, to tables with carefully arranged places set perfectly with pretty sets of plate, glass and silver –ware, with separate saucers for fresh coffee, and petite glasses for squeezed juice, and shared loaves of bread baked that morning, and blocks of fresh butter and homemade preserves ready to be passed around, and polite insistence on the presence of all pilgrims, I came to admire, respect and love these shared and sacred meal customs.

But on this particular day, I was not in the mood. I was tired. I hadn’t spoken a phrase of English for two weeks and I was exhausted from pushing, without pause, on the walls of my French language limits. On this morning, I woke up longing to just be able to share a dream, wish, desire or understand just a little sarcasm, speak with a single metaphor, or converse on anything beyond the present and past tense. And since these concepts were all well beyond the confines of my French comprehension, I woke up and decided that I needed to walk alone; leave early, catch the sunrise, and be content with an in-depth conversation (in English) with myself.

So I woke up and tried to leave early.

One of my fellow pilgrims was an older French woman, who had often declared, normally to my appreciative reception and with only best intentions (as well as preempting patient instruction), “Your French is terrible; insulting to me. Please listen: this is how you say…”

It was on this morning that this particular woman took a seat in a stiff-backed, wooden chair and started watching me as I washed a pear and sliced it into bowl of yogurt and muesli near the sink. She was on to me. She put her nose in the air and smelled it coming; the scent of unwritten French code and conduct in jeopardy…

The coffee was brewing. The table set. The bread sliced. The butter softening.

As I put a spoon into my bowl, and took a single bite (while standing!), I could feel her flinch behind my back. Out of my peripheral, I watched her cross her arms and look away.

Not wanting to cause her continued pain, I swallowed my food as quickly as possible. Her legs crossed to match her arms and her mouth pinched down to contain the sharp words fighting for a way out.

I cleaned up as quickly as possible, knowing the sensitivity of my emotional state and wanting to make a quick escape. But just as I picked up my pack and tried to make a move for the exit, the lady of the house walked through the door with a brown paper bag raised in the air and announced; “Fresh chocolate and almond croissants!”

Unable to contain herself any longer, my angry observer uncrossed everything, grabbed a flowered serving dish, and stepped in between me and the door, “Ah croissants! Beautiful. You cannot leave now…”

“Sit down,” she commanded me.

On the verge of tears, I replied weakly, “I’ve already eaten. I’m full. I want to watch the sunrise. Thank you, but I’d like to go…”

Her body moved not a millimeter, “SIT DOWN and have a croissant. Look, almond. Would you like almond? Or chocolate? Sit down and have coffee and a croissant with us. Sit.”

“Please…”, desperate, I pleaded.

A young Swiss friend of mine, recognizing my distress, came to my rescue, “She wants to watch the sunrise. She’ll miss it if she stays. Let her go now…”

Happy for this opportunity to speak to someone as if I weren’t there, she grabbed the plate and loudly dropped it on the table, and said, “I JUST don’t understand. It’s just a croissant?! Why can’t she sit? She should just sit down and eat with us!”

My mind raced through my small mental dictionary of French vocabulary; how was I to say, “All I want is to be alone! To eat cereal and not bread for breakfast. To eat right over the sink, in silence, and just efficiently get on with my day! Just for one single day. Can I just be American for this one breakfast?!”

But the cutting hospitality swiped through my anger and hurt me. My eyes watered up and instead of responding — I fled. I bolted out the door without any goodbye courtesies. And with hot breath and tear-stiffened cheeks, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and cursed chocolate croissants venomously.

And that was the one day I cried on the Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compestelle because I didn’t want to eat a chocolate croissant.

I should also mention that after walking for four hours, and just when I’d conclusively convinced myself that I had exaggerated all the morning’s happenings in my head, and that really, perhaps it had all been nothing but an emotionless event for everyone but me, I ran into my Swiss friend…

“Are you okay?! My god, you should have heard her go on about you after you left! She talked about you, and everything about what and how you ate, for another half an hour before I couldn’t take any
more and left myself!”

So there’s my French fumble. Luckily for me, my personal philosophy reads, “any humbling lesson is good one.” And I prize this one for the fit of laughter into which it always sends me.

Yes. This story does get us to where I want to go. For it was in avoiding another encounter with this woman (who, again, was only a violently good hostess) that I purposely detoured from the path to an off-the-route town, and of course, lost my way, but found an answer.

And it does lead us back to nut butter. In fact, I’m actually going to go all the way to Senegal with this story. But like the pilgrimage; one step at a time…

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Popes, priests and prophets have their methods. Merchants, and those who buy from them, name it in terms of this or that currency. But the value and blessing upon any object, for me, cannot be determined by karat, weight, age, dollar or any element measure- or calculable. Additionally, I have a sneaking suspicion that we are only meant to keep the things we are gifted, and that we are meant to give away anything we personally purchase.

On my last day walking the Chemin de Compestella in Southern France, a mysterious man whispered into my ear tales, mirrored in the magic I’ve found along my own, of pilgrimage along the caminos and around the world. Before we separated, he left me a very powerful message; one too personally sacred for me yet to share. But to officially mark the occasion of transmission, he took the red Tao off the chain he wore around his neck, opened my hands, dropped it in mine, and cupped his hands around my own.

“No, no, no. I can’t. You received this in Santiago a year ago upon completion of one of your pilgrimages. I can’t take this from you.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know what it means to you, and look…” He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and showed me the goosebumps on his arm, “It’s right, you see.”

It is right.

And it is wrong to deny any honest offering, as it’s a gift to the giver that one graciously receives. So I accept.

*****

tal-is-man:?
noun, plural -mans.
1.a stone, ring, or other object, engraved with figures or characters supposed to possess occult powers and worn as an amulet or charm.
2.any amulet or charm.
3.anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.

*****

Now I’m in the business of secret notes. I can’t get enough of them. I’ve left them tucked under tree trunks in Spain for friends, taped behind picture frames for myself in India, and hidden for a number of other lovers and friends in corners and pockets around the world. Additionally, I’ve collected a number of such from my best friends which remain unopened inside the zip-pockets of my Kangaroo shoes; I like to fancy that these secret love notes give me magic feet. And some day, perhaps on a sad day, or perhaps on a triumphant day, I will open them. (Many such days have passed, but the right day has yet to come.) But anticipation is sweet, especially when, daily, worn on one’s feet.

So…

Quite natural was my evolution from secret notes to sacred talismans.

And that would all be the background behind the following, not-so-secret, note to my Parisian hostess and dear friend. In my departing-France haste, I was unable to edit and leave it under her pillow as I had originally intended. Not trusting of the Senegalese post system, instead I post it where I know she’ll eventually find it; here.

****

Dear friend,

As all mountains do, the Pyrenees hold wisdom, secrets, mysteries and magic that match only their looming size. Perhaps their proximity allows them to catch runoff from the rainfall of understanding from the heavens. Perhaps from their studious observation of all below them, they have the concluding peace of seeing the cycle of life full circle. Perhaps in their silence, they have simply heard all. I will respectfully leave this mystery so. But albeit tight-lipped, the Pyrenees do not selfishly guard this knowledge, but whisper, sing and sometimes even shout to those who, with open eyes, ears and hearts, traverse its reign.

Before I set upon my pilgrimage across the Pyrenees, I found a small silver scalloped seashell. Virginous to experience, and the energy with thus consecrated, I set upon the small task of transforming, through alchemy, this simply metal symbol into a talisman. At the bottom of the mountains, I put my ego on the ground, raised my offering to the Pyrenees and asked for their assistance in this quest, to which they graciously agreed. And thus, backpack on, talisman initiates in hand, I ascended. And as I did so, with chain wrapped around my wrist, and initiates dangling and dancing between my finger tips, I reached out and at the same time, touched and asked for the blessing of the following…

I touched the wild Rose petals, and asked for their velvet undulations of Grace. I touched the Thorny bushes and asked for their discernment on when to take defense and when to pardon those whom there is no place to tread against. I asked the Air for its Lightness and ability to at once traverse and fill all space. I asked the Sun for its ability to Warm all inhabitants, indiscriminately, around the world and I asked the Earth, underneath all, for its unconditional support. I asked the morning Sky for the awe it, daily, inspires and I asked the first Star of the setting night for the constant reminder of the unknown which behind it lies. I asked the wooded Forest for its shadowed Mystery and I asked the Dandelion for its simply Beauty. I asked the spider Web for its ingenious complexity and corner reminders of life’s Interconnectivity. I asked the Clouds for the wisdom of peaceful Presence and silent being. I moved a fallen sparrow from the road and asked that Death might always be held so respectfully, consciously and closely. I asked the falling Leaves for their ability to let go of life in a similar show of colorful Brilliancy. I climbed up sharp Rocks and asked for their Strength and Solidarity. I raised my arms up in the air, spread my fingers through the Wind, and asked for its inherent talent for touching all, but attaching to none.

And at the top of the rock, on a summit of the mountain, I sat down, closed my eyes, cupped this scallop shell in my hands and made a meditation: “Let this shell be
(only) a symbol; a portal and channel, through which its bearer may tap the fountain of the Divine and all these healing, protecting, witnessing, loving and inspiring elements.” At this, my hands began to pulsate as they were intuitively inclined, to find and beat in rhythm with the heart of All, once again — with mine — aligned. And in answer to my humble request, I took the congruent beating of this gavel in my hand, within my chest, and upon Divine’s desk, as a motion signaling a silent, but resounding, “yes.”

Dear Friend. Thank you for being a special messenger along my path. I hold the mirror of inspiration and hope for many, as magical, to cross your own. Representing my wish for all the blessings that Divine’s instruments can kiss upon your head, you will find the silver scallop shell pinned, to the pillow on your bed. May it add to the magic, guidance, grace and protection of all Earth’s elements, on this pilgrimage through the last, from this life to the next…

with undefended love,

sol

*****

So yes, Mom, and all other curious; I did successfully cross the mountains. The last four kilometers, (where I took a “wrong” path), were especially blissful as I walked through the forest’s full fall rainbow. There are new photos in the France album, but they are insulting impersonations of the reality I witnessed…

And while at the top of the Pyrenees, the Wind was a might force to reckon with, on my way down, she only chased me playfully. Watch…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS7TjMES2oU]

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Up, up and over, she goes!

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Journal Entry
Condom, France
(How unfortunate to have a contraceptive device named after your city!)
Mid-October

Four days ago, my brother (by blood) and my sister (by marriage) jumped off a two-car train and onto the tracks of my walking dream; hands shading the sun in scout for a sister they have heard much about but never actually seen beyond the borders of Oregon’s four corners.

I wish desperately now, that I had filmed that moment; that instant when, while their thoughts roamed only on the plains of my whereabouts, the bubble that I thought to contain my existence, despite the waking pinch, did NOT pop, and was gloriously realized, instead, to actually exist.

Suspiciously similar to the conversation had between self and subconscious the moment one becomes lucid in a sleeping dream, my mind chased its tail with the full-circle understanding; “You’re here. And I’m here. And we’re both here together. And everything else is still here….so this must be real!!!”

The only thing better than lucidly living a dream, is being able to witness with beloved company.

And for three full days, my brother and sister witnessed with me…

They met the magical cast of French cartoon-like characters, who swooped into scenes in full color with hearts equally overflowing in offers of unexplained generosity. They watched castle tops emerge without warning from behind hilltops covered in leaves caught between seasons of gold and green. They marveled at roses of every shades and all colors, that crept wildly over cobblestone on every street corner. They played twister with the language, laughed through game upon game of charades, and just shrugged or smiled at the beds of riddles left unmade. They too, were confused, by the red and white bars giving directions, that clearly take delight in dancing pilgrims off the route of their intention. They shared five-course meals with tables of fellow pilgrims, as listened to histories of enchanted towns, while locals’ cheeks turned rosy with wine. They dunked chocolate croissants into steamy mugs and spooned saucy crepes, while commenting on the absence of such luxuries in the States. They bedded down in lofty hill-top towns, in bedrooms with balconies that cast warm purple shadows over the lands just traversed. They picked plums and apples off passing orchard trees that reached out their branches and offered us Earth’s best-baked delicacies.

And when they left, a sensation that I rarely feel, completely overcame me.

Only a vague acquaintance of Loneliness, I took off my bag, sat down on it, and felt out the dimensions of this foreign emotion; its emptiness, its fullness, its presence, its absence.

Finally, I settled on the definition: “absence of presence.”

At this exact instant, two white butterflies in a tumultuous tango, mimicking (if not mocking), my own game of mental tag, swung a net and caught my attention.

As I followed their flight with my eyes, my horizons suddenly spread as I moved “out of my head” (a narrow space to live in really) and inhabited the 360° space around me instead. The sun of understanding rose as a second dawn set upon me, and at once everything awoke and started buzzing all around me. A million leaves began blowing, as the wind brushed my hair from my face, and into my ear, disclosed, at once its agreement and dissent:

“About Loneliness…” it said, “you are more right than you know.”

“For exactly as you’ve defined it — the absence of presence — it is only.”

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

And a little video on how to navigate the chemin, sans plan…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F90SeXbe7N8]

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

I try to hunch into the longer shadows cast by the spotlight. Then I try turning around and searching for some speaker or spectacle that might give me more shade. I quickly realize that all my efforts to remain anonymous are about to abandon me when, my head still turned towards the back of the church, I feel two very eager hands clasp mine with a squeal of recognition. Knowing the inevitable is about to happen, I grab her hands back – “no, no, no, no” – I chant to to the receding tune of my last chance to keep the flag from rising. But I’m too late. One of her hands escapes my desperate grasp, flies into the air, waves my protests away as frantically as she petitions immediate attention;

“La petite fille! La petite fille!”

(“The little girl! The little girl!”)

As if Jesus himself had commanded it, the sea of shadows parts, a bright light blinds me and a microphone the size of a small animal is thrust under me, chest level.

The priest, as unfazed and natural under the eye of national television as he is under the adoring attention of his parishioners, smiles at me. There is a slight surppressed laugh under his grin, and as he knows both me and my story quite well (having found me homeless the day before and offered me a free and cozy room in the church’s youth center for the night), for the camera’s audience and curiosity only does he inquire, “And you pilgrim? Where do you come from?”

(I want to kiss his sweet feet for switching to English!)

Blinking, deer-like, under the camera’s headlights, I answer, “The United States.”

“And where are you walking to?”

“I’m walking to St. Jean Pied De Port.”

“Thank you.” But he relieves me of duty only temporarily because when I find him after mass as we had, earlier, agreed to meet, the cameras are still following him. And as I am his chosen lamb, he waves me over and says, “We’ll eat together, yes, but first, the camera will film you getting your first stamp in your pilgrim’s passport.”

There is little room for negotiating with a priest and so as I am ushered into a backroom, the bright light and furry microphone again attach themselves to me. The news anchor turns on his English as well; “Why do you walk?”

Now I am an introvert, and I write because I hate to talk, especially to the population of France, but I give it a terrible go: “The Camino, for me, is a metaphor for life. It sounds simple, but I walk – because I love to walk.”

This is a very poor summary of the understanding that I consider each step on the path, a day in the life – and that walking is the ultimate practice of presence – not living for a beginning, ending or destination, but a surrender to the simple act of stepping; living.

Whatever. Cameras could care less.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

(Thank god for an easier question!)

“Are you afraid?”

With this question, my faith obliterates the bright light as I, overcome with such confidence that I almost laugh out loud, reply…

“No.”

Later, over coffee, bread, butter and jam, the priest and I realize from where our affinity stems:

After my confession that it has been a very long time since I have been to a mass, he says, “Neither had I spent much time in the church before I chose to become a priest. I travelled for five years around the world and then I walked the Chemin de Saint Jacques. At the end, I came to the inner realization that priesthood was my path.”

To this I question, “But it is exactly my travels that took my religion away! Not brought it to me! I’ve seen so many people, the world over, worship in so many ways, none less sacred than another. So how is it that this same route brought you to yours?”

He shrugs with a smile that hints he knows more, “Each pilgrim has her own path.”

For one second, looking at our matching paths prior, I am scared; What if the same thing happens to me!?

And then with a sigh of sarcastic relief, I laugh at the ignorance and petty discrimination of the Catholic church and say to myself, “I can’t! I’m a woman!”

Phew.

The priest walks me back to the church – where a special staircase is literally RISEN from the floor – and a hidden entrance to the chemin opens the path to pilgrims. With two kisses (as is French custom)from the priest, I am thus blessed, and on my way.

I descend. And, thus, my pilgrimage begins….

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

So I post picture snippets; snippets that when stictched together, can at best, hint at the spell of bliss that I am under.

And one silly video…

The words are on the way; but this internet cafe is closing….

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.