Je suis ici!

Posted on September 15, 2006 by sol

And although my French is shy, awkward and stuttering, Paris is as smooth, soft and sexy as the voice of a French lover whispering in my ear. The problem, really, with my French, is that I know just enough to begin any conversation, but can’t comprehend enough to respond to the answers my questions may have summoned. I’m disappointed but relieved when my question in French is responded to with English. And I fluster up a curious mix of Spanish, English, French, obscene sign language and red-faced silence when the conversation changes into fast lanes of French to which I have been blind-sided.

But these words – fluster, curious, obscene, embarrassed, blind – they are good words, ill-fitting only to show me where I can grow. On the couch in the studio of a friend I have not yet met, my stomach grumbling on something I ate that might have been meat, or cheese, bone marrow or bean paste (only in France, for the richness of all foods, could you not know the difference), I count my Euros, which are all now in coin having distributed only large bills in fear of giving anyone exact change for mistake in comprehending the number owed. Oh how I remember this same storm of struggle with Spanish in Spain! But it’s a storm I seek, and dance in. And as if on cue, outside my window, lightening flashes and thunder snaps with a trailing roar. Rain pummels down onto the metal rooftops outside as French accents, food smells and street songs continue to waft their way up. Childish delight festering at every root end and finger tip, I gather up my day’s successes — navigating the airport, purchasing train tickets, steering my way through the maps and maze of metros, meeting two new friends, asking for help and directions, buying bananas and nectarines at a small fruit stand — like I did the small trophies I earned in dance competitions in 3rd grade. And with a smile that insists on staying the night, I curl up on the couch, and fall asleep with them.

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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.

a Jekyll agenda

Posted on May 16, 2006 by sol

My boss says, “You’ve got to anticipate.”

He, of course, is referring to the formidable mountain of projects sitting on my desk that’s currently making my inner sherpa shudder in fear under the overload.

However when I speak of anticipation, it is usually in direct yet indefinable association with the tingling that dances up the back of my neck, for instance, when my Pilgrim Guide to the Caminos de Santiago in France arrived in the mail from overseas this week.

*!!!*

It’s really not so much a book as it is a pamphlet. And although it’s suggested, I’m not going to bring any additional guidebooks that provide specifics of the path.

My friend Sara said of my last pilgrimage:

“Remember when you were in Portugal, and you didn’t have a map but were just following those blue arrows backwards? Yeah. We didn’t tell you at the time, but now that you’ve come back, I think it’s safe to let you know; We thought you’d totally lost it. We decided you were crazy.”

That makes me the Hyde in my giggle. The Jekyll, however, smirks. Because “crazy” as I may have been, that is exactly where I long to return; onto the edge; walking that fine line between the rational and the magical; where the slightest sigh of silence pushes me right over. Having no idea where I was on a map, nor where I’d been or was going, and surrendering my myth to those silly blue arrows led something inside of me to a timeless and placeless experience of existence that made my heart burn with the excitement of a first crush. I’ve found only one name that comes close to pinning itself on the shirt of that sentiment:

Presence.

A pure, permeating, and soul-saturating sense of Presence.

I think that because I am not enlightened (nor foresee such in my future) and am yet unable to be entirely present from the inside out, I still seek the environments that force me to surrender to presence from the outside in; salsa dancing, dreaming, scubadiving, first kisses, reading, writing, speaking in another language, meditating, and learning anything new. But what is exciting about being in a place — ANY place — unknown, is that then everything transforms itself into an exercise in presence: eating, walking, sleeping, thinking, speaking, listening, being. And it is my hypothesis that a diligent diet of surrender to environmental unknowns will eventually lead me to the slimness of ill-conceived self-stability necessary for inner stillness.

But back to anticipation, which I have only for the first time recognized as being a balance of both inaction (excited patience) AND action (disciplined preparation). The countdown to my departure turned on about a week ago. Although countdowns, by nature, are disciples of Time, perhaps contrary to their intention, they too, bring me Presence. Those funny little tabs sheets in time mark the beginning of anticipation, the duration of renewed appreciation, and the exciting start date of actualization.

Let me explain; I have exactly 108 (which happens to be the sacred number of beads on a “mala” *mantra counting beads* as well as the final tally of braids on a Tibetan head) days before I leave the States again. And although my heart wants to leap out of my chest in (excited and patient) anticipation of that day, I have also already broken down that 108 days into the following (boss-approving) schedule of disciplined preparation anticipating my upcoming adventure:

72 French lessons. (I’m on lesson 18 right now of Pimsleur’s French Series – which is an incredible language learning method. I can’t give a higher stamp of approval without sounding like a cheesy infomercial.) 12 Fridays of advanced salsa classes (although I’m currently dancing an average of 4 nights a week; which would be the reason why I’ve been slacking on posting recently.) A summer school drawing course (for new visual perspective and recording of my upcoming journey). 12 sunny weekends of prep walking and hiking (a few pics from this Saturday’s adventure). 3 months to finish reading my new photography books & practice shooting (I read the rest of my camera’s manual last weekend, and to my *squealing* delight discovered a secret “super-macro mode” — as demonstrated by the photo above). 108 days of appreciating a super soft bed, a consistently hot shower, access to delicious vegan food options, proper time to foster both old and new friendships, 24-hr access to internet, time and silence to meditate daily, a book shelf to hold all that I like to peruse on a regular basis, organic veggies, mountains within walking distance, water from the tap, a kitchen, and all the blessings of a life that gives ample space for healthy habits and repeated (sacred) rituals.

So much to appreciate. So much to anticipate. So much Presence before, at and after 108 that my heart stutters in indecision over whether to sigh or hold my breath for…

109.

*!!!*

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

sculptor of dreams

Posted on April 13, 2006 by sol

(I’m still tied up in the sheets of the “love post” and have yet to make that bed of thoughts. At the same time, I’ve been dealing with a family emergency and for this reason have neglected the site. Please accept my apologies and another chapter from my adventures along the Camino de Santiago. In my succulent anticipation of my return to the Camino de Santiago (this time in France), my mind won’t stop knocking on the dusty doors of memories from my pilgrimage along that magical path. And since this blog holds hands with my heart, we’re just going to have skip down this memory lane together.)

***** Santiago Staff

Many pilgrims walk the Camino with the assistance of a walking stick.

They come in all forms and sorts; metal, wood, extendable, expensive, carved, curved, thick, thin, painted, pointed, burned, blackened, short, tall, adorned with scallop shells or still sticky with sap. An assistant not only to walking, a “bordon” or “palo” is also an aid to fending off small beasts, a form of swashbuckling and martial art entertainment, a sweeper of cobweb-cluttered paths, a wet jacket rack, and a carving block for artistic expression of self.

Along my Camino, a small collection of tiny stones, pieces of colored glass, shards of broken tiles, bits of broken mirror and slivers of lost sea shells have found their place engraved into the wood of my own “Santiago Staff” (which found me in an enchanted forest on the second day of my Camino).

It is with this stick, that on the downbeat to the step of my feet, my palo and I announce our arrival by playing out our walking pulse (pad-pad-plunk, pad-pad-plunk) on the tiled floor entrance of a particularly new and plush pilgrim refuge. In a mirage-like vision, and to the toe-squirming delight of my tired soles, I find at the entrance of this hostel a “foot fountain” specifically designed for the purpose of refreshing feet belonging to those of pilgrim-ing inclinations.

“What a incredible fountain!” I declare, upon arrival, in delight and agreement with my feet.

Pupils dilated in joy of what my eyes spy, and attention focused on the fountain (and object of my affection), I do not at first notice the character that guards this treasure. Just as I feel him turn and take notice of me, he suddenly steps vividly into vision and his enormous presence unmistakably claims rein of the scene. Although by all accounts a very big man, there’s no need to cower, as his eyes are as wide as his smile and outstretched arms. And bowing to my clapping anticipation and astonished delight, the big man lifts his tree-trunk legs and transplants them directly INTO the fountain.

“Yes! Welcome pilgrim! Come now child. Come now here! This is what you do!”

He bends into the fountain and, with huge cupped hands, brings a handmade bowl of water to his face. He splashes the water up onto his arms and then cups his hands again to anoint his neck, head and face with the freshness that only water inspires. He excitedly shakes the water from his hair and smiles at me once more with all the innocence and energy of an enormous wet puppy.

“Hurry child! Follow my suit. Take off you shoes now. Come, come!” He jumps out of the pool and beckons me to take his place.

Without hesitation, I accept his invitation and strip my feet of shoes and socks. I jump in, douse my arms and neck, baptize my head, and then kick up the water in a small dance of delight. The big man’s joy in witnessing mine makes for an exponential energy curve which culminates in a final burst of shared laughs aloud.

A peace fills the pause after our thunder of laughter and then he places a delicate hand on my shoulder and his eyes rest upon me with the softness of the water now reclaiming its composure in the fountain. With a heavy sigh he says, “Ah my child. There are pilgrims, and then there are pilgrims.” He shakes his head and then takes my hand with a gentle grace normally bereft big men and leads me to the entrance of the building, “Welcome to our house. Please come inside.”

As he makes to pick up my bag, he suddenly halts, noticing my walking stick leaning nonchalantly against the wall. I notice how he approaches the stick as he would a friend, greeting it with the same delicate touch that he demonstrated in our own handshake. He picks up the stick, squints his eyes in scrutiny, and scopes its carvings and engravings carefully as he runs his sixth sense across the piece.

“Well look at this,” he whispers, more to the piece than to me, “You’ve crafted this with love. The heart of this wood beats.” He relieves the stick of duty, turns his attention back to where I’m standing at ease and eyes me cautiously with a similar round of re-consideration. Then he turns his attention back to the wood and the animation that defines this character re-consumes his body as he suddenly booms, “but you need to fill in these cracks! And olive oil! You need olive oil!”

In one sweeping second he fills my hands with a bucket of clay, scalpel-like tool, bottle of oil and a thick painting brush. With expert hands he swiftly demonstrates how I must fill in the cracks in the wood with the clay. Pat, pat, pat; he tucks the clay into cracks and the splits in my stick, like magic, disappear. He explains softly as he shows, “After the clay, generously paint the wood entirely with olive oil. At least three coats before you sleep. See? Like this child; extra coats on the ends. Do you see? Just like this…” Slap, slap, slap; the wood stains dark as it absorbs the oil in a thirst so strong I imagine that I hear the stick sighing in relief.

I am still watching this magical transformation of my palo to bordon and “stick” to “staff” when something in the peripheral of the scene catches my eye that suddenly demands my attention and simultaneously drags my body in tow to the corner of the patio. Still carrying my walking stick and clutter of tools, I slowly approach the great fallen tree on its altar of multiple supporting stands. I drop the tools and my humbled walking stick in order to free my fingers to dance along the grooves, curves, cuts and ridges of the mother spirit of all walking sticks. The pages of childhood history books begin to dance back into my memory, thumping to the percussion beat that always themes the tragic tale of those native to the North American continent. This sacrificial piece, in falling, did not lose life, but at the hands of this man, is being eternalized in the new form of carved sacred symbols. I put my hands on the wood. The pulse of the piece is strong; no doubt it is synchronized to beat in resonance with the heart of its own creator – who stands modestly beside me allowing just the right amount of space and silence for me to absorb the oil of its own essence.

Finally he puts the period on my open-mouthed awe, “…a totem pole. We will erect it here in the plaza of this hostel this month on the day of Saint Santiago.”

There are no words, but I try to stutter a few out anyway, “…it’s, it’s, so…. so beautiful!”

He brushes the compliment aside with the same stroke he used with the olive oil.

“Come child. Do not misplace credit, for is the spirit of the Camino that breathes life into this piece. And since you, pilgrim, ARE the Camino — you must help. Stay here tomorrow and I shall teach you a bit on the art of woodcarving and you will make your mark on this wood and add your own spirit to its story. Yes? Yes.”

He picks up my bag and enters the hostel and I follow him.

***** Scu
lptor of Dreams

I sleep late and after all the pilgrims have left, I assist the hostel staff with cleaning sinks, mopping floors and tucking in beds. When the chores are finished, I go outside and find the wood sculptor at work. The fresh bark dust wafts lazily about the floor and scents the new day’s air with the freshness of forest.

“Ah child! Good morning! Quite a day we’ve been blessed with today, yes? You’ve had tea yet? You must start the day with tea. Wait. I’ll get you some,” he excitedly declares as he, in one giant stride, disappears into the hostel kitchen.

I am still admiring the finest details of the scallop shells, birds, and other animals and symbols that adorn the totem pole when he returns with tea. He hands the cup to me and I observe with admiration that this man makes no favors for anyone. His every offering of kindness is made only for the delight that the act of giving itself inspires. If I asked this man for the moon, not only would he deliver it on a silver platter, but he’d praise me for coming up with such an ingenious idea.

He picks up the chisel and hammer.

I’m suddenly nervous. He doesn’t really expect me to taint his work with my inexperienced hand, I wonder?

He addresses my silent question as he begins to work on the wood and demonstrate by slow and exaggerated example…

The wood melts into smooth curves under his experienced hand as he explains, “You are already an artist of life child. Wood carving is only another channel of expressing and giving form to that same life force.” He continues, “The well of creation is already within you. All you must do is draw upon it. Art is the universal language that bridges the dreaming and waking worlds and although today you will use a chisel, you may always utilize the same tools to sculpt life as you would wood.”

He then turns to look at me and instructs, “Stand yourself in front of this piece of un-carved and clean wood. Good. Now, close your eyes child. Because every single task in life should warm up with an exercise in imagination. The elixir of eternal youth is only a limber imagination; and we must toast and take a shot before starting. Yes? Ready?”

“Now imagine your clean and un-carved wood in front of you. Have you an idea of what image you would like to carve into that space? There are no boundaries – this is important to realize. Do not box yourself into something you’ve done before. Feel out and find the edges of your experiences, and then — and this is important — take one step over that border. Are you on the other side with me? Good. Because this is where we always start. This is where the horizons of creativity spread. Do you see? Now you are standing in the place where dreams and the universe conspire to realize. Now just wait and watch. Something always rises out of the stillness of this spot…”

I straighten my back, breathe deeply, envision and watch the space. He gives me a few minutes and then whispers as if not to disturb the emergence of something wild on the horizon, “Do you see it? Can you see what you want to carve?”

Straddling the border of reality and dreams, where I have been instructed to stand, I listen and wait; and sure enough, I catch a glimpse of something in the distance. It shimmers like a mirage and I quickly learn by trial and error that the more I squint, the harder it is for me to make it out. But if I settle and wait patiently, like a vision from a forgotten dream, the image emerges of its own accord.

“Now look at the image on the wood in your mind. Your chisel has not yet touched it. But look at what you see sketched on the slate of your mind. Isn’t the image of you what you want to see, in fact, already there? You see, mere conception of a vision or dream, in some formless and untouchable way, brings it into existence. The inspiration within you is REAL and an outline of it already exists in some realm between your mind and the material.”

I tilt my head in observant study of the image I see in my mind.

“Now don’t lose me child. For I know this understanding can be difficult to grasp. Do you see that your creativity sprouts from something beyond you? That your dreams are seeded and nurtured by the hand of a grander and guiding force? Do you get that it is not just an opportunity, but your responsibility to foster the growth of these divine seeds of creativity which start as dreams? And do you see that that only difference between your vision and reality is the chisel in your hand? You just need to pick up the tools and start working to bring it into reality. Just pick up the chisel and start carving it into life, one chip at a time. Now don’t be overwhelmed by the whole picture or your task of making it all happen exactly as you had hoped. Don’t constrict yourself to working within your outline. Allow your contours and design to move and change as they are brought to life according to your new inspirations. The trick is to not expect, or even want, the final work to follow the exact line of the original idea. Because your dream, as it comes to reality, will grasp a new life of its own. And as it builds upon itself, it will in turn birth contours and dimensions that you had never imagined yourself capable of the creativity to conceive. Your final masterpiece will bear resemblance to your original inspiration but, over the process of actualization, will evolve to become more than you ever initially dreamed.”

With some hesitation, I explain honestly, “I do see it. But I doubt my skill to realize my vision because I’m not a wood carver…”

His contagious confidence spreads with his supple suggestion, “Move your body and you are a dancer. Put pen to paper and you are a writer. Walk and you are a pilgrim. Step into any place unknown and you are a traveller. There is no trick to this equation. Whatever you want to be, you just start being it; right now.”

With my eyes still closed, I feel my hands lifted. A sharp chisel is placed into my left hand and a soft hammer in my right.

“And now child, you are a wood carver.”

******

messenger

Posted on March 16, 2006 by sol

Today I post a piece that I wrote a few years ago but never published. It’s an excerpt from about 100 pages that I released on a keyboard during a half-month manic frenzy following the last of 700 miles spent walking along the Camino de Santiago thru Spain and Portugal. It’s a very intimate insight into my personal spiritual life, and for this reason I kept the experience safe in a sacred inner lock box. But in the years since, I’ve learned that the more layers I peel off my being and expose, the more sensitive and authentic is my appreciation of life; and thus I’m going to bare all and skinny-dip this story as well.

The following certainly falls into the realm of the mystic and mysterious, where only those with an open mind and imagination should venture. Truthfully, the story still sounds strange even to me. Luckily, I’ve got a mini-Michael Franti in my head and every time I begin to heed my aversion to possible perceptions of abnormality, he starts signing, “All the freaky people make the beauty of the world” — and he doesn’t stop till my heeding does.

Excerpts from The Living Path – a creative non-fiction memoir based on a two-month pilgrimage along the “Caminos de Santiago” in May of 2003.

***** Converging Realities

I am sitting on a thick cement wall that surrounds the pilgrim hostel where I have registered to spend the night. I massage my weary feet of their fatigue while watching the waves of new pilgrim faces flood in.

Although a pilgrim can walk solo, she is never alone. The Camino de Santiago is a travelling community and the faces on the path are as familiar as those that live in the more stationary houses of neighborhoods, “at home.” They pass you on the path one day and disappear into the future of your camino (path, road or way) the next. And just when you are sure that one of your neighbors is days ahead of you, perhaps even relaxing IN Santiago, he comes up from behind you, smiling and waving a greeting over his walking stick fence.

But today the faces are not familiar. Nor is their number. Lines form at the reception desk of the hostel. A group of over a hundred Spanish high school students noisily file by on the way to a community center. A small group of company-branded cyclists stop briefly to inquire as to the availability of rooms at the refuge. They learn that the hostel (due to over-demand and priority to walkers) is not accommodating bikers, and amidst long sighs and a few swears, they re-mount and continue on to the next town. I watch a couple on horses pass by. And I almost fall off my wall in disbelieving delight when I actually see a motorbike with a scallop shell grumble its way past.

No. None of this is familiar. But there IS something about the essence of what’s going on here that is.

I watch the pilgrims cluttered around the grass, attending to wounds, examining maps and excitedly comparing experiences…and then it I suddenly realize what it is! The energy here is exactly the same as that which I experienced on my second day of the Camino, over three weeks ago. Yes! New bandages, clean boots, crisp guidebooks, fresh clothes, first blisters and initial insights. Somehow I have walked for weeks and ended up at the beginning again!

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?”

I’m not sure where she has come from or how long she’s been standing next to me observing the incoming tide alongside, but I turn to her now. I immediately feel the familiarity of another whom I have yet seen, but know has been walking with me all along.

I follow her gaze back to the new pilgrims. And she continues:

“You know why right? You see, somewhere along the path today was the marker that indicates where there remain only 100 kilometers left to reach Santiago. The 100-mark is that which is considered to officially qualify one as having made the pilgrimage of the Camino de Santiago. You have to traverse over exactly 100 kilometers to receive the certificate of completion. So they all started today; the students, the vacationers, the sport enthusiasts…”

She cocks her head in a pose of uncertainty, pauses and continues, “I’m not sure how I feel about it all. The spiritual searchers have been diluted and the messages of the Camino, the energy, and the magic, seem somehow…muted.”

She sighs and goes on, “…but I suppose this is the way of the modern world. The paths of those on the Camino have converged just as the roads of the earth have. I suppose it’s our job to figure out how we can share the space and all move forward together. And not just the walkers, but the cyclists, the runners, the kids, the groups, the horse back riders, and perhaps even…” she grimaces slightly, “… perhaps even find a way to accommodate the motorbikes.”

She finally turns to face me, but her attention is immediately caught. She looks curiously over, but not beyond, my right shoulder. I am just about to follow her gaze when she turns her eyes back to mine, and with sudden seriousness says bluntly, “You know that your grandfather is with you? Your father’s father. You know that right?”

I’m so caught off guard by this comment that I stumble upon my reply, “Well, no. I mean, yes. I mean… You know, that is really strange as this is the third time in my life someone has told me that exact same thing. But my father was orphaned when he was only a child; he has never mentioned anything of what he remembers of his father and I don’t even know my grandfather’s name.”

My mind is so absorbed in its own internal search for clues to this mystery that I barely notice another pilgrim step up to the woman and tap her on the shoulder.

I look up and see that whoever this man is, he’s clearly relieved to see her and he sings with a happy sigh, “I’ve been looking for you for days! I’m so happy to see you! Please, I really need to consult with you…”

The woman turns to me, “I’m sorry. Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” I respond and watch as the man touches her on the arm gently and guides her away.

I am exhausted and decide to retire early.

***** Sleep Talk

Since I retired early, I arise alike.

It’s still completely dark outside when I sit up straight in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. Having slept in a different bed for dozens of nights in a row, as often happens, I lose my grounding in time and place. I search the space around me for some clues as to where and who I am.

I am still shaking off this haze when I hear myself speak:

“Where has my grandfather gone? He was sitting here at the foot of my bed waiting for me to wake. He’s eager to walk today. But where has he gone?”

Despite the soft edges of sleep still drifting around me, this question is as sharp and clear as if it’d been said aloud by a third party.

I shake off the subject, look around me again, hear and see the snorers and scratchers that surround me, and my place and perspective finally return; a pilgrim hostel. That’s right. I’m walking the Camino and I’m sleeping in a pilgrim hostel.

I grab my watch from the ground and look at it; it’s much too early to start walking. I lay down again, pull the sleeping bag over my head, and fall back to sleep.

***** Puzzle Pieces

The next morning I start walking late.

I prefer to have the path to myself, so I enjoy a long breakfast in order to avoid the morning rush hour of pilgrims. When the mass of them have passed, I finally pick up my bag and walking stic
k and take to the Camino.

I am treading ground quietly but not peacefully, for I feel like someone is walking immediately behind me, stepping on the back of my heals in desperate and annoying attempt to capture my attention.

Suddenly I stop walking. And the realization that was walking a step behind, collides directly into me.

The echo of this morning’s question stumbles out of bed and to attention; “Where has my Grandfather gone? He was sitting here at the foot of my bed waiting for me to wake. He’s eager to walk today. But where has he gone?”

Without hesitation, I suddenly remember the name of my grandfather and I say it aloud. And as I do so, I feel something within me leap in recognition.

I am now stopped in the middle of the path, but the world starts to swirl around me.

I remember my Grandfather’s name! I can’t remember being told it, but here it is. And I know it like I do all the names of my family members; I know it like I’ve never not known it.

The certainty starts to confuse me.

For no reason I can point responsible, my eyes begin to well up in tears. Connections start crashing down upon me, like a box of puzzle pieces upon a table. I’m overwhelmed by the task of putting it all together, and at the same time, I already know the picture the pieces will ultimately illustrate.

I drop down to a rock on the side of the path, grab my pen and journal and begin to write frantically, intuitively pulling the odd puzzle piece out and snapping it together with another. The pieces are seemingly inclined by a will of their own to finally reunite.

A shadow falls over my rock and a voice from over my shoulder suddenly stops me:

“Well imagine the coincidence of finding you again here,” she says.

Despite the choice of her words, I can see by the confidence of her composure that she clearly would never give “coincidence” the credit of arranging this convenient meeting.

I cannot believe that the very woman who broke this puzzle over my head now stands right in front of me. I am shocked into silence. Sitting on the ground with my puzzle pieces still scattered about me, I have lost all words and the alphabet as well. I sit there, looking up at her, with my mouth open, fumbling to find lost letters and string them together into any sentence of substance — but nothing comes together.

“Hum.” she comments, “It seems you have some thoughts to put together before we meet again.”

And without a gesture of goodbye, she walks on.

Only when she leaves do I finally catch my breath. And then I return to sorting and matching the magnetic pieces.

***** Messenger

A few hours down the trail, I look up and see that low, dark clouds have collected their efforts in order to prove their dominion by casting an intimidating shadow across the land. The front line of what appears to be a formidable army to follow advances and large water droplets land on my hood like the warning shots of canons. In an over-exaggerated exclamation of its reign, within minutes, the storm has marked its territory and I am completely drenched in evidence.

Shoes flooded and water cascading down my every curve, I arrive at the sheltered deck of a small cafe. I remove my useless armor and leave it at the door. As soon as I walk in, the heat of a nearby fireplace curtsies my cold fingers and begs me to come closer. I immediately accept the warm invitation.

I crouch down and let the fire properly greet my cheeks with soft licks that evaporate the cold and wet upon contact. When the backside of me becomes envious of the attention, I adjust to allow the fire to distribute its love fairly. When I turn around, the element of surprise sighs with defeated exhaustion; knowing this is the only way it could ever happen, I calmly recognize the same woman sitting at a table, sipping on tea, smiling and watching me.

I sigh and smile. For if there is ever a moment when I have, without doubt, felt the gentle hand of the Universe in mine, I am so very sure it is this moment.

She waves a request to the bar woman for another cup of tea to be brought to the table. She then welcomes me to join her.

I walk across the room and sit down in the chair across from her. My alphabet crumbles yet once again and I desperately hope that she is prepared to guide this discussion. But she reaches across the table, takes both of my hands in hers and says, “So my dear. Tell me the story.”

And out it comes: the morning’s vision, the afternoon’s realization, the internal battle between rationality and faith, the overwhelming feeling that a major truth has just been uncovered which fights brutally with the fact that I can not justify it with anything but the evidence of intuition.

I struggle to control myself, but I can’t; my emotions heat up; my words melt down. I begin to cry, and once I start, I find that I simply cannot stop. The storm has permeated the roof on my perceived reality; sought, found and drenched me even within the refuge of my skin.

Through the hiccoughs of my surrender, I finally stutter out, “But why did you say what you did to me yesterday? What did you see?”

She calmly reclaims my hands from the napkin dispenser and looks, not at, but through me. The light behind her eyes is unveiled but does not so much burn me (as I suspected) as it does soothe me. She says:

“You see my dear, over the course of my long life, it has been revealed to me that I am a messenger.

Things are often whispered into my ear, and I know not where they come from. I only know that I must repeat them, and from experience, have seen that these secrets sometimes have powerful effects on the people that receive them. I know nothing more of your mystery. But let me tell you what you have shown me, but are afraid to recognize yourself:

The spirit of your grandfather resides aside you. He has walked with you for a lifetime, unacknowledged in your waking reality, as he walks with you now. You have known this all your life, but have brushed aside the evidence because it comes from an invisible realm that is not appreciated by the world of the rational. But you have heard his voice in the quiet of your heart. You have listened to his advice and felt his gentle guidance at every turn in your path. And until this day, you have credited the unexplainable fortune of your path to what you call Intuition. But Intuition is only a language — and language is only a tool of communication from a greater source. Instinct, trepidation, impulse, love and all the other “unexplainable” feelings, they are merely the words of that which inspires them. You pride yourself on always hearing, respecting the advice, and following your Intuition; have considered it almost a best friend. And now you are shocked to find it is exactly so.

You are obviously overwhelmed in emotion, but you don’t cry out of sadness. You must understand that, for guiding spirits, the day they are recognized is the happiest of all. You spirit guide weeps in joy at being recognized. That emotion overflows unto your own spirit. You feel that joy in the same manner that you feel the other gentle emotions of guidance. You weep also in happiness, at the first recognition of a best friend whom you have always felt to exist, but never met. What you feel is the silent embrace of a long awaited reunion of souls.

Sometimes you need permission to believe. Sometimes you need permission to cry. And I am here only to deliver to you those permissions. The realizations are your own.

“This is the message that was whispered into my ear when I met you.”

She sighs and glances out the door.

“Ah. Look, the rain has stopped. That’s my sign that it is time for me to take to my own Camino.”

We both stand up and she embraces me.

She squeezes my hand one last time, and walks out the door of my life, for, as
is the seal of all effective messengers, we will never meet again.

*****

One Precious Life

Posted on January 6, 2004 by sol

(sorry…my story of the Camino just keeps walking on…and on…and on….)

***** One Precious Life

This morning I woke from a vivid dream that dangled, in front of me, a small key just within an arms reach. The dream still sits patiently under my tree of my consciousness, cleanly wrapped in ribbons that trail teasingly. I’ve been eager to open and reveal the gift’s secrets in the silence of this morning’s walk, and the present’s moment has finally come.

At first, the recalled details of the night vision seem irrelevant, unrelated and outright odd. The obvious silliness of my vague memory of girls frying eggs seems highly unlikely to hold anything of value….

But I am open enough to allow a little lunar light the opportunity to illuminate some of the darkness of my doubt.

So I play.

I draw simple sketches of the most memorable images. I write out fanciful captions to the pictures. I begin to build a dictionary of the symbols and archetypes and their definitions in accordance to my Living Dictionary. Then I draw lines connecting words to images and then connecting the images back to words again. And when the dots have finally been connected, I begin to translate the message of the story that came to me last night;

A ceremonial fire is burning. Persons dance on the outskirts of the fire circle. They know something that I do not. And in this vision, I, as a body, do not exist. I am an unobserved observer.

Two children step forward and appear behind the fire. They stand side by side and it is obvious that one is older than the other. One is taller and her hair is also longer and I guess her age to be about 13. The other is smaller and younger, perhaps around the age of seven. The adolescent girl and the child hold matching items in their hands. They each delicately hold to their hearts one, large, white egg. Both girls are scared, and as I look into their frightened eyes, I look into the mirrors of Time and am startled to recognize that both of these girls — are me.

Suddenly the dancing stops. Another observer, who is also unobserved, makes a silent command.

The adolescent-me is overwhelmed in fear. She clenches the egg closer to her chest and hesitates with pleading eyes. But the observer that stands invisibly beside me repeats the silent command and the girl steps forward to the fire. As the understanding of the dancers dawns upon me, something leaps from inside and reaches out to the girl in a desperate attempt to save that which is about to be sacrificed.

But neither am I granted any such permissions. And I am horrified as I watch the girl pull the egg from her own embrace and in one quick motion, drop the unborn life directly into the fire.

The fire greedily consumes the fresh offering.

A blankness clouds over the eyes the adolescent girl and she turns to the darkness behind her and disappears.

Having turned to watch her sister disappear, the child-me now turns to the fire again and trembles with unrestrained fear.

The fire, excited by its taste of Life and expectant of another, rises up, and my vision of the terrified small child is almost enveloped in its enormity. As loudly as I can soundlessly yell, my soul screams to see the child.

Suddenly another silent signal is sent.

The fire drops, but does not extinguish. It reluctantly, but humbly, lowers beneath the vision of the child and she looks across the fire and for the first time — sees me.

At the moment our eyes meet, I am completely overwhelmed by her fear. And at this moment, I find that the egg is suddenly in my own desperate and delicate hold. My heart travels to my hands as I feel the pulse of the life within it.

The fire flickers.

The fear resurges.

But from across the fire, one last silent signal is sent.

The fire, in response, immediately calms. But the woman I see across it shows no such relief. She looks through me and I find I can read her thoughts.

She wonders if I have the strength within me to succeed the the path of my sister-self. She ponders if I fully appreciate the gift of life I have been granted at the sacrificial alter of another. She questions if I comprehend the responsibility and delicacy of my task.

And finally she looks at me from across the fire and asks with searching eyes; What will you do with this one, precious life?

Cliff of Consciousness

Posted on January 5, 2004 by sol

(I’m still snowed in, and quite happy with my snowed in obligations as well. Of course, the light on the laptop winks at the bulb above my head, and suddenly I find myself tap, tap, tapping away again at the 70-page essay describing my experiences and interactions during my 700-mile pilgrimage from Spain to Portugal. The following section is another piece of my “Living Camino” puzzle….)

***** Cliff of Consciousness

Having spent too much of my day frolicking in the water of a river and its frothy falls, the descent of the sun and the dawn of night sneak upon me. There is no pilgrim hostel in town, so I set up my tent on the river bank and lay out my sleeping bag under the onset of stars.

The moon rises to my attention, and I am saturated in her serenity. At first I am only enveloped in the peace of the darkness that surrounds us both, but then a cold hand of urgency reaches out from the light in the sky and grabs onto the collar of my consciousness.

The crudeness of the questions that begin to race my mind in endless and directionless spirals, suddenly grabs and contorts my mental perspective into positions it squirms about. I want to turn away, to shake the whole thing off, to deny the overwhelming realization of my place in space that the Moon has just positioned me. But I looked too long. And the moon has caught me in my fall off the cliff of consciousness. The moon speaks to me. And only when she has exhausted herself does she let go of her grip and toss me back down to my tent.

I scramble to my flashlight and take up my pen to translate her message;

Seek

For I am the Unconscious and I hold the mysteries of your being.

I come to you every night, and yet you hardly pay me notice. When you look at me too long, you are directly confronted with the questions that your day-lit hours burry under routine and rationality. You may turn your attention temporarily, and even ignore my existence. But within me you know, that as I do the oceans, I also influence the tides of every minute of your waking and walking existence.

Do not fear the darkness that surrounds me, for space must always be traversed blindly to test the strength of those that seek. And my beam lights the channel to the source of the Creative for all those that allow their gaze and questions to rest upon me. Seek within me. For down my hallways exist the doors to all levels of consciousness. And behind these doors are the mysteries of your being:

Some of the doors you have requested to remain shut. Their keys will one day be returned to you. But for now they are in safe keeping and are not of concern to your current path.

Some of the doors are open, but you think they are shut. The essence of what exists here wafts down the hallways of the both the waking and walking worlds. Your sense the draft, but you are not sure of the source. This draft may be cold. And it is part of your path to find the doors that are already open, so that they may be truthfully closed and their drafts upon your existence finally extinguished.

Some of the doors are locked until you find the key. You may or may not already hold these keys. But you will recognize immediately when you come to find one. The keys sparkle. They chime in your heart each time you come close to a new door of awareness. The keys make your heart leap, your fingers tingle and the hair of your skin stand on end. To own a key is to know nothing of the door that it opens. The key is only the instant of recognition, your first clue, that a new door exists and that it is now part of your path to find it. The keys lay hidden within both your waking and walking worlds, eagerly awaiting your discovery, and will grant you access to all the doors of your Inner Mystery.

Some of the doors open directly to the Hall of History. Here exists the wall where the story of All is written. This wall is infinite in its dimensions of length and time. As well, there are an infinite number of doors to this hall, but each is limited in its vision to a proportionate piece of the wall. Every being has a key and a door to this wall. And only when every key is found, and every door opened, will the understanding of the Wall in its entirety be seen. Finding your key and your door are difficult tasks. And the wall does not have answers. To witness it, is only to fall in awe of the Question.

You have always had access to the Hall of the Unconscious. Every single night of your Life, with the rising of the moon, a door to this Hall is opened. Every morning you are presented with the choice to ignore or accept the invitation to play with, seek within, and learn from, the messages received from this realm.

Do not avoid or fear this realm because my invitation and messages are communicated in a language foreign to that which you are accustomed. Although it may appear odd or unfamiliar, in fact, it is exactly your vocabulary of life experiences with which I use to speak to you. For although my natural tongue is the same of that which is written upon the Wall of History, I know that you can not yet comprehend this language. So I present to you my message from the alphabet of your life experiences; the pictures, words, symbols and archetypes you have yet come to know and have added to your dictionary of Living. And so then, I piece these images together to present to you exactly the messages and keys that you seek. Read with an open mind, for I can be crafty and witty in delivery. My responsibility ends here. I wrap your messages in code and set these gifts at the foot of your tree of consciousness. It is your job to use your own understanding of your life images and experiences, to decipher the codes, unwrap the packages, and delight in the surprise of your new insight.

The Unconscious is not an abyss; It is a playground of the Creative. Explore my Halls, discover your keys, excite in the adventure, and delight in the insights.

Seek within me, the Unconscious — and you shall unlock all the doors to your Inner Mystery.

And each time that you see the Moon, be reminded to seek.

I put down my pen and allow my own exhaustion to set in.

I lay my head down on the matted grass and, with one eye, glance lazily at the night sky. The stars mockingly mimic me with winks of welcome as the darkness of night awaits my fall into the Unconscious with soft, cupped hands. I close both eyes, blindly traverse a long dark hallway, stumble into what feels like a door, reach for the knob and step off the cliff of consciousness.

Living Camino (Updated 9/8)

Posted on September 8, 2003 by sol

Grab a cup of coffee for this one! I welcome all comments, criticism and references for good therapists. Hit me up at solbeam@solbeam.com.

***** Disclaimer

700 miles isn’t such a long way to go to find out who you are. And although my walking pilgrimage has ended, I find my Camino has only just begun. If you are of cocked eyebrow and interest, let me explain.

On May 15th of 2003, I set about on a walking pilgrimage of the well-known amongst the world, but sadly unrecognized by the citizens of the States, “Camino de Santiago.” I started in France, walked across Spain, and ended in Portugal. Not the typical route, but neither am I the typical pilgrim. And neither-nor is this the typical pilgrim story. For in it you will find not a single mention of mileage, history, saint, city or church décor. And perhaps as already noted, I do not take kindly to the rules posted on the walls of life. Most rules, I’ve learned, posses the innate desire to be broken – especially those of silence and the MLA handbook. And I deny neither invitation in my writing.

So what is this story about? Well it’s a non-fiction tale in tribute to the fiction and fantasy of life. It’s a mystery of whirl-winding white butterflies, pilgrim pied pipers, clouds full of silent messages and the secrets that lay under the veiled light of knowing eyes. It’s a tale of two fingers and their exploration of terrain discovered, but yet unknown. It’s about following signs and the pursuit of a life path. And it’s got something to do with that dizziness that overcomes when you look up beyond the sky, beyond the moon, beyond the stars, beyond the beyond, and wonder, “why?!”

The “why” knocks on our inner doors and wants nothing but for us to come out and play. This story opens the door and lets Mystery back in.

That’s enough hints. You already know if this story speaks to something of your Inner Truth or not. You feel it, or you don’t. And if you do, then proceed with caution. For being in cohorts with the likes of me and my message, is grounds for a twirl or two ‘round the temple.

As one boy I met on the way to Santiago told me with darting eyes, “…shhhhh, now. You know, you really shouldn’t be talking about these things…”

But my enthusiasm for life will be hushed no longer. A story has been told to me and I have been asked to share it. And with no further delays I welcome you warmly to join me for a walk along the Living Camino.

***** Goosebumps

My fingers turn their nose up at the terrain of paint, but my ears are perked, for there is an unusual energy in the air today.

I walk around the room and gently touch the treasures collected from around the world. The woman sitting on the chair in front of me smiles with pure warmth. She has it too – what I can only describe as a “veiled light” behind her eyes.

I’ve seen it before and it greets my soul with the glisten of a reunion long-awaiting. It winks at my heart and flirts with passions inside of me yet unrecognized. It smirks at my courage with a dare to discover a trail of endless secrets. It sparks my curiosity with hints of magic and clues to an inner mystery. And all at the same time, it blankets my restless mind in a bed of peace. I am captivated and inspired.

But something she has said breaks that captivated trance…

“The way of what?” I ask. It’s the clue my ears have been perked for.

“The Way of St. James…or in Spanish, The Camino de Santiago,” she says as she shuffles up her files to take home with her.

It’s late at night on her day off. We’ve both been working all day and are very tired. But my hair apparently isn’t. And it stands on end in exclamation of this fact.

I glance down at my hair’s standing ovation and the realization shakes me. Three years ago, it went by without notice. Two years ago, I started to acknowledge it in retrospect. One year ago, I began take note of it as it happened. And today I am in eager anticipation of it. And goosebumps of all things! My strongest and favorite omen!

My skin finally releases its grip on my hair and attention.

I look up and declare the truth of the situation, “Do you understand what this means?”

She stops shuffling and looks up at me. Something in her eye catches mine. Did the veiled light just flicker? I shake my head of the slight observation. I’ve got great news to deliver to reality.

“I’m going to walk the Camino de Santiago!”

***** Giggles

Six full moons later, I find myself sitting at a registration table in St. Jean Pied de Port, France. The sweet, elderly gentleman listens in Spanish and writes in French. I’m pondering how many other languages we are communicating with when he stops at the “profession” blank on my new pilgrim passport and looks up at me with one raised eyebrow. I add “body” to my list of languages.

“Alchemista,” I respond with a smile. It’s the same profession that I have marked on countless country entrance and exit slips around the world. After all, there is no singular occupation I can profess myself to more than the quest of self-transformation.

“Alcheiste! Just like the old days!” he says and giggles. His giggles inspire in me a small set of my own.

He presents to me a bouquet of scallop shells – the Camino’s certified symbol of pilgrimage and protection. I ask him to choose one for me and he does so with a smile. He makes mention of a donation box. I pull out all the money in my pocket and drop it into the box. The amount is many times the value of the shell, but the warm welcome and the giggle we shared are priceless.

As I walk out the door and start down the narrow cobblestone street, I reach for the wall and touch it gently. With a smile I silently ask, “Care to dance?”

***** Secrets

The sun has just risen, and I with it. Accustomed to a lifetime of being the first person to rattle houses and grace empty streets, I am shocked to see that, aside from one man, I am the only person remaining in one of over sixty recently vacated beds. Movement from the only other occupied bed catches my attention and I watch anxiously as the man rises slowly, stretching out his arms. He rubs his eyes and looks around. He catches the case of my shock and then catches a case of my amusement also. Over a span of forty bunk beds, our silent joke is shared and we both laugh out loud.

I suddenly remember the man who was playing a wooden flute in the bed next to mine as we went to sleep. I see his sleeping sack is gone and seek him in the stragglers unsuccessfully. I look down from my top bunk and there he is, right under me, packing the last of his few belongs into a tiny pack. I estimate that he must have at least 70 years on him. He sniffs at the presumptuous observation of a stranger and turns to me to catch a whiff of its origin.

“Well good morning,” he says, looking through me.

And there it is. The veiled light. On one hand I can count how many times I’ve seen it burn this bright and fierce before.

But he’s packed and ready to go — veiled light and all it’s mystery with him. I’m struck with the urge to grab and shake all his secrets right out of him.

I quickly slip my fingers into the closing door, “Wait. Don’t leave yet! What’s your favorite book?”

Ouch. Not exactly the most graceful move. But it’s the only thing I can think to ask. And if he hasn’t the time to give me some of his own inspiring words to dwell on, well then at least he can provide me with a link to someone who can.

He laughs and replies, “There are many beautiful books and teachers in this world young one. But they are all only different interpretations of the same Truth. Let your books choose you. Listen to their messages with a critical ear, and choose what you decide to hold onto in accordance with how they resonate with your own personal Truth.”

I knew it! He knows all the secrets behind the veil! I want so desperately to spend an eternity under the shade of a tree with this man. A shadow from near the door calls to him and I can see that he is torn between the two of us.

He senses the urgency on both sides of him, sighs and asks, “Have you read Siddartha, by Herman Hesse?”

I pull the only book I have allowed myself to bring out from under the pillow on my bed and show it to him.

“Siddartha,” he laughs again. Then he turns those veiled flames in his eyes on me and asks, “And how do you know God?”

I answer him as accurately as I can, “When I and the world around me have been silenced, there is a voice inside of me that is too beautiful, too calm and too pure to be my own. It’s a voice new to me. And I’m beginning to suspect that this is how and where I have met this essence you call God.”

He smiles warmly. “You’re right. And that’s all you need to know. Stay in communication with that voice. It speaks only the Truth and you will learn more from it than all the books in the world. You need not seek so much of teachers and teachings. Explore and experiment. Find your own path to enlightenment. Everything in life offers a lesson. All you have to do is be silent, and listen. All the answers are there,” he points at me, “…within you.”

The shadow from the door beckons again.

“You’re on the right path. That is all that matters. And that is my message for you,” he says. “I have to go now…”

I cut him off, “I really hope to see you again later on the Camino…”

He takes his own turn at cutting me off, “Please don’t say that. The universe is listening. Intentions, promises and hopes like that, when thrown into the karmic field, have the potential to bind a person to another life. And it is my intention that this life be my last, so please just give me your blessing.”

Each of his simple statements teases at countless questions within me. But I respect his wishes and release him, “You have my blessings and gratitude. Thank you.”

We smile at each other for the last time and he leaves.

***** White Butterflies

I am walking through endless fields of red poppies and I suddenly understand with perfect clarity how they enticed Dorothy into their poisonous embrace. Even the wind recognizes the beauty of their bloom and pays homage by bowing the surrounding wheat fields in undulating waves of adoration. It’s an intoxicating vision that would make opium itself jealous.

White butterflies taunt me as I walk. As a million miniature sets of lost angle wings in a sea of red poppy — they need not flutter in my face to grab my attention. But they do. They criss-cross my path, and swirl around my limbs. A few are racing laps around my waist and another group gather together to form one white, spiraling whirlwind that I actually have to step off the path to avoid. They swoop my face and explain to me, through demonstration, the origin of the term “butterfly kisses.” Then circling around my head, they crown me Princess of PoppyLand. Their wings bat at my path restlessly until finally I stop and wonder if perhaps they actually want something of me.

Okay. Okay. I concede. I walk off the path and find a secluded spot, drop my pack, sit down and rest my back against it. My lofty white crown dissipates and falls upon the hidden delights of the poppies, perhaps recognizing them as sweeter than the stamen on my head.

“Okay. You’ve successfully driven this pilgrim off her path. And now you have my full attention,” I declare to the kingdom of PoppyLand.

Suddenly, the wind carries to me the echo of wise words I heard not too long ago, “Everything in life offers a lesson. All you have to do is be silent, and listen.”

Listen. I nod my head in agreement. Okay, I can do that.

I adjust so that I am comfortable and I begin to quiet my mind. I close my eyes. Ocean waves lap up and coolly clear my mind of all petty interrupting thoughts existing in any realm other than “now.” When all is finally quiet, and the peace of the sea is settled within me, I open my eyes.

I watch the white butterfly. I follow her delightful flight as she skips from poppy to poppy, riding on the wave of the breeze and intuition. I wonder what instinct she taps into to choose the next destination of her desire. I watch her select a white flower. She flutters about it, and her assessment must be positive, for she makes a steady and skilled decent. Suddenly she folds her wings and disappears. Amazing! She’s become a petal! How wonderful to assume the same body of that which sustains you! The flower doesn’t even flinch when two of its petals take to flight. She lands on the small bloom of a berry bush next to me and I inspect her closely. I marvel at the mystery behind this tiny creature. She lifts off again and lands gracefully on a daisy and I wonder what she has brought from the poppy, the white flower and the berry bloom to the daisy. I fancy at the fact that in just living her life, she carries the seeds of life to these flowers. She moves among this kingdom at her whim, delivering small messages of inspiration for life. She’s a messenger!

YOU are a messenger.

The clarity and certainty of the voice never stop startling me.

It took me years to quiet the other voices; The voices of television, parents, priests, friends, boyfriends, professors, magazines, radio, celebrities, movies, commercials, billboards, cell phones, salesmen, video games, overhead speakers, songs, newspapers and the countless other social sources competing to deliver messages to me with ever increasing levels of volume. Of course I could never escape them all, but the true treasure of my travels is that they allowed me to take a vacation from most of the immediate and demanding ones. The same critical eye I once turned on foreign cultures was suddenly most wary of my own. After years spent freeing myself from those voices and influences — I had finally found a silence. And only recently, in that silence, had a voice come to me. One voice. One voice too pure, simple, consistent, certain, and beautiful for me to claim as my own.

And it was not the voice of “God.” I only admit the “G” word into my vocabulary when I am using it to communicate an idea to someone who is accustomed to using it – for the sake of finding a common understanding on an otherwise indefinable concept. I sigh my sadness for the threatening fate of the “G” word. Years of misinterpretation and manipulation has stripped of its softness and then placed into a glass box high on a shelf above humanity’s head. But I’m not interested in spending my life leaping for a peak of what’s in that glass box. Instead I went in search of something new, something fresh. And what I found to replace the “G” word was an “s” word. And before the leap-ers all jump to conclusions, let me finish spelling out that word. The “s” word is “spirit” – humbly spelled out in all lowercase.

Now this is a word I like! Not only is it soft, but it’s indefinable in its borders. It is neither masculine nor feminine, yet at the same time embraces the mystery of sexuality. The word associates itself intimately with its dear and lovely friends of the Thesaurus, “energy” and “enthusiasm.” And it even bravely flirts with two of my favorite words, “inspiration” and “magic.” Its physical form is limitless – a truly free essence that can touch upon any thing or person without prejudice or judgment. The word seems to convey a type of movement of air — bringing to me images of soft breezes, breaths of fresh air, long sighs, blown kisses and the batting of butterfly wings. But it’s not only air that the spirit moves…

And so it was from this breathy essence that the voice spoke to me now in the gentle tone and manner of a kind best friend delivering delicate news;

You are a messenger and you have a message to deliver for me.

What? Me? A messenger? To whom? And of what?

I don’t expect answers to these questions. I have already learned that the voice of the spirit within me, although always listening and concise in direction, will not be bothered with petty questions of details.

Be silent. Listen. To be a messenger, you must hear the messages.

That’s twice I’ve been told to shut up, I muse. But this is an agreement I can keep to. I don’t feel like I have much of value to be stuffing in mailboxes right now. But if I listen, and messages are provided, then I will deliver whatever is received.

But one very good question; Why me? I’m so young, so inexperienced, so naïve and so simple!

You are young, female and American and this is the voice I need my message to be delivered from. My message is simple — understood and translated by the simple messenger, it can be grasped by all.

I’m pondering, in good humor, the inherent insult in that message, but am distracted from the thought as the white butterfly gracefully unfolds her wings and takes to flight. I wonder if she knows she carries seeds of a future field of flowers with her.

Each time you see the white butterfly — be reminded that you are a messenger.

I pull a pen from my backpack and tuck it between my temple and the red bandanna I wear. And then I pick up my walking stick, and take to my Camino.

***** The Cloud

I’ve arrived at the pilgrim hostel a few hours before it will open so I find a soft patch in the grass next to the garden and take off my boots. I retrieve the small journal from my back pocket and pull out the pen from tucked under my bandanna. I lay the two items in front of me, recline onto my back in the warm grass, close my eyes and return to the overwhelming peace of the sea. I open my eyes – and the clouds smile back at me. I listen.

And then I write into my journal the following;

Be silent.

Have you ever in your life heard me make a noise? And yet have you ever thought of me as small, less beautiful or less intelligent for not using my voice? I am silent because I choose not to speak. I am silenced in my awe of all that I see. Be silenced by your own awe of life.

Words are of the weakest of Universal Languages. They will never do justice to that which they attempt to describe. How much does the world, “beautiful” capture the sunset, or the word, “sweet” capture the first smile of a newborn child? Do not attempt to contain the radiance of your emotions in boxy adjectives. Let your sigh and your smile become the horizons of your gratitude and enchantment.

Be silent. Souls speak in whispers because they tell secrets. Listen — and they shall be shared with you.

Each time you see me, the cloud — be reminded to be silent.

“What are you writing?” a man interrupts me.

“I’m writing about the clouds,” I respond and smile.

He casts a wary eye squinted with suspicion up at the clouds. But he does not see them smiling and their silence seems to bother him. So he walks over to my backpack and picks it up.

“10 Kilos,” he states with the confidence of a bathroom scale.

I don’t respond and after an awkward silence he casts the same wary eye he threw at the clouds at me.

He breaks the silence with, “Mine is only 8 kilos. You shouldn’t have so much so much weight, you’ll have problems. How many blisters do to you have?”

I indicate to my blister-free feet relaxing in the afterglow of a recent massage.

“Humph. You’re lucky,” he concludes. “How many kilometers did you walk today?”

I finally supply him with one of the statistics he’s seeking, “15 kilometers.”

His eyes enlarge and he stammers, “Only 15 kilometers! What time did you get up?”

“Late.” I reply. I don’t bother him with the details of how I spent my morning volunteering my help to clean the bathrooms, sweep the floors, and tuck in bed sheets at a pilgrim hostel.

He shakes his head in obvious disapproval. Then he points to his temple and says, “The Camino is all here. It’s all about POWER, STRENGTH and FORCE. I got up at 4:00am this morning and I’ve already walked 40 kilometers. I’ve walked the Camino five times. And each time I walk it faster and with more force. I have more time than you, because I’ll finish before you. And when I get to Santiago, I’ll turn around and walk back. Because the Camino is ALL HERE.” He points a stiff finger at his temple again.

I ponder if “finishing” is a goal of mine. And then I want to ask him if he keeps walking the Camino because he missed something the first time. But as I look up at him, the cloud catches my eye over his shoulder — and I catch its cue in return. So instead of saying anything, I get up slowly and walk over the row of red, yellow, pink and white roses lining the garden and smell them each. I look back at him and see that he’s watching me with tense curiosity. He is waiting for a response, and I have delayed him in favor of flowers.

Finally I turn to him and ask, “So seeing as you have walked over 1,500 miles of rose-lined Camino, you must surely know which color rose smells strongest.”

He frowns. I obviously do not understand anything. The hostess of the pilgrim hostel appears on the deck and declares the house open. The man makes it clear that being first in line to check-in is more important than this conversation by grabbing his bag and making a dash for the doors.

I know I am aggravating to the “number-crunchers” and I silently apologize for the grief I might have caused him. But just as I’ve had enough of numbers in this lifetime (2.5 children, 19% APR, 115 pounds, 1 karat ) so have I had enough of numbers on the Camino (how many kilometers, how many kilos, how many blisters, how many days gone by, how many years old, how much money, how much time left). I’m don’t care for the pressures these numbers attach themselves to.

Beware the numbers, I re-advise myself. They only exist in their comparison to others and they fade from existence when that which they are dependent on does. They attach themselves to statements that otherwise lack validity. They are proof. But I do not ask for proof and I do not need to defend myself with proof. I prefer the voices that speak in numberless, dateless, and timeless terms.

***** The Boot Contract

When I received my pilgrim’s passport I was asked to mark one of five boxes to indicate my motivation for walking the Camino. In my journal I begin to list other check box titles that I have already encountered; for sport, for vacation, for competition, out of boredom, to learn culture, to set records, to see churches, to learn history, to travel cheaply, to party, to find love, to find a marriage partner, to collect pilgrim passport stamps, to repent for sins, to be rewarded with a restriction-less ticket to heaven, to help with making a major decision, to build confidence, to find self, to overcome a fear, to challenge abilities, to sort priorities, to have sex, as a judge’s option to avoid jail time, to make a documentary, to appease a spouse’s wishes, because it was seen on television, to just be able to say “I’ve done it”…

The list is inexhaustible, I realize. For there are just as many reasons to walk the Camino as there are to live life. And despite the fact that each of us has the exact same gear, the exact same weight on our backs, the exact same mileage to cover, the exact same bunk beds to sleep in, and the exact same path to track – we EACH walk it differently. Physically, we all start out equipped identically. It’s something else that shapes the manner in which we pursue our path.

I sit cross-legged on my bed and, with fascination, watch the pilgrim night rituals that are in progress. Each person tends to his or her wounds with dedication and delicacy. Every pilgrim has his or her own sworn-to method and manner involving some combination of gauze, thread, needles, band aids, moldable plastic, braces, elastic tape, second skins, ointments, oils, jellies, cements, foams, wool, vitamins, pain relievers and foot stretches. I pull out my own bottle of “magic” foot lotion and begin to massage my appreciative adoration into my blister and strain free feet.

A woman walks by, and in passing, glances at my feet. She stops, looks up at me and asks, “Have you always had such a good relationship with your feet?”

I look expectantly at my feet as if they might tell the story. But alas, they must be following the advice of the cloud and so I speak up for them, “In the beginning we had a few tiffs over heels. But after agreeing to always stay below two inches, no problems. And in consideration of the fact that we have shared an impressive history of time spent on dance floors together, I think our relationship is quite solid.”

She smiles. And I see a glow of the veiled light behind her eyes.

“And what’s your contract regarding boots?” she tilts her head and asks in the universal language of “body” that means, “I’m curious. Please humor me.”

“Boots” I answer, “to be left (free of sock and foot) at the edge of every lake, river and creek along the Camino, while we (feet) bath and refresh for a time period of our discretion. Special exceptions made for soft grass or sand when water is not of avail. Daily massages in appreciative adoration required daily (suggested 2x/day). Any violation of this contract (on the part of body) may result in boil, burn, blister or break. But there is nothing that can’t be reconciled in a proper pile of mud.”

She laughs out loud and then asks me seriously, “So what have you learned of the connection between physical and spiritual health on the Camino?”

I think for a minute and then start…“Well, what I’ve observed is this;

The majority (for there are always exceptions) of the people I have met who suffer from strains, blisters, splints, tendonitis and other troubles of the sort all also suffer from one of two things; 1. A perception of a time constriction or 2. The conviction that gains must involve pain. In either case, they push beyond their means because they feel they need to. Their bodies scream “slow down” with subtle warnings but they do not listen. They push through the pain holding desperately onto a promise of a future reward called, “Santiago.” Whether or not Santiago is all the heaven they deem their pain deserving of, I am never sure. For they can’t be bothered to wait for me while I fulfill my boot-contract with soft grass and mud puddles. They pass me by.

Meanwhile, I have found blister-free people in flip-flops and sandals and in sneakers with holes in the heels. I meet them in rivers and creeks and napping under apple trees. I often find them aside from the path, with their backs to Santiago, witnessing and reveling in the show of a sunrise. All the while, expensive designer boots and metal poles overtake each other in nearby path passing lanes. But these pain-free people, they do not appear to be “walking” the Camino, so much as they seem to be “wandering it.” They aren’t willing to sacrifice the pleasures of the immediate step for the goal. Nor do they hold the same level of attachment to the Santiago promise-land.

And I have also learned this; that EVERYTHING is connected. A man walks in wet socks and develops a blister on his toe. He walks through the pain by shifting the weight to his heel. Unaccustomed to walking so many miles in a new and awkward manner — he places strain on his ankle. But he continues to walk with a mild limp. And eventually the overcompensation of his knee begins to bear its own painful burden. So he buys a knee brace and some pain reliever…and he keeps on walking. The next day, his good knee gives under the pressure. He finally stops, goes to a doctor, and is diagnosed with tendonitis in both knees. I ask this man why he didn’t stop three days ago to change out of his wet socks when they were rubbing raw against his toe. I ask him why he didn’t take breaks to massage his weary heel or strained ankle. And he tells me this, “Pain is part of the Camino. And besides, I don’t have time to waste. I need to get to Santiago soon.” Well, he gets to Santiago – the next day – on a bus and by doctor’s order.

I used to feel guilty about my privileged path and life. But I don’t anymore. Because it is not by the toss of the coin that I don’t have pain on this path. On the first day I decided that every step of my Camino would represent one day in my life. And perhaps I am pure wimp, but I want every step to be made in conscious appreciation and joy. I have unhappy moments. But each time I do, I stop and address the issue, whether that is with a nap, a swim, an apple, a chat, a journal entry, a foot massage or even a cry. But I don’t start walking again until I have regained my peace. And in this manner, my Camino had been pure delight.

Despite the fact that a person needs no money at all to walk the Camino, every single person here is clearly privileged to have this opportunity. Physically we are all initially, equally equipped. How we choose to move forward, to live through each step, is a personal choice. Some chose to walk it in pain. Some don’t. But we are not GIVEN a pain-free path by luck or privilege – we CHOOSE it.

And in the end, we all arrive in Santiago.”

I’m not even sure where it all came from. But I feel relief in the release of it all. I sigh.

“Half as fast, but twice as far my dear.” She winks at me and says, “ I’ll see you on the side of the road at the sunrise show.” She leaves. And as she does so, I notice that she hasn’t any blisters or bandages on her bare feet.

***** Signs

The way to Santiago is a well-marked path. Although hundreds of guidebooks exist, not a single map is necessary to walk it. ALL one needs to do – is follow the signs.

The signs considered most “official” consist primarily of painted yellow arrows and blue tiles with golden scallop shells. Those not mentioned in guidebooks, but just as legitimate in addition to entertaining in their creativity, can come in the form of crossed sticks, plastic ribbons tied on twigs, delicately balanced rock sculptures, bouquets of wild flowers, footprints, waves from friendly farmers, pilgrim litter, honks from bypassing cars, scrap wood crosses, water fountains, pilgrim grave markers, glimpses of backpacks on the path ahead, or a well rehearsed whistle from a shepherd.

Having chosen to walk the Camino alone, and thus having only myself to depend on to find my way to Santiago, I quickly learn how to recognize the signs. It took me a day or two of distracted thoughts and wrong turns to learn the value of a clear mind focused on the moment and trained to observe detail. And some of details, over time and with consistency, showed themselves as following patterns. And those patterns, in turn, evolved into a sort of set of guiding rules that I jot down into my journal;

* Never assume that the person in front of you knows where they are going or put all your faith in one guide or “path prophet.” Their way is not necessarily the same as your own. Especially beware those who lay claim to knowing one right way. For there are endless ways to Santiago, of which no path is “wrong.”

* Sometimes you are presented with alternative routes with no indicative markings. Do not be afraid to step forward on faith. Not in the blind faith that the path you’ve chosen is “right”, but in the conscious faith that you have the confidence to deal with whatever that path may lead you to.

*You must train more than your eye to spot the signs, for a lazy or distracted mind will see everything but notice nothing. Wake yourself from the sleep walk, re-observe everything around you for the first time, and train your mind as well as your eye to focus.

* Do not worry if you take a “wrong” turn. Your adventures are never lost, only changed.

* The signs are always changing. They are painted in clear visibility — but trees fall, ivy grows, weather fades and dust disguises. Take into account that you must continually adapt your path to the changes it has been presented with.

* Although there are countless books for sale and guides for hire, neither are needed to walk the Camino. Do not feel obligation to follow the scripted “stages” for walking the Camino presented by books, guides or other pilgrims. Do not uphold yourself to the expectations of any other person but yourself. Walk at your own pace and follow your own signs.

* Use great caution when walking with a partner on the Camino. Do not become dependent on them to spot the signs along your way, for they might be doing the same, and together you could end up off the track or in a dead end.

* The direction of a sign may alter according to your approach. Position yourself from different perspectives to take into account all angles. Choose your direction based on an awareness that is not narrowly minded of one path, but is mindful and in consideration of all.

* If you see the same sign more than once, most likely you missed something the first time. Don’t miss it again.

I look up from my journal and see two pilgrims coming over a hill, their backs to Santiago, walking head-on into my own path. Now this, in itself, is not so totally unusual, for I have met the other odd pilgrim making a return pilgrimage. But what cocks my eyebrow and interest is the fact that I saw this exact same couple pass me in this same direction yesterday.

“Excuse me!” I step slightly into their path and they pause in their tracks and smile.

“I’m really sorry to disrupt you, but I’m about to either fall off the cliff of curiosity or crazy because I am quite certain I saw the two of you yesterday, 20 kilometers back, walking in this same direction. I’m wondering how that is possible. So please, cushion my fall will you?”

They laugh and reply, “Although it would be a much more interesting explanation, we are not apparitions of your past or future. We’re just walking this Camino in a rather unique way. Specifically, backwards by stages. You see, we wanted to walk to Santiago, but we also wanted to bring our motor home. How to drive it, and walk the Camino at the same time, presented an unusual problem. Our unusual resolution is that every morning we catch a bus and we ride it until we scout out a good site for the motor home that is of appropriate walking distance. Then, we walk backwards along the Camino to our motor home, where upon return, we drive “back forward” to our destination. Get it? Actually, by the time we reach Santiago, we will have technically made the pilgrimage to Santiago three times, once by bus, once by motor home, and once by backward foot.”

“That’s fantastic!,” I exclaim as I am always enchanted with encounters of the odd. “And how is it? Walking backwards, that is?”

They shrug and respond, “Interesting for sure. It’s certainly more difficult to follow the signs because they have been positioned for the pilgrim traveling forward instead of backward. But we have learned to rely on other less obvious signs, and it’s easy enough to fill in many of the gaps by simply backtracking along the trail of pilgrims themselves.”

Suddenly it dawns on me that the other major disadvantage of walking backwards and backtracking along a trail of oncoming pilgrims is that everyone wants to stop the “odd” couple and ask them what they are doing. Recognizing the red on my hands, and feeling it on the move to my cheeks, I quickly thank them for sharing a moment of their time and let them be on their way.

I pull out my journal and add:

* There are just as many ways to walk the Camino as there are ways to live life. None is more right or wrong than another. Respect the chosen path of the other pilgrims as you would have them respect your own. And remember, all roads lead to Santiago.

The next day, around the exact same time, I chuckle again over my brief, but impressionable, encounter with, “The Goofyfooters.” I’m pondering the choice whether or not to make a return pilgrimage of my own, and our interaction is molding that decision. Something catches my eye over the next hill, and I look up and can’t believe it. There they are again! Making their way towards me, just as I was thinking of them, for the third time!

In my life, “third time” is not only a charm, but also a blatant omen that calls for action. One of my guiding rules of following my intuition is never to let a third encounter escape me of its message. Often times that means bravely walking up to a stranger who has crossed my path for the third (and last) time and introducing myself. But I have already made my introduction, so I sit down on a rock within a few meters of the path and watch the couple pass by. They do so without recognizance.

I review our short conversation from the prior day. What message escaped me? What had they told me?

“It’s certainly more difficult to follow the signs because they have been positioned for the pilgrim traveling forward instead of backward,” they had said.

A singing voice interrupts my thought, “Well hello pilgrim! Beautiful day isn’t it! And isn’t that a nice rock you’ve chosen to recline upon! Has the morning rush hour passed already? Aren’t they a funny bunch! I love to jump up and down and point behind them and ask them how far back the fire is. Perhaps I take too much amusement in the expressions of alarm in their faces. Yes. Such a funny bunch. Well, I’m on the scout for a reclining-rock of my own, so I’ll be on my way. Happy Camino!”

My reaction is delayed in initial shock but the vision of a pack of pilgrims looking over their shoulders for a glimpse of the metaphorical fire that’s nipping at their heels sets a solid smile upon my face.

I continue to ponder my missing message as the pilgrims continue to file by on the path. I observe again the overwhelming fact that the Camino is walked predominately by an older crowd. At the pilgrim hostels, the older pilgrims are the first to rest and the first to rise. The few younger pilgrims that exist are always still dozing dreamily as the older ones take to their walking sticks in the pre-dawn dark. And their determination is truly impressive. But I wonder if it’s not because they sense a pressure from Time that does not yet exert itself on the young. The young, for the most part, do not concern themselves so much with the task of the actual walk. Their young, strong, flexible and fit bodies have yet to hint to them of failure one future day. (Their task today being more of mental clarity.) But the older pilgrims know Time differently. They may have held that same confidence once, but at some point their bodies tripped and failed them. And over Time, physical limitations presented themselves. And finally, the consequences of a body not invincible to the effects of Time’s measuring stick – “age” – hit home. And the power of a glimpse of the end of the stick? It must send many into a spiritual search. And it’s obviously sent many to the Camino.

A pilgrim of great age and experience once said to me, “Ah. How wonderful that you have begun this Camino so young and this search so early! Your senses are tuned perfectly to life. You need not concentrate your energy on the physical task, freeing your mind to be attentive to the details and to the signs that I was too busy walking by, to see. In a sense, I am walking backwards along the Camino I have already chosen. How much easier it will be for you, having your whole life ahead, with your young senses in tune to the spiritual search, and walking forward with all signs facing you!”

And THAT is it – the message I missed. I grasp onto it and my pen as quickly as possible;

Do not wait for a glimpse of Death to ignite your embrace of Life. Don’t wait till the fires of Time are nipping at your senses and heels to pick up your Camino and spiritual search. Start walking forward along your path today. Your signs are all there, patiently awaiting your attention. Start observing them today, and tomorrow you won’t have to walk backwards looking for the one you missed. And when you arrive in Santiago, in confidence that you know your path, you won’t ever look back or have to walk it again.

A small man and his determination breeze by me. I overhear him as he says aloud to himself, “No time. No time. Must go. Must go.” A vision of roasted white rabbit pops into my mind, and I suppress all but a silent smile.

***** Producing Life

I do a lot of what others call, “resting” on the Camino. In the shade of a tree, on the hill of a heat wave, I’m busy doing just that when a woman spots my small oasis and strides over.

“What a perfectly wonderful idea! Mind if I join you?” she asks.

I am always delighted when, without having to seek them, my messengers find me. I invite her into my shade and offer her chocolate and a welcoming smile.

She collapses into the grass, picks a few flowers from beside her and begins to weave them into the growing bouquet in her wicker hat. She takes a piece of chocolate, smiles at it, holds it up to me and says, “Now THIS, is something a woman can always count on.”

I laugh and hint at her that I am interested in hearing the story behind the comment.

“Ah yes. Well you see. The reason why I am on this Camino de Santiago is because I have a decision to make. My partner has asked me to marry him. Marriage being a mistake I’ve already made twice, and despite the fact that I promised myself I would never do it again, I am here in consideration of that proposal,” she explains.

“Well what went wrong with the first two marriages?” I ask curiously.

She laughs and states as a matter of fact, “Well the first one was gay.”

I nod in agreement and say, “I can see how that might pose as a problem. So he realized this one day and told you?”

She chuckles out loud, “No. I caught him in bed with another man!”

We both laugh together as I marvel at the things people will tell you before their first name on the Camino.

“And the second one?” I question.

She sighs, “Ah, the second one. I was really in love with that one. As he was with me. So much that we decided to have children together. But when the children came, I had to split my love and share my attention. And after coming to the conclusion that the woman who bore his children would never again provide him with un-shared adoration of the woman he married, he sought and found another that could.”

She selects another piece of chocolate, and holds it, her conclusion and her rationale, all up again.

I gauge her honesty and modesty and then say, “Can I ask you a very personal and perhaps offensive question?”

“There’s nothing you can ask me that I haven’t already spend 100 dollars an hours discussing with my psychiatrist,” she says with a soft smirk.

I begin, “The truth is, I’m trying to discern what’s really important in this life, and being a woman, I am overwhelmed with the message that to live a productive life I need to have children. It’s practically taboo to consider any other life path. But something inside of me burns. Perhaps having children was the most valuable thing society would allow women to produce in history. But, today? Haven’t we outgrown this inequality of opportunity? Men are allowed to produce art, money, music, faith, books, and countless other things — and are allowed to die with pride and social recognition regardless of how many offspring they parent. But a woman? She can have a mile-long list of merit and achievements, but without children, she still goes down in the books as a “spinster.” And really, I could care less about how society recognizes me. But is there a truth at the root of this social condition? What I want to know from you, as a mother, is; if I chose to give birth, and devote my life, to something other than children, will I really by denying myself my greatest privilege?”

She thinks carefully and replies, “Essentially you are asking me if motherhood is really all that people make it out to be. And I will tell you my Truth as I know it. First of all, the reason I had children was because everyone else was. Perhaps it was the era, or social influence, or my ignorance, but I never asked the questions you are now. I just did it because that was what everyone was doing. And when the children came, my definition of love was redefined. To have a child, to know that kind of love — belittles all your former. That part is true enough. And even if I had the opportunity, I would never change a thing. But, I’ve done enough other noteworthy things in this life to not be left defining myself by my offspring. I love my children — with all my heart and soul. But did I need to have them to live a productive life? Do they bring the meaning to my life? No. The truth is, motherhood has nothing to do with children. My council to you is to follow your heart and passions wherever they may take you. Produce art, music, dance, literature, song, inspiration, beauty, health, unity, friendship, justice, peace, trust, faith, or happiness. In anything you produce with love, you produce life. ”

This is a powerful message for me. I grab my journal and while fumbling for my pen, I notice it falls open to one blank, white page with cursive script on the top. I put my racing thoughts on pause for one moment and read the single sentence;

Under the tree with the yellow flowers…

I don’t need to look to see it, but still my eyes swoop the scenery. My vision hovers over the thousands of delicate little yellow dandelions that surround us. Then it smoothly glides up the trunk of the tree that I’m reclining against and upon reaching the top, horizontally and in small loops, it spirals the length of one, long branch out to its tip. Suddenly, the entire vision, and I with it, makes one lofty mental cartwheel back down to the grass.

I’m happily lost in the ensuing dizziness when the woman, with a hint of concern in her voice, asks, “Are you okay? What happened? What did you see?”

I hold up my journal and she reads the script and does her own visual swoop of the surroundings. She shakes her head bewilderedly and queries, “Who wrote it? And when?”

I look up at the tree and respond, “I did. A month ago.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. She raises one at me. We both grin. And the cloud smiles upon us.

***** The Shadow

The Camino de Santiago runs from East to West. Walking during the crisp morning hours, with senses fresh and appetite whet, is as delightful as eating dessert before a meal. As the sun rises, so does my shadow, and although we’ve spent a lifetime walking together, now with the sun on my back, we get to spend a Camino facing each other.

I greet my shadow today with a wave, and the gesture is neighborly reciprocated. I let my thoughts drift to the days we spent endless hours chasing and dancing with each other. What pure captivation I held for the mystery behind that skipping, spinning, and somersaulting darkness that saluted in command to every action of demand. Where did that captivation go, I wonder? When did I stop noticing the mysterious and silent witness of my every move? What day did I let go of that consciousness?

I stop walking and face my shadow. Then I slowly turn North and South, closely observing its reaction to my direction. Finally I turn to face the sun. It blinds me of my vision and my shadow.

I turn around, sit down on the trail, and watch as the slender dark arm of my shadow merges briefly with the head, and then reappears with the shadow mate of my pen;

Be conscious.

Pay attention to where I stand in relation to your “self.” You have walked too much of this life looking directly into the sun, blindly responding to stimuli as if there were nothing more to this world.

You were not always unaware of me. When we were young, in innocence we danced in perfect harmony. And still today, sometimes when I am beside you, within your peripheral — I know that you see me. But you chose to ignore my presence and act “automatically” in agreement with your social conditioning, but against that which you know is Truth. But remember, since the day light and life were first shed upon you, I have been with you. I am unavoidable and I witness all. And you will feel pain – mentally, emotionally, and physically – if you do not walk in alliance with me.

When you walk with the sun on your back, and I stand directly in front you, you are confronted with an outline of yourself and you haven’t a choice but to look directly into the darkness of your depths. This is your opportunity. Rise above your every action and thought. Be a third person, floating outside of your physical reality – detached of your thoughtless reactions. Your perspective from here is as sharp as my contour. Continuously consult with me and I will light your path to Personal Truth.

Walk with the sun on your back. Live with the light on your path. Remember that together we are a mysterious creature, with innumerable and indefinable depths. Use the light to guide the exploration of your “self” in relation to the world, and we will dance together in harmony again.

And each time you see your shadow — be reminded to be conscious.

I am still seeing my shadow for the first time when another dark form suddenly swoops in from my peripheral and shoots through the darkness where my shadow heart beats. Just as suddenly, it is gone. I look up to the sky and follow the trail of the large black bird that pierced my darkness.

“And what message do you hold for me?” I ask.

But she is gone. Perhaps she is not ready to divulge her secrets. Or perhaps — I am not ready to receive them. I pick up my walking stick, and take to my Camino with a new warmth on my back as the light graces my path.

***** Shadow Dance

I am walking along a busy street. The voices of city life are loud, and I find myself consumed with the search for signs under the clutter of cars, poster advertisements, garbage bins, graffiti-ed walls and crowds of people. Its not until after I have left the city, that I realize that my fuel has been consumed and wafts lazily in the air around me in imitation of the fumes of the cars that pass by. But as the silence of the country calls from around the corner, a breeze scented with wheat fields washes through me and begins the process of replenishing my energy.

I am still in that process of revitalization when I come upon a small church on the outskirts of town. A tall man, dressed all in black, with his arms crossed behind his back, stands stiffly in front of the gate. I see his left eye squint at me from the corner of my own, and I decide to make haste. But it’s a poor attempt at avoiding an inevitable encounter. I see his resolve stiffen with his back.

“You!” he points a commanding finger at me and demands, “come here!”

I stop, sigh, and walk to the gate.

He directs me, “Come into my Church for a visit.”

I look into the dark doorway of the small church and sigh again.

I know the things that exist behind that shadow. I know the smell of the candles, and the cushion of the kneeler, and the darkness of the confession booth, and the coldness of the concrete statues as well as I know each word of every hymn and prayer. As I recall this history, a twinge of the old guilt gives me a quick pinch to remind me of our old friendship. I rub the old wound gently. And then I remember that I also know the beautiful light the sun casts through the stain glass window into the darkness. And it’s somewhere in the source of that beautiful light from outside the church walls that inspired a new search for spirituality within me. But as I glance at that door again, I am reminded that what exists in the depths of THAT door holds nothing for me anymore. And I have already come to an agreement that it is not healthy, for either myself or the church, to seek refuge in each others’ homes.

But I hate to reject any invitation, and so it is with difficulty that I finally decline, “I’m sorry. But my place is not in the church. Thank you for the invitation. Please have a nice day.”

I can see in his eye that I will not get off that fast and am not startled at all when he slaps a mental yardstick on my desk and inquests of me with a furrowed brow, “What do you think this Camino is about? What one thing has inspired you most here?”

My mental fingers flinch back at the slap and try hurriedly and desperately to grasp onto one word that could embrace the entirety of my experience. Of course it cannot and my mind stares back at me blinking blindly with no result. But out of custom, and in disrespect of the cloud, I narrow it down to one boxy noun;

“Nature?” I question my own response.

“Nature, huh?” he says as he finds the bait that will hook the response he’s fishing for. “And just who do you think is responsible for all this beautiful nature?” he says with an expert cast.

Without thinking, I bite and blurt out the automated response I have blindly rehearsed for years, “God.”

He yanks the rod up and throws his finger in the air and yells, “YES! God! God our Father! Good answer!”

My shadow screams silently in pain from somewhere below me. I turn and look at it, startled in finding its new voice. And suddenly, I step out of myself and into my shadow, and I see for the first time that the tall dark man is growing larger and darker by the minute, looming over the girl that has shrunk in denial of her self and inner truth.

“No.” I say.

The man is startled. And my vision of his growing shadow overcoming a weakened girl stalls also.

“No.” I repeat calmly and I feel my power surge again. “My relationship with life is not just about nature. It’s about something unnamable and innumerable in its dimensions. Words will not confine it. And I don’t need to defend myself, my spirit, or our relationship. For just as I do not go around declaring that the sky is blue, neither do I feel the need to declare out loud, or prove to you, that the messages I have received are true. They are personal revelations. And I have no need for a middleman to translate their meaning.” I delicately pull the hook from my mouth and continue, “…and neither do I need to have this conversation with you.”

My shadow applauds our little dance together as I watch the accumulation of energy that he stole from me shatter and collapse. Despite his great height, he no longer looms over me. And I feel light as the white butterfly. I smile directly through him and wait patiently.

He purses his lips and cocks his head at me. But it seems there are no boxy nouns or adjectives left for him either.

Then something over my shoulder catches his eye. “Have a good Camino,” he finally stammers out as he sidesteps me and makes his way past to a fresh set of oncoming pilgrims.

I sigh one more time. And in the breath of fresh air I inhale I once again pick up the trace of wheat fields. So I happily turn back to chasing the source of the sugar in that sweetly scented wind.

***** Perspectives

I only walk in the dark because I take such delight in seeing it lifted. And I am doing so and awaiting just such when I come upon a humble cross that reaches many times my arms length up into the sky.

I take two pictures. One with my mind and one with my camera;

I then pass the cross and turn around and see that the sunrise show has already started.

I take two pictures. One with my mind and one with my camera;

I then take a seat at the foot of the cross and hold both pictures out for review.

I am astounded at what I see. Had I not been the photographer of both pictures, I would have never guessed that there were of the exact same subject and taken within the exact same minute.

The ONLY difference is that of perspective.

How many other perspectives, I suddenly wonder, exist of this same subject? And which one is True?

Just as the sun does, the reality dawns on me also, that there are just as many perspectives on Truth as there are sets of eyes to view it.

Truth is simply colored by perspective. Just like the easy observation that neither picture is wrong, neither is any view of Truth wrong. They are all simply different.

I make a vow to myself. I promise that any time I encounter a person with a contrary perspective to my own, that I will hand them one of these mental pictures, and hold onto the other. I will give both pictures equal appreciation and respect. And then I will focus on that which is common to both.

For to know Truth, I conclude, must include understanding simultaneously that although there exists one Truth, there is no one way to see or understand it. And all perspectives are as valid, beautiful and right as the rest.

***** Scriptbreaker

A young man walks by me and I raise a cup out to him, “would you like a tea infusion?” I ask.

He glances suspiciously at the thin, prancing man playing a flute for a young blond girl and then returns his eyes to me. He glances over the dirt encrusted hands that offer the cup and looks back into my eyes with a hundred questions. Finally he picks one and as he cautiously sits down asks me, “what are you doing here?”

I follow his stare back over to the man with the blond girl. He has stopped playing the flute and she is giggling madly at something witty he has sung to her. I note with delight that he never seems to “say” anything. All his words and stories come out in the musical chords of song. If any man could enchant all the mice out of town, it is certainly this one. And day in and day out, he has been using his flute and the fire behind his own eyes to enchant the pilgrims off their path. Life is his stage. He never stops starring in it, luring all those brave enough in for an act or two. But his costume and song have no social confines. And it is somewhere in this refusal to play to the normal scripts of human interaction, that strikes cords of fear in the eyes of those who know no other script.

The blond girl finally leaves, obviously deliberate on getting to the next pilgrim hostel before the beds are all taken. He waves goodbye sadly and I can hear his sigh from across the garden. But then he turns, skips back the table, where me and the boy have sat down, and with one last glance towards the path of the departing girl says, “Ahhh. Another young American has escaped the States. But alas she goes back in search of the picket fence dream. If she’d only stop chasing it so long as to recognize that she has dreams of much greater mystery and magic within her.” Two new pilgrims of an unusually hurried pace run by and he quickly takes his flute to his lips and composes a ditty. The pilgrims’ attention is caught by the chords and they turn around to seek the source. He jumps on top of the table and sings, “No hurry. No worry. No chicken con curry!” jumps down off the table and runs over to greet them and invite them into an act or two.

I laugh out loud, but stop when I realize I am laughing alone and the boy sitting next me is still awaiting the answer to his question. So I answer him, “You see, this man’s garden has been infested by an army of potato bugs. He doesn’t want to use pesticides or other chemicals on the mothers pregnant of his future food, so I am helping him to remove them all by hand. Tonight, he plans to have a ceremonial burning of all the potato bugs we harvest today. And tomorrow we will spread the ashes from the fire over the remaining potato bugs that still feast on the leaves in attempt to frighten them away with the ashy ghosts of their ancestors. Personally, I don’t hold much hope for his plan of retaliation. But it’s unique and fun. And my hands have finally learned what it is about dirt that my feet have been raving about for a lifetime.”

He looks at me again. Under the layer of dust he spots the face of a prom princess and is still wondering why such a girl would be here up to her elbows in dirt with the likes of this odd piper. Despite my explanation, his question has not been answered, so he asks, “How much is he paying you?”

I can’t believe I’m caught off guard with this question. “Paying me?” I ask. “Why nothing of course.” But off the shelf of a storeroom in my mind, a dusty voice of the past breaks through to chime in with the question of the boy. The voice of “I” that worked 70-hour weeks and slept over night under the desk of an office cubicle takes one harsh glance at the dirty girl with the tea infusion and demands, “Yes! Who IS this girl? That is exactly what I want to know too!” I soothe the voice back into its bottle and delicately return it to its place on the shelf of history.

In frustrated realization that his question won’t ever be properly answered, he gets up to leave. The pilgrim piper takes note and dashes over in a few fawn-like leaps and sings, “Where do you run to my boy? Why don’t you stay with us? You can take a ride over the hills on my pony. She’ll lead you to the river where you can swim in the cool water and bask on the warm rocks all day. And when you come back, we’ll have a party to celebrate the afterlife of the potato bugs! Please stay and join us in our celebration!”

But the boy shakes his head. This is not an act he cares to play in. “I’m sorry. But I have to get going,” he says as he waves a final disinterested goodbye.

The pilgrim piper jumps up on the table again and animatedly waves goodbye as he sings, “No sorry. No worry. No chicken con curry!” And with that final song he closes the curtains on the act and picks up his flute to open the next.

***** Life Lures

My fingers hip hop across the dusty metal divides of a fence that lines a river littered with casting fishermen. I watch as the shadows of fish beneath the still water carefully contemplate the pretty silver lures. Meanwhile, their gasping and flip-flopping brothers and sisters try desperately to send silent messages of warning back to them from the after-world of the wicker basket sitting at the feet of the men playing god. Their silver scales flash in union with the sun to deliver a Morse code message of the denizen of the deep, “The lures are pretty, but don’t fall for their ruse! They attach you and whisk you from the world of the real and deliver you only to the harsh realization of your mistake!”

I turn my attention back to the city park and lift my face to the snowflake like fall of the lofty white seeds from the cotton ball shedding trees. My eyes fall with them onto a man pushing a small shopping cart. I take account of he and his home, and as I do so, he turns and takes account of me and mine. I can’t help but recognize that I at this moment I have more in common with this man than any of my siblings or closest friends. I smile at him with all the warmth of a sister. And he, in immediate recognizance that my smile does not derive from pity, but from similarity and respect, returns a brotherly smile back.

The Camino offers to everyone the unique opportunity to fast from the attachments of life. For here we are limited to only the possessions we can carry on our backs. Clothes are chosen for utility, and thus we fast from fashion. We must carry everything we buy, and thus we fast from purchasing anything that is not of immediate necessity. We are limited to carrying the food we will eat at the next meal, and thus we fast from accumulation in anticipation of future hunger. We all look essentially the same, and thus we fast from judgment based on physical appearance. We are all away from home and in the same search for daily shelter, and thus we fast from security. We walk outside of cell phone range, and thus we fast from technology and forms of distanced communication. In absence of our social circles, we fast also from social pressures. And busy in observance of a culture foreign to our own, we fast from the ideals and norms that normally permeate our own lives.

On the Camino, wealth, fame and beauty are nothing but curses – prettily packaged ties that bind themselves to heavy attachments and slow down the pursuit of the path. How much more difficult it must be for the man that has money, and is consumed by the obligations and responsibilities of managing it, to break the web of those attachments that constrict him. And the woman who defines herself by her beauty? How much more difficult it will be for her to choose a path where she walks naked of fashion and painted face. And the famous! Can they go anywhere without pointed fingers full of media-construed misconceptions? In accepting fame, they have sold their freedom. Not even on the Camino can they fast from judgment.

On the Camino, those that carry nothing, that are free of attachments, thrive. They carry no weight and thus tread lightly and with grace. Their minds are as light and free to wander the woods and fields as the birds that glide on the winds though them. Their signs are not hidden by the clutter of attachments to a physical world. And in having nothing to lose, they have everything to gain.

The wind sweeps over my face with a thousand feathered fingers and whispers into my ear a secret;

Touch everything. Hold onto nothing.

The adults are no longer around to slap my wandering fingers and snap, “no.” But the conditioning was thorough and it still takes work to overcome the “ew” reaction to mud, spider webs, berry juice and other elements of the staining and sticking nature. But my fingers no longer have a curfew. They dance all day and night on rocks, over moss, under leaves and through fields. They stain with berry juice and are pricked by thorns. The pet the matted fur of wild cats and stroke the sharp jaw lines of horses over barbed wire fences. Across my palm worms have free rein to squirm as spiders do to crawl. They investigate the magic powder on the wings of fallen butterflies and are tickled by the march of ants lost in barren hills of food-less flesh.

The wind continues as my hand does with pen;

Breath.

Inhale and live in the moment of life that I have touched upon you.

Exhale and let go of it as it passes out of your existence and unto another.

My message is simple; Exist only in this moment of breath and life.

And as I have done for you; touch upon all, but hold onto none — as you too pass from one existence to the next.

Each time you feel the wind – be reminded to Breath.

I turn back to the fishermen. A wind sweeps over the river and takes with it the hat of one of the men. In a hurried and desperate reach for it he kicks over his wicker basket and in one silver flash his gasping catch returns to the water and breaths life again. I share in the wind’s sense of humor and laugh out loud.

***** Seed of Fruit

My walk for the day is done and I am making my way to town in search of fresh fruit when I notice another pilgrim across the street moving in the opposite direction. I can immediately see in his step that he does not so much walk the Camino, as he wanders it. He feels the intrigued stare of an observer and looks up. When our eyes meet, something from both us collides above the middle of the street, and there it flutters in a dizzy spell not unlike the chaotic whirlwind of the mating white butterflies I’ve seen on the path. His smile stops me in my path and I return the warmest of welcomes with my own. The veiled light winks at me bravely. We silently wave at each other in acknowledgment that we share a secret yet un-revealed and then walk on, in our opposite directions. I know I’ll see him again.

When I return with my fruit to the pilgrim hostel, it is dark. I quietly glance around to see if my phantom friend has chosen to stay the night here also. But I don’t find evidence of him in any of the beds or rooms. So I go outside to the backyard to retrieve my dry laundry from the clothing lines. As I make my way across the yard, I notice something in the shadows and approach my mystery. It is completely dark, but I’m sure it’s him, and I smile at the soft sounds of his sleep. I return to the hostel and take one of my nectarines from my fruit bag. I wrap it in plastic and bind it with a tinfoil ribbon from a wine bottle to a small bouquet of wild flowers that I collected on the Camino earlier. I go back outside and place the small gift near his grassy bed and leave. I am still sharing wine and laughs inside the hostel with fellow pilgrims when a shadow passes by the window. And on my way to bed, I glance out the window and see that the fruit, and the boy, are gone.

A small ache pangs at something deep within. But a gush of wind suddenly sweeps up and across my face. The people you need to meet along your path will always present themselves again, I remind myself.

At the cue of the wind I inhale, smile, exhale, and let him go.

***** Timeless Seconds

I am tracking my way down a winding path when suddenly I hear the faint song of a woman. I stop and approach the cliff of the mountain divide. Her soft and oddly familiar voice drifts up to me on the wind of somewhere below. I scout for her along my descent, but do not spot the source of my song. Where her voice has stopped, mine has picked up. And I continue her hymn as I reach the base of the mountain, cross over a river, and begin to wind my way back up the other side. Suddenly I stop. I look up and see the top of the winding path I just descended. I see myself come around the bend, approach the cliff of the mountain divide and seek the source of the song. I hear as the notes of my soft song catch a wind to somewhere up above. Suddenly I realize that I am the source of my own song. And this song carries to me the message that we – the past, the present and the future – are all one.

As I sit down with a cup of coffee at the pilgrim hostel that night, I pick up the hostel’s message notebook. I open it up and it falls to a page where a passing pilgrim has scripted;

You think time passes. Time thinks you pass.

As if on cue my watch alarm goes off. A woman sitting at the table next to me glances at her own watch and looks at me quizzically. Finally she asks, “Excuse me, but why is your watch going off at 9:28? Why not 9:30?”

I’m surprised. My watch has been going off at 9:28 every morning and night for over three years and I’ve only been questioned as to why twice in all that time.

My mind fondly recalls a day, long past, when I sat embraced in the arms and warmth of an old love. The alarm on the arm of the man who held me went off and without looking at his watch he hugged me closer and sighed. I turned over his wrist and, with the same quizzical expression of the woman sitting next to me, asked, “Why 10:23?” He had answered plainly enough, “because it’s my favorite time.” I opened my mouth to continue, but in anticipation of my “why?” he delivered to me the same answer I deliver to the woman at the table next to me;

“…because it’s now.”

Why limit a minute to sixty seconds? Why confine alarms to the duty of reminding us of duties? Why not let alarms be reminders that life is timeless and that the favorite minute, if embraced, can always be “now.”

***** Unattached Love

In strict obedience of the wind I reach out to the wheat fields and let my fingers glide over their golden stalks in idolizing imitation of the breeze. I close my eyes and let myself dance somewhere between where my fingertips, and those of the wheat stalk, meet. And when I open them, there he is.

My heart suddenly picks up its pace as my legs take on a new speed of their own without my consent. We reach the grass where he is basking in the sun and warmth of my smile.

“So where would you like to place your bet? On the ant or the wingless bee?” he asks me. The veiled light behind his eyes winks at me the hint that something of great mystery is responsible for arranging this reunion.

I take my place ringside and glance over the ensuing battle in the grass.

“I put one nectarine on the ant,” I respond.

He is caught off guard, a reaction I imagine doesn’t often grace this peaceful face.

He raises an eyebrow and two dimples at me, “It was you who gave me the fruit and flowers?”

I want to drown in the dimples but instead return the raised eyebrow and ask, “And your bet?”

He grins at me and then returns his gaze to the bee struggling under the bite of the ant 1/6 his size.

“I place one rose on the bee,” he says as a monumental finger suddenly enters the arena, picks up the bee, shakes it of its attacker, and replaces it under the calm of a nearby leaf. “But I cheated. So I owe you a rose,” he says as he looks up at me and smiles.

He leaves me in my giddy amusement and returns a few minutes later and hands to me one fully bloomed rose.

I inhale the deep aroma of the strongest smelling color rose I have yet found on the Camino. I don’t need to ask if he’s chosen this color intentionally. For his wink answers my silent question and declares to me that he does nothing unintentionally.

“Did you ask the owner if you could pick this rose?” I ask.

“Of course,” he replies, “I always ask the flower first.”

Although multiple suns and moons pass as the world spins around us, our enchantment with each other stops time. Together we marvel at the secrets of life and share our revelations, exchanging missing pieces of our individual puzzles. Days pass unnoticed as we consume ourselves only with a thorough investigation into life’s great mystery of romantic Love. And it is only after four exhilarating days have passed that we finally look up from our sleepless tumble in the hay with love and realize that the signs from our Caminos still await us patiently. Reluctantly, we pick ourselves up and begin to walk again.

But the walk, for the first time, is exhausting.

We have missed a sign and find ourselves at the end of a road. Two white butterflies stand in our path, lost in a twirling whirlwind, cascading down along a direction-less path. Just before the white tornado of erratic wings collides with the ground, they break. One escapes and flutters now in front of me. It dawns of me that this is the first white butterfly I’ve seen for days.

“Where have you been?” I ask. But as soon as the question is asked, I realize that it is not my question, but the question of the white butterfly.

I take account of myself for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I’m tired. And in my bliss, I’ve lost my sense of direction. I don’t know where I’ve been and I don’t know where I’m going. The pen is gone from my temple and the journal has been buried somewhere deep within my pack.

He looks at me and listens to the mind he has learned already to read.

He turns to me and says what I haven’t the courage to, “You told me the day we met that you know you are meant to walk this Camino alone. But we have ignored your knowing and now you have lost track of your path. I am blinding your sight of the signs, and we are both exhausted because we are pushing against the inevitable. It’s time to stop.”

The truth stabs at my heart. I close my eyes in attempt to hide myself from it, but it still stands there in plain sight, burning through the shadow of closed lids.

He takes my hand and leads me to the shade of a tree. He disappears behind a hill for a short time and then returns. He doesn’t have to say anything, for I already know what’s happened.

“And what did the stone say.” I state – for I already know the answer.

He takes my hand and places the small white crystal that was flipped in the favor of fate into my palm. He closes my fingers around it, embracing my hand with his and says softly, “The stone says you must walk and I must stay.”

The tears well up in my eyes and I beg the wind to give me the power to breath again.

He continues, “But the stone also says we will meet again – in this lifetime or the next.”

I smile weakly at him as he kisses my forehead and then my hand. The minute lasts countless painful seconds.

Finally I let go of it, turn around, and I walk forward – without looking back.

I want to collapse, but the wind finally comes to my rescue and supports my weight. I breathe deeply, drinking my energy back in like a glass of cool water. Soon enough I find my path and strength again. White butterflies flutter around me in reassurance that the message of the stone was right. I reach over my shoulder and dig around in the top of my backpack until my fingers grasp onto that which they seek. Before slipping the pen between my bandanna and temple I jot down;

Chose your path partners with great consideration. Do not become so blinded by the exchange of your energies that you loose your sight of self or perspective on your own path. Some people will embrace your energy, but in doing so might unconsciously diminishing your own personal power. Special others will have energy that, in combination with your own, can multiply your individual strengths into one greater cumulative power. But differentiating between these types of people requires a high level of self-development and consciousness. Use your intuition and instinct. Continually gauge your level of energy in relation to those you walk with. Monitor its fluctuations. Avoid those that make you feel drained. Experiment with those that make you feel revived. And if in doubt, walk alone.

I exhale and let go of my hold on history. I inhale the moment of “now” touched upon me and I walk on – alone.

***** Web of Spiritualism

I have found my place in a field enclosed by wild brush and flowers. A stream runs nearby. The sound of the running water cascades over the cold rocks and at the same time gushes over my mind releasing with it those petty thoughts persistent in existing in any realm other than the present. The sun has only begun to rise, and as it does so now, a thousand daylight stars suddenly appear. The dewdrops caught on the spider webs, sparkling with all the brilliance of the sun they reflect, all at once show themselves to surround me. How funny, I think, that I did not see these networks of connecting webs before. They must have been here all along. And yet my eye never bothered to focus on these barely perceptible links of life.

I take to my pen as it takes to me;

Focus.

Focus your vision and you will see the subtle connections of life’s interdependency.

Too long have you been told that there is nothing more to this world than what you see.
Haven’t your fingers already been stretched to their limits in their desperate and incessant reach for the supposed joys of materialism? And with closets and cupboards full, why is there still an emptiness within? There is more to this world than the physical reality. And something inside of you seeks new meaning that can only be found in other realms. It’s time to turn that search into a new direction. It’s time to stop looking outward, and start focusing inward. It’s time to come out of the spiritual closet and awaken new senses to the magic and mystery that breathe love and unity into this life. And don’t be afraid, for spiritualism in nothing but the opposite of materialism.

The metaphysical world exists, but its form is as visible and delicate as that of the spider web. Walk swiftly without observance and you will walk right through me. You’ll feel my soft and silent webs tug at your senses. But with conditioned disinterest in that which you cannot see plainly, you’ll bat them off in denial of life’s greatest Mystery.

All of life is linked. Do not think yourself independent of this web. As you walk, depending upon how consciously you choose to move, you either arouse, disturb, excite, charge, displace, awaken, thrill, shake or break the ties of life that link you into this existence. The web of interdependency senses your every movement and acts accordingly. Focus on whatever it is that you want to see, and it will be delivered into your view. For just as you are connected to everything, everything is also connected to you. Hold you dreams close to you, and in the same way that flowers grow to face the sun, the webs of life will imperceptibly be pulled to bring you closer to the clues of your mystery. But “looking” is not enough. You must focus – which involves a deliberate degree of internal action on the part of your eye and mind.

Focus and you will see. Look upon the world for the first time with more than your eyes and witness the web that connects us. Open your eyes and mind to life’s mystery.

And each time you see the spider web – be reminded to Focus.

I get up cautiously so as not to disturb that delicate web. But I am the first pilgrim to traverse the path so early and find that it is absolutely impossible to avoid the tangle of spider silk that laces the boot of the Camino in the morning. Eventually, I give up and grab for the nearest fallen branch. I take my leafy broom to the path and carefully sweep it of clear both for myself and the pilgrims that will come to pass.

And as I swing my branch in senseless circles in front of me, clearing the way of glinting ropes invisible to the distanced observer, I think, “to those whom have not walked this path, I must surely look crazy.”

***** Awakening

A few days ago I had a dream;

I’m walking down a staircase into a large dormitory at school. Girls everywhere are bustling about their business. As I descend the stairs, a girl approaches me. She looks a bit like me but with long hair. My eyes scan the room in a search for something of which I’m not quite sure. The girl holds up a hand and says , “Stop. You are missing nothing here. Go back.”

Last night I dreamt I was back in one of the offices of my halls of history;

I’m sitting at my cubicle and I start shifting though all the papers on my desk. I can’t decide which project I should work on, and I pick up each one up, examine it blankly and put it back down. “None of this means anything,” I finally say to myself as I push aside the pile of blank papers that cover my desk. Suddenly I feel someone staring at me. I turn to face a woman sitting next to me at the adjacent desk. She looks a bit like me, but older and tired. Her lips don’t move, but she says solemnly to me, “You are missing nothing here. Go on.”

Today, while walking, I remember these two dreams. I begin to wonder if I haven’t actually encountered my lives as they might exist in parallel paths in parallel worlds – where I did not make the decisions I have, or followed the signs that have led me to the Camino I walk now.

And as I walk, I continue to wonder;

I wonder if these two women, that I encountered in my dreams, return home from school and the office, crawl into bed, and have dreams of winds that whisper, pilgrim pied pipers, matted wild dogs, phantom friends and a winding little path with funny yellow arrows.

And finally I wonder if, upon waking, these woman feel an emptiness; As if they are perhaps… missing something.

***** Phantom Chains

There are just as many dogs as there are signs on the Camino; big dogs and little dogs, mangy dogs and muddy dogs, old dogs and young dogs, squawking dogs and barking dogs, whining dogs and howling dogs, snorting dogs and hoofing dogs. And in almost every color and variety, they also come with a set of clenched jaws snapping in frothy salivation of their raging and ceaseless hunger for pilgrim fear.

At first I thought it was actually my blood – raw – that they specifically wanted to lap up. But then I took into account some of my more peculiar encounters with the canines;

· I accidentally sneak up on a dog sleeping outside of the gated house it guards. In its startled awakening, it looks at me with naked fear, jumps up, runs to a secretly dug dog-door under the gate, disappears, and then reappears on the other side of the gate with a vicious roar or warning. It sticks its muzzle right through a hole in the chain link, bravely barring teeth at the very flesh it had perfectly free reign to disassemble only minutes ago.

· Out of a doghouse leaps its owner, obviously enraged at the trespassing taking place on the nearby path. I stride by in confidence noting the heavy chain leash binding it. The dog is bearing ferocious teeth and squatting close to the ground in pounce-ready stance, when suddenly, in a flash of silver, I see that the chain that binds the dog is not attached to anything! Fear suddenly rises up my chest and is threatening to choke me to my death before the teeth of this pup ever get a chance. But, perhaps out of custom, my legs maintain their normal casual pace. And as I stride past, it dawns on me that the dog, perhaps also out of custom, is either unaware or just in plain denial of that fact that its leash is not attached.

· I am walking past yet another gated house protected diligently by a defensive dog the size of a linebacker. I note to myself that the fence that stands between us and about four feet tall must certainly be within leaping range of the legs that race frantically behind it. And in perfect demonstration of my exact thought, the dog suddenly jumps another fence inside the yard of the same height, to get to a better bleacher row to shout his obscenities at me. I turn to the frothing face, place my hands on my hips and ask, “Now if you can jump THAT fence, why don’t you jump THIS one?” But I think better of my dare, take it back, and walk on.

Dogs with phantom fences, dogs with phantom leashes, and dogs with phantom limits on their capabilities. Interesting, I think. Dogs with perfect freedom, but struggling desperately against the phantom chains that bind them. So if the chain doesn’t exist, what holds them back?

The dogs do crave and feed off of hunger. But, it’s not the pilgrims’ fear that the chained dog feeds on. The violent attack is rooted not in courage or bravery, but in defense, fear and insecurity. And it is the fear of loosing that which it protects, that the dog eats at. It’s the dog’s OWN fear, that is consumed.

And then I remember the wild dogs.

The wild dogs are the mangiest, tattered and fur-matted of them all. If their looks aren’t enough to scare a pilgrim, the fact that they are encountered on mountain tops and fields – far away from chains, fences and commanding owners – is enough to shoot the start gun on the race of any heart. But despite many such encounters, my fearful face-off with the wild dog never comes. For each time one is met on the path, they either go out of their way to avoid me or peacefully trot by. The occasional wild dog even cautiously comes in for a pet if I wave the white flag of a low whistle.

Why does the wild dog not feed on fear? What does the wild dog have that gives it awareness of its freedom? Or perhaps more accurately, what is it that the wild dog DOESN’T have? For the wild dog has no house, no owner, no possessions and thus nothing to defend, nothing to protect, and nothing to fear loosing. The wild dog has no phantom chains to hold it back from the freedom of the mountain tops and fields.

***** Trail Magic

Along the path I come upon a running water fountain in a small shaded oasis of tall trees. As I douse my face and spirits in the cool water I look up and notice a dirt path leading to a small rock house. I drop my bag and follow the path. The door to the stone house is open and I enter. All four walls are covered in loud graffiti declaring the place inhabited on occasion by those that do not welcome visitors. The floor presents more evidence of this fact in that it is covered in broken glass, fallen brick, shattered beer bottles, cigarette butts and rat nests. I am shaken with the inclination to immediately leave. I turn on my heels to follow that instinct, but something stops me in the doorway, and I turn back around to face the house again. I look through the graffiti and clutter and see four sturdy walls, a working fireplace and the remains of a cushioned couch. I purse my lips and wonder “what if?”

Finally, in declaration of a decision made and with a wicked grin, I roll my sleeves up and clap my hands together.

Three days later the floor is swept clean and a homemade branch-broom stands proudly in the corner. The spider webs were all recognized, but now are swept free. The couch is cleaned and its cushions are all re-strapped together with the help of a little unused bandage tape. The skull of a sheep sits on the fireplace mantle and smiles a toothy (and only slightly spooky) grin of greeting. Two tall white candles eagerly await their day in the light of flame. Bouquets of dried wild flowers hang from the walls and sit in vases along the window enticing the odd pilgrim into a closer investigation. A pile of fresh firewood eyes the newly cleaned fireplace with fear. A guidebook on the Camino sits between the twin candles, patiently awaiting a new, and perhaps more obedient, owner. A note of welcome and “registration” is taped to the back of the door. A yard, recently freed of litter, centers its attention around a new fire pit made of the old fallen brick. And long logs, in turn, encircle the new pit in hopeful invitation of guests forthcoming.

On my way out of the little rock house I remove my scallop shell – the symbol of pilgrimage and protection – from the outside of my backpack and attach it to the metal door of the house. I take one last glance into the house. Although I could not find a single can of paint in the nearby town, in some way, the voices of the graffiti have been silenced. My fingers deliver one last kiss upon the door of the little rock house and on my way past the fountain, I place ten fresh oranges on its mantle – pilgrim bait. I salute the house one last goodbye and promise that new company should be caught soon enough.

I walk to the next town, check in at the pilgrim hostel, and take a seat in the sun on the bench outside. The cluster of elderly village women knitting in chairs across the street all wave at me and smile with sighs of final relief. They’ve been praying day and night for the crazy American girl that refused to listen to their advice that proper young women should not be staying in any house without company, let alone the old abandoned pilgrim house near the fountain park. I smile and wave back.

A black cat brushes up against my legs and I pick her up. My fingers soak into the soft bed of silk and as I stroke her velvet coat, she purrs her own satisfaction.

Two pilgrims approach the hostel and I can’t help but overhear their conversation at the door;

“Are you sure you’re okay from here?” the man asks.
“Yes! Thanks so much for helping me. I can catch a ride from here to the next town. I’ll see a doctor about my ankle tomorrow. I promise. And you? You aren’t going to stay here tonight? Are you going to keep walking?”
“No. I’m going back to that fantastic little rock house to spend the night. How great it will be to light a fire and spend an evening under the stars…”

I don’t hear anymore of the conversation.

To add the smallest touch of magic to the Camino that has provided so much along my own path simply overwhelms me in happiness.

“Trail magic” I have heard it called. And plenty of times, I have been on the receiving end; a bouquet of flowers with my name pinned to a wooden post on the path, a shirt filled with string beans from the garden of a farmer, a bowl of fresh fruits at the doorway of a pilgrim hostel, a private message of “hello” spelled out in pebbles along the street from pilgrim friends passed by, a pretty feather mysteriously pinned to my backpack. Each small act of trail magic brings me a moment of pure delight. And in not knowing the benefactor, I somehow end up looking around and finding new warmth and affection for all. What a brilliant way to exponentially multiply the goodness of acts!

And what is the secret behind magic and miracles? Is there really anything to the recipe besides a little creativity and an unknown variable, a hidden connection, or a secret un-revealed? But how beautiful! For if this is indeed the case, then a person needs nothing but anonymity to multiply fishes or pull rabbits out of hats. A loaf of bread in the basket of a sleeping homeless person, a rose in the mailbox of a lonely neighbor, a few bills hidden in the book of pilgrim who has no money, a bottle of wine on a table with a note of welcome – how easy it is to throw mini-surprise parties and bring the circle of life magic around full. And the hidden delights of being the magician! To witness the enchanting effect of your magic and to let your secrets add to your own inner mystery. How wonderful to look INSIDE, and slyly and shyly smile.

I pet the cat. The Camino pets me. And I am constantly in purr of my gratitude. But to deliver something back, to understand the exchange as mutually beneficial, puts a smile on my face and a skip in my pet that I just can’t shake. I look down at the poor creature I am caressing excitedly and without caution. But she just looks up at me with lazy eyes and flicks her tail in the universal language of cats that says, “When I let you pet me, I do it for you.” But as my fingers scratch their way to under her chin and she stretches her neck to apply pressure and purr, I am reminded to know better than to ever trust a cat.

***** Ant Unity

I am pretending myself to be a Samurai warrior and swinging my staff wildly around in an erratic but amusing display. But it’s a useless showdown with the shadow-Samurai and finally we both declare defeat in unison. I look up from my exhausted shadow and spot a woman sitting on a rock. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, either in inspection of some very small creature, or in contemplation of some very big idea.

I walk up to her and start, “The ants are humbling aren’t they? We like to assume that they march in oblivious patterns of instinct, but just imagine the assumptions that a giant monster, brushing the clouds aside to peek at the Earth, would make upon observation of us! Our lives couldn’t possibly hold any more value that theirs. My resolution of conscience is that with each step of natural destruction that I bring upon their world, I accept the fact that someday, a monster foot might mindlessly step on me.”

She looks at me with an expression of distanced curiosity that tells me I should have gone with my latter hypothesis as to the content of her thoughts. I backtrack quickly, “You look like you have something of importance on your mind. Did you want someone to talk to?”

She answers both questions in the affirmative as she immediately picks up where her thoughts left her off;

“…I am just baffled by this Camino! I mean the fact that you can just walk up to me, a stranger, and ask me if I’d like to talk is perfect proof of what I’m pondering. Now really. Would you have approached me, a woman you have never met staring intensely at the floor, in the subway of your own country? And would I be rambling off to you, a girl I don’t know who approaches me with talk of monster stomping feet, in return? I don’t think so. But what do you think it is that makes all the normal rules of social interaction inapplicable here? Why are our oddities and differences suddenly forgiven? What is it about this dirt path that changes everything?

Well, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s that we share a common path. We all walk the Camino for different reasons, but at the same time, we are all unified in the simple fact that we all walk the same path!

Look! The pilgrims all filter pass us right now and wave to us greetings with all the familiarity of family. And for all they know, we are sisters. If I asked for a drink, they would offer me the same water bottle they drink from. If I were hungry, they’d give me their own share of rationed food for the day. If I were hurt, they’d throw their packs down and assist me immediately.

These pilgrims, they come from countries all over the world. They speak a dozen different languages. But have you noticed that neither culture nor language has ever presented a barrier to our unity? We all communicate perfectly with each other, through some other shared language of similarity.

So why – WHY – I ask you. Why can’t the world as a whole find this same unity? A dirt path can cross cultures, languages, skin colors, religions, and appearances to effortlessly unite strangers and bring them to embrace each other with the love and respect of a sibling. We don’t need a common enemy or a catastrophe to unite us. Our shared humanity, our like quests, our same search, our similar pursuit of Life – is all we need to identify and unite with each other as family. And can you imagine – for just one single second – what this world would be like if it did?”

I say nothing, for nothing needs to be said.

I observe the marching trail of ants and wonder if they know that, from the perspective of this giant monster, they are all the same.

***** Santiago

I wake up early and with unusual energy. I sit up in bed with the realization that although I wasn’t planning on it, I will walk to Santiago today. I understand that this means I will have to walk fast and in darkness. Normally I refuse to do either in fear of missing the delights of a slow and lit walk. But today, I decide, I will do things differently.

My feet walk swiftly as I watch the path I know so well pass before my eyes. My fingers stick to the staff, but they twiddle their hidden hellos at old friends. For they know the way the bark peels off that tree, and the softness of that moss, and the burn of the poison of that plant, and the taste of that mint, and the squirm of the worms that live under that rock. My fingers smile in self-satisfaction, for they know and feel at home on this path. My feet smile also. Despite the fact that the boot contract will not be fulfilled today, in thanks for holding up to my side of the deal so diligently, I’m given a break. Besides, the boots are broken and the toes, heels and ankles toughened, and together they’re all feeling up for a challenge. So we walk. We walk long and fast. And we reach Santiago at nightfall.

My favorite color is that of the sky just after sunset, but right before the first star appears. When the sky is blanketed in this blue that is deeper than the sea, I can do nothing but fall onto my back and let waves of it wash over me. Spreading a single arm of dusk over Santiago, the night greets me in a glorious gown of exactly this color. And I surrender all words in awe of her beauty.

A breeze blows through me…and in it I catch a whisper. But I can’t make out the words! And suddenly I feel driven crazy by the clear but unrecognized familiarity of that voice. What is it? What calls me?! Speak louder, I’m listening, but I can’t hear! The breeze blows through me again. And with it there is no whisper, but there is a scent. A inhale deeply and shake my head with a smirk of sudden clarity. I know who calls. I know this voice. My feet re-energize at the very thought of the only thing more enticing than mud. My fingers tingle in prospect of the new terrains they will dance upon and the treasures they will find. And every cell in my body smiles and stands in salute. For THIS call – is of the sea.

***** Dream Sketch

I have taken up the path with another young American girl and we are discussing the dynamics of dream chasing;

“…just throw your intentions, desires, promises and hopes out to the karmic field. The Universe is always listening,” I find my voice echoing the exact advice of a friendly voice from history.

I can see by her expression that she wants clarity.

“Okay. Stop.” I continue, “Now close your eyes and imagine yourself in front of a blank easel with a brush and a set of paints. Now imagine yourself IMAGINING what picture you are about to paint on that blank space. Have you an idea? Do you know what picture you are going to paint?”

She straightens her back, closes her eyes for a minute and finally nods yes.

“Now look at your blank easel. Your brush has not yet touched the paint. But look at your easel. Isn’t the image of you what you want to see there, in fact – already there?”

She tilts her head in observance of her imaginary easel and finally says, “Hum…yes, I suppose so…”

I direct her, “Good. NOW, dip your brush into one of the colors on your palette and take that colored paint brush to your blank easel.” I wait for her to do so and then continue, “Keep painting…choose your colors and paint your picture.”

I wait until she finally tilts her head again in observance of her finished painting.

“Now tell me. How does your final work compare to the one that you saw on the blank easel?”

She pauses and finally says, “Well I can certainly see the outline of my first idea in the final piece. And where I started to paint seems to follow more directly along that outline. But as the picture developed, I changed contour and colors from the original idea. And the final work, well, it’s the same, but much better!”

“Exactly!” I state excitedly. “And that’s exactly the way it is with dreams. Mere conception of a dream or idea, in some formless and untouchable way, brings it into existence. The inspiration within you is REAL and an outline of it already exists in some realm between your mind and the easel. You just need to pick up the brush and start painting it into reality. But as you’ve seen, the trick is to not expect, or even want, the final work to follow the outline of the original idea. Because your dream, as it comes to reality, will grasp a new life of its own. And as it builds upon itself, it in turn will birth color and contours that you had never imagined yourself capable of the creativity to bring to life. Your final masterpiece will bear resemblance to your original inspiration but, over the process of actualization, will evolve to become more than you ever dreamed of!”

“Painting dreams into reality is easy. What you have to remember is that at the moment of inspiration, the dream is already a reality in some other realm. Take confidence in this fact. Just in conception of the idea, you’ve already taken the first step towards realization. Now don’t be overwhelmed by the whole picture or your task of making it all happen exactly as you hoped. Just pick up the brush, and start brushing it into reality, one small stroke at a time. Don’t constrict yourself to painting within your outline. Be creative, and allow your contours and colors to move and change as they are brought to life according to your new inspirations.”

“I get it, I really do…” she says as she hesitates shyly, “…but what if I don’t know what to draw. What if I don’t even know what my dream is?”

I sigh. How could I have forgotten?

Off the shelf of history the voice of a young and direction-less former “self” shakes in her old fear. I close my eyes and the voices and feelings flood me; Who are you? I don’t know. What moves you? I don’t know. How do you define yourself? I don’t know. What are you passionate about? I don’t know. What are you talents? I don’t know. What is your dream? I don’t know. I place my steady hands on the shaking bottle of insecurity until it has regained its peace and calm.

I sigh again.

“It is so unfortunate that our society has conditioned us into thinking that there is only one dream – one path – in this life and that it winds around a big house, a pretty car, a few kids and a steady income. Yes. That’s one path; It’s the one dream that television and newspapers and magazines spend day and night defending in ever increasingly loud voices. But if we’d think on our own, creatively, for one second, we’d see that there are just as many ways to live life as there are people on this planet.

Because, the truth is, each of us has an Inner Mystery to discover. Every single person on this Earth has a purpose. And it is our innate instinct to find our awaiting adventure and take up that path in pursuit of Personal Truth.

Journeys and adventures are not limited to the heroes and heroines of television, movies, music lyrics and books. Although those ARE the places we turn to when we can’t seem to find the adventure we instinctively and intuitively seek in our own lives. As children, we are full of creativity and dreams. We scribble on the walls and jump on the couches in excitement of our inherent sense of mystery and adventure. But our hands, hinds and senses of adventure are slapped and silenced by society. And after years of monotonous and uninspiring “education” – we are pushed out of the tree into the “real world” with all feathered fingers pointed in the direction of one path. And having been numbed over the years to the call of all others, we grudgingly concede to the path with the loudest voice. But something aches within. And that something is the small voice of Personal Truth and Inner Mystery drowning under the weight of others, but calling – always calling to you to recognize and re-take up your intrigue and enthusiasm for the pursuit of an understanding of Life.

So how do we start? How do we begin to bring feeling back to those numbed senses? How to we re-recognize our mystery? How do find our own path again?

We start by recognizing the simple fact that life IS a mystery. We start by acknowledging that each of us has an individual path. And then we each make the active decision to dedicate our lives to pursuit of that path.

And here’s a hint. The voice of our inner mystery speaks in clues. For would the adventure of Life present itself any other way?

First find silence. Then focus.

Silence the world around you and then contemplate some of the following questions; When are you overwhelmed with unexplainable emotion? What are the recurring themes of your sleeping dreams? What are your natural talents? What are your developed talents? What are your oddities? What were your character and passions as a child? How do you express yourself creatively? What people are you intuitively attracted to? What strange urges have you always excused? Do you have any unexplained repetitive habits? What types of music are you drawn to? What are your fears? What is the content of the books that inspire you? What adventure themes of movies and television move you? What people, things or messages appear too many times in your life to be considered coincidence? What gives you chills of excitement? These questions are only meant to help identify what inspires you. For moments of inspiration are the daylight-dewdrop stars that sparkle in the web that connects the physical and metaphysical world.

Don’t just watch your life pass by. Focus. Inspect life with new eyes and an open mind to find that which inspires you. Whatever it is, if it awakens a sense of life, adventure or curiosity within you, then it is a clue to the pursuit of your path to understanding your Inner Mystery and Personal Truth.

And if none of the above questions hint at a single clue as to the direction of your pursuit of your inner mystery, then go to the library. Take your fingers for a walk down the isles and let you intuition choose the book that chooses you. The beauty of books is in their integrity. Books do not blast their messages over bars drowning our your conversation with friends. They aren’t sold to you by pushy salespeople or constantly interrupted by commercials. Their words don’t blind you in flashing neon and their messages aren’t held up by a girl in a bikini. By its very nature, literature maintains a two-way relationship with its reader. At the end of every single sentence, you have the option to decide if it is worth your attention and energy to continue with the next. And the book, should you no show interest in what it’s got to say, has no obligation to keep reading to you as you stare blindly at its pages. Books are free tickets to life travel. They’ll take you to lands, people, and times that no plane can reach. Almost every passion, interest, talent, belief and perspective can be found somewhere in those great halls of history. And if there isn’t a book on the topic you’re looking for, then it’s probably your personal path in life to pick up a pen and write one.

And once a few clues are gathered, simply start to piece them together. You don’t need all the pieces. Only a few to inspire the outline that you will mentally draw on your white easel of Life. And then, just pick up the brush, choose a color, and start to paint your dream into reality. Whatever it is you want to be or do, just start doing it. And when your voice of Inner Mystery and Personal Truth finds its strength and voice again, it will move you like no movie, book, drug, relationship or material possession can. Live in your inspiration. Walk in alliance with your Personal Truth. Revel in your Inner Mystery. And you’ll find your scribble-on-the-walls and jump-on-couches enthusiasm for Life again.

***** The Perpetual Pilgrim

The Camino to the sea is a dazzling path. Literally, its mysterious and flaky shell like rocks sparkle in the sunlight with shocking intensity. It’s as if the same giant that swept aside the clouds to observe the march of humanity, took a butterfly net and skipping around the world, swept the night sky clean of its stars. And then, putting to shame the traditional red carpet, clenched his fist and like sand through a hand, laid down a shimmering path that leads to a throne that only the Sea could be worthy of succeeding.

I collect pieces of the displaced star shimmer and put it in an old plastic bag that has small holes in it. And every once in awhile, I take the bag out of my pocket and shake it above the heads of small children near the street in a magic show of star snow. Okay. Sometimes when I am alone, I shake it over my head too. In any case, a few of these stars are still sparkling on a twitching nose in high alert that we are fast on the track of the sea. I am not on good terms with my ears for they have “cried waves” falsely too many times. I’m tired of slumping in disappointment as I cross over yet another hill to find the sound of waves only to be the rustle of the wind through more tall trees.

I am in final summit of just such a pine-lined hill when I look out into the sky and see something odd. I rub my eyes, for they have played this trick on me before. I know that if you watch the ground under you move for long enough, when you look up, your eyes, that are still in moving-mode, see the entire world continue to undulate in motion-sick waves. But it’s not waves I see. It’s shimmering. The sky is shimmering! And something — there is something floating in that shimmering sky. And not just floating, but… it’s… well… it’s bobbing!

“That’s not the sky dummy! That’s the sea!” something smacks me in the face and screams at me.

I excuse the rudeness of the realization and, in the newfound weightlessness of joy, run up the path.

And there it is. The Sea. I refuse to limit her beauty to any flashy parade of boxy nouns or adjectives.

Instead, I collapse onto a rock and offer to her all my adoration with one, single tear.

And as that tear rolls down my cheek and hits the shimmering path of displaced stars, the wind brings to me the voice of the sea;

Be. Recognize your Unity. Return unto me.

Yes. Like your tear drop of happiness, you too will one-day return unto me.

This moment of breath and life that the wind has touched upon you is your one precious opportunity to be anything you want to be. What will you do with this one precious life? Will you be a tear drop of happiness? Will you be a dewdrop reflecting the morning sunrise? Will you be a snowflake landing on a tongue or be the sip of hot tea that warmed it? Your path in the life is limitless. Be the bead of sweat that falls down the cheek of a gardener, a dancer or a lover. Be the crest of a wave, be a drink of cool water, be the salivate of a tongue lusting over chocolate cake, or be the first drop of rain on a desert. Mix with dirt and be mud, mix with heat and be steam, mix with cold and be ice. Choose what you will do with this one precious opportunity at life, and BE whatever you are, to your fullest. Lap upon this earth with individuality, in consciousness of your interdependency, and then, in all shapes and forms, return unto me – the womb of the world – the sea of Unity.

Do not fear Death, for it does not exist. The cycle of life is the same of water. Have you ever thought the raindrop to die? Has nature ever provided to you an example of life that moves in a strait line and then ends in a period? No. Life is cyclical. Life is a continual process of rejuvenation. By observation of the physical eye it may appear to disappear, but water never ceases existing. It only changes form. Can you open the door of your mind just enough to shed the light of new understanding cast in the concept of eternal life when it is not confined to one form?

With understanding of your formless self and eternal life, you will recognize your innate Unity. For each cycle of Life, begins, ends and is sustained by me – in the sea of Unity.
And the part of you that is the same as all others, wants desperately to recognize its likeness. Has not every child played with small pools of water and observed the natural attraction of the beads of water to each other? The natural attraction of like to like and life to life is the simplest of understandings. And I know you can hear my call for reunion. When you stand on a cliff over the sea, the call within your every cell is undeniable. Don’t just look at me and recognize your smallness – be reminded that you are part of something enormous!

And each time you see the sea – be reminded to Be, recognize your Unity, and return unto me.

I’m still soaking in the message of the Sea when a man comes over the hill.

His every movement is made in grace and his voice is pure peace. I do not need to look into this man’s eyes to see it. The light behind his eyes is unveiled, but its brightness does not blind me as I had expected. I keep my focus on the Sea as he takes his seat next to me.

I know this man. He knows me. I call him by the name I have heard on the Camino. For this man is a legend on the path. But he smiles and tells me that today that is not his name. And then he tells me the name he has chosen for himself today.

I smile and can only think to myself, “I love this man.”

This man is the Perpetual Pilgrim. He has been walking for years. And when he is not walking, his world stands still. Perfectly still. For when he not walking, he takes refuge in a cave. I can only imagine the secrets he learned from the stillness of that cave and I feel something inside of me do a little cartwheel at the mere mention of it. But I look into his eyes and am once again blanketed in his peace.

I think again to myself, “What is it about this man that makes me love him so much?!”

He reads my mind and begins to tell me a story;

“Once a man came to the cave where I sometimes take refuge. He wanted to make a documentary about my life. Many men come to the cave and want to make movies, but I don’t need to be famous and I decline their invitations. But this man was different, and I knew that I was to do it not for myself, but for him. He lived with me for some time and we worked together on this project and became very good friends. And one day I traveled to his house to see the film. When he put the tape in and played it, a man appeared on the screen. And as this man talked, I listened intensely. And when he was finished speaking, all I could think to myself was, “I love this man.” And it wasn’t until after I had said it, that I realized that that man was me.”

I close my eyes. Could I just imagine for just one second becoming a channel for something greater than my own ego? Could I imagine for just one minute opening my mouth and finding the voice of something greater within me? Could I imagine putting those words to paper, and then one day turning over the cover to that story, looking at the picture of the girl on the back and thinking with the selfless adoration of a stranger, “I love this woman.”? I shake my head in insecure disbelief.

“Let me tell you the secret of the veiled light,” he says.

And suddenly, after all my searching, all my yearning, all my inquests and questioning, I’m nervous. Maybe I was never meant to know this. Maybe I’m not ready now…

“The people you see the veiled light in are only the more receptive channels of the spirit that lives within them. And the spirit within looks for the reflection of itself in everything it sees. Like reflecting like. Life reflecting life. What you see in my eyes, is nothing but a reflection of your own burning spirit. And what people see in yours, is only the spark of the same spirit that lives within them.”

I close my eyes and try to absorb it all.

“I hear you council people on catching dreams,” he continues, “… and what is YOUR dream?”

With my eyes still closed, I am suddenly presented with my own blank, white easel. The outline of a house appears. A house by the sea. Right here, where the Camino meets the ocean. Where the messages of the sea, wind, cloud, and shadow can all web together. A house where all pilgrims are welcome to share their own messages with each other and scribble on the walls and jump on the couches in their excitement of reception and delivery. A house in the business of making Trail Magic.

He observes my sketch and says, “Do you know that your dream is in alliance with the will of the Universe? You think you own it. But you don’t. Your dream was inspired by the spirit within you. And if you speak from your heart, which voices the will of the Universe, all doors, including the one to your house, will open to you.”

“You are a messenger,” he reminds me and continues, “…you have listened and heard many secrets. And your path, as a messenger, is to share them. Inspiration is contagious. And it’s your turn to pass it on.”

He smiles at me with enveloping warmth. We embrace in the kindest of hugs. Before he leaves, he asks me for my pen and journal. He opens the book to a blank page, where upon he writes something, closes it, and returns it to me. He smiles at me again, gives me his blessing, and walks on.

I am in eager anticipation of his final departing words of wisdom and look down at my journal to find a neatly printed list of instructions. They are directions to the cave.

I smile and tuck the clue into my mental pocket for future reference when it will be called upon.

***** Witches

The sky is black and I am walking up a small winding street to the lighthouse on the legendary “end of the land” with a group of fellow pilgrims and a few bottles of wine. I wander off from the small crowd of men and wine when I hear faint voices singing in the air. I decide to give my ear one last chance and follow it up a dark road. I still hear the laughing and cawing voices, but it seems I am at a dead end. Suddenly, the beam from the lighthouse swoops my view and illuminates a trodden path in the bush. On instinct, I follow it. The voices get louder and louder, and in the darkness I use the volume to guide my direction.

Finally, I come around a tree, and there, on a pile of great rocks overlooking the sea, I find the source of the call; A group of witches, dancing around a wild fire, their voices and laughter raging in unison!

One of the dark figures jumps on top of a rock, dangles a pair of underwear over the fire and yells, “…that I need a boyfriend to make me happy!” She drops the underwear into the fire and as it cackles, the whole group throws their hands in the air and lets their voices cackle with it. Then they all break out in the chant and dance of some timeless and nameless rhythm of the wild.

I jump onto a nearby rock, throw out a pointed finger at the group and scream, “Witches!”

The dance and song stop. Bewildered and fire-lit female faces all turn around to front their accuser. Smiles slowly spread across their faces. For I know these faces. And they know mine. And they all throw their hands up in a jeer of recognizance and welcome of a fellow witch. I throw my own cackle of delight into the air and run to join in their song and dance of the wild.

It’s tradition to burn old pilgrim clothes on the rocks at the end of the earth. But in a slight twist, they have added to the ceremony, and toss into the raging fire the life lies that they refuse to subscribe to any longer.

The fire’s hunger is insatiable. And with each fear we feed it, we dance delightedly, as the phantom chains go up in smoke.

***** Life Mapping

A stage of my Camino is done. But my path continues to beckon. And so I turn South, and begin to tread a new path, backwards, and along the lesser know and traversed Portuguese Camino.

Walking the Camino backwards, as suspected, is not easy. The yellow arrows all point towards Santiago, and backtracking to find them and then trying to interpret their meaning is difficult. A post with a yellow arrow may be arrived at from countless directions. In facing that arrow, it is clear to all incoming angles which direction to move forward. But sneaking up on that arrow from behind, and trying to guess from what incoming path it is directing flow from, is a whole other game. I estimate that I walk an extra kilometer in circles for every five that I walk in the straight along the path.

In any case, I arrive late at a pilgrim hostel. It’s crowded, and I have selected a spot underneath a table in the living room to lay out my sleeping mat and bag.

In my investigation of the bookstores and Internet, I could not find a single map of the Camino Portuguese. In plain assumption that I would be able to find one ON the Camino itself, I now approach the pilgrim hostel check-in and information desk;

“May I please have a map of the Portuguese Camino?”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have one.”
“But this hostel is ON the Portuguese Camino. How could you not have a map of the very path the pilgrims use to arrive and depart from this hostel?”
“Hum. Yes. I suppose that’s odd isn’t it?”

I cock my head at the attendant in flabbergasted curiosity, but finally shake my head of the absurdity and retire to the kitchen floor.

In the morning I wake up and scribble madly into my journal the dream, and revelations wherein, that came to me in the night. I consider my dreams as nothing less than magic treasure maps. Sleep is the one place where my spirit is allowed to dance in freedom of all social conditioning and physical constraints. When I awake, I grasp desperately with my pen to hold onto what I can bring back of my discoveries in that restriction-less world. This dream was particularly unique and memorable, and I bring it back to life on the white pages of my journal before the fogginess of routine and the physical world strangle it of its sense.

A man sleeping under a table in the adjacent dinning room rustles from his own bag. He props himself on one elbow and asks me what I’m doing. I tell him and he responds with a shrug and comments that he doesn’t dream. I look at him curiously.

“You really don’t remember your dreams?”
“No. I never remember my dreams.”
“But you spend one third of your life in this state of existence. You’ve never questioned or attempted to understand what goes on for eight hours of every single day of your life?”
“Hum. Yes. I suppose that’s odd isn’t it?”

I take up my Camino that morning, as usual, walking against the flow of all the pilgrims. As I come to an old bridge on the footpath, I put down my bag, dangle my feet over the edge of the bridge and watch the water of the stream flow underneath me. And then I have a conversation with myself.

“What is the meaning of Life?”
“I don’t know. But no one else knows either.”
“But we are surrounded by a million mysteries with no explanations for our obvious existence. Why isn’t anyone asking why? Why aren’t we all asking this question and working together to discover and design maps to guide us to an understanding?”
“Hum. Yes. I suppose that’s odd, isn’t it?”

I jump off the bridge and land knee deep into the stream. I shake my head in disbelief and reach down and splash water onto my face in attempt to still my mind from the spins. But my thoughts find no calm in the coolness of the water…

Where has all the “why” gone? When did we get so caught up in the who’s, what’s, where’s, and when’s of Life that we stopped paying attention to the root question that exists inherent within each? Why me? Why this? Why here? Why now? Why? Why? WHY!

I look up to the sky and desperately want those monster hands to grab onto the Earth and dribble it like a basketball. Is that really what it would take for its inhabitants to finally wake up and ask what’s going on?

***** Living Camino

While I walk, I am being showered by a parade of raindrops that are all in full flurry of the excitement of beginning their Camino to the sea. By the scatter of the clouds and the break of sunbeams through them, I can see that this small storm will pass by soon enough. I take refuge from the runaway raindrops under the leafy umbrella a great Royal Oak. Underneath this old and wise tree, I pull my journal out. It opens up to the sleeping dream I had brought back to life on a white page not long ago. I reread the story of my dream;

It’s my birthday. I don’t normally like birthdays. Not because of the dating of time that they celebrate, but because I don’t like the specification of only one day a year to celebrate life. In promoting one day as exceptionally special, it seems to somehow belittles the rest. And I’m unhappy with this discrimination in conviction that everyday should be celebrated as a “birth” day. BUT, this birthday is different. And although it is my own birthday, I have a stock of surprise gifts. I pull out from under a table one of such said gifts that I will be presenting to all my guests. It’s a book. A leather-bound book. And on the outside of it, scraped almost crudely and certainly by hand, is the letter, “T.” It’s the book of Truth. And as I open the book, and flutter through all of its beautifully blank white pages, I am overwhelmed with happiness. “It’s perfect!” I say to myself as I shut the book. And they are ready to be given.

Suddenly, there in the rain, under the wise, old, Royal Oak, my answers come to me.

My message! I know what my message is!

You are a messenger.

The voice is brilliantly clear and beautiful. In fact, it almost sings like that of the pilgrim piper! But the voice comes not from outside. Neither does it come from within.

The voice is mine! And I’m delivering it to you! YOU! Yes, YOU, the reader!

You have a message to listen for and deliver to reality. You have a Camino to pick up. You have signs and a path to follow. You have a dream to sketch. You have an Inner Mystery to discover. You have a life to map. YOU have a Personal Truth to discover. You have blank pages to fill!

Can we find the quiet? Can we start silencing the voices outside so that we can attune our senses to those that tell secrets? For not only do the shadow, wind, cloud, web and sea have messages. The raindrop, sun, ladybug, corn and moon all hold their own secrets and mysteries awaiting discovery. Everything holds a message. And the messages are simple; Lessons and understandings that can be grasped by a child or by the simplest of messengers. ALL one needs to be able to do – is listen.

Each of us has a Personal Truth to discover. And we each have a Camino that will reveal to us the secrets of our own existence. That Mystery is not confined to one path. Nor is it limited to one lifetime. And we, for perhaps the first time in history, are no longer consumed with our immediate compulsions to suffice primary needs. Let us drop this attachment to the physical world of consumption and accumulation. Let’s fast from the attachments of life and find flight in our new weightlessness.

Let’s look around for the first time, inspect our fences, leashes and phantom limits on our capabilities. Let’s step out of hiding from behind our walls of insecurity whose false borders bar us from true freedom. To SEE and recognize the phantom chains of fear is to toss them in the fire. And then they are nothing more than smoke.

“Why?” is not my question. It is OUR question. And it won’t be until we all recognize our Unity and begin to tug and pull on those strings that connect us, that will we be able to pick up a pen and start to map out Life and our levels of interdependency. Only in a collaborative and unified effort will we begin to find our answers to, “why?”

And to recognize our shared path, first we must find our individual paths. That is the work of dream sketching and inspiration. And once we take up our paths, we find the trail magic wherein. And in trail magic, we complete the cycle of giving. And in giving, we multiply love. And in the multiplication of anonymous and unattached love, we recognize Unity.

And once we all recognize that we are walking the same path, the greatest of all life magic will be made. The respect that similarity commands brings about Unity. We’ve seen it on the Camino. Pilgrims, of all colors, and countries, and languages, and religions, and backgrounds and histories — all united as family by one dirt path.

Now I repeat the question that was asked of me. Can you imagine an entire world united similarly? Can you imagine all of humanity recognizing its common path and goal? Can you imagine a place where anyone who asks for water is given a drink from the same bottle of the stranger that passes by? Can you imagine a path where anyone that is hungry is given the portion of a selfless stranger? Can you imagine a world where anyone that is hurt is given a hand of help in the warmth of a brother or sister? Can you imagine an existence where acts of anonymous life magic are created around every corner? Where we each, as receivers, look around and pour our love upon the all those around in bewildered delight and appreciation. And where we each, as anonymous givers, can look INSIDE and smile slyly and shyly? Can you imagine turning over your own book of Personal Truth, seeing your face on the back, and thinking with the adoration of a stranger, “I love this person.”?

Can you see it?

And isn’t the image that we are holding now, of what we want to see exist, in fact – already there?

The inspiration exists because it is in the will of the Universe and has been spoken to us in the voice of the spirit within. It’s time to pick up the paintbrushes and bring color and contour and life to our dreams. It’s time to pick up our paths and discover the Living Camino.

pilgrim in the miami airport

Posted on August 19, 2003 by sol

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Well San Saby was the PERFECT place to drown myself (and relevent homebound thoughts) in fireworks, street dancing, beach bathing and wine & coke cocktails. Traded the ants, for sand in my pants. And was left with a delirious smile as I sang “wee, wee, wee”….all the way home.

Of course….ON that way home, I couldn’t resist one last opportunity to kick it in my portable cave. So I set her up and camped a night out in the Miami airport.

Hey…there’s no pluckin’ the pilgrim out of this girl now.

Okay….I’ve got a bridesmaid dress to try on!

(New pictures in the Spain/San Saby Album.)

Toros de Fuego

Posted on August 14, 2003 by sol

My god, does Spain know how to throw a party.

*aghast*

no vacancy

Posted on August 12, 2003 by sol

Last of the (new) Portugal pix now uploaded…

(Arrived in San Saby this morning at 6:30am to find myself the 8th (!!!) person in line waiting to get into the hostel. The beach is littered with sleeping backpackers with no place to stay! But, I’m in! So let the fiesta begin!)

www.solbeam.com

…equipped with backpack, blog and her sense of Wonder, a perpetual pilgrim wanders aimfully on…

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