Yesterday I spoke about asking the right question in a given situation. In the following article about my pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, I go deeper into the question of 'the question'. This is a bit of a long read and I know that the rules of BlogWorld tell you to keep it short because people today don't read long stuff. I cite the example of the Harry Potter books to refute that. When they came out, I was amazed and overjoyed to see kids as young as 6 reading those huge tomes. Not that my story is any Harry Potter (Or is it? Are we all Harry? New question for another Blog)

The question everyone asked on the Camino was "Why are you making this pilgrimage?" The answers didn't explain anything as we were to learn. "To get the exercise. To take a breather. To atone for my sins."Thinking about it now. One question that comes to mind is "Why do we do anything?" I hope you enjoy this story and I promise that I will return to Blog appropriate postings. I would like to hear post your thoughts and questions, but I haven't figured out how to do so. Blog ignorance.

MY CAMINO

I had given up the idea of walking The Camino. When I broke my hip two weeks before my previously planned trip, when I couldn't get a refund from Air France, when I started to get depressed, it had all seemed like too much to handle. And, this was key; in all my thinking, I had no real idea of what a pilgrimage was.

I had the notion that it was something I would like to do. I guess it was more than an idea. I talked about it. I read some books. I had collected gear, mostly from my kids who knew how important great boots, light backpack, walking sticks were to a successful venture. But, I was ignorantly casual about what was involved.

Then, after my Dad's memorial service, my friend Ron mentioned that he would come with me if I ever decided to renew my venture and walk the pilgrimage. He is ever the nice guy, but I dismissed his offer perfunctorily. “No way in hell. If I go anywhere, I'll be sitting on a fine beach in the Caribbean.” I knew that was more my style. I was tired, tired of my life, tired of not having a plan for the third act of my life, ( I was coming up on 67) tired of worrying about Olivia and most of all tired of not doing anything.

What's more, Ron is a Jewish guy from Queens and the Camino de Santiago de Campostella is an ancient Catholic walk. I grew up a Catholic and had had deep moving experiences with love and reverence for the traditions, the art, and for Liberation Theology in El Salvador. He had his own path. We had met each other over the work of Rudolf Steiner whose writings definitely centered on the Cosmic Christ, but I still rejected his offer.

Less than a half a year later, I don't really remember the moment, I suddenly opened myself to the possibility of going and called Ron and put it in motion. Thinking about that moment I am going to go with the idea of inspiration. (the breath of the Gods). In any case, I had started something that rapidly gained a life of its own. I went from “Never again” to “OK Ron, May looks good to me” to “Lets book the tickets” in a nanosecond. Maybe if I had thought about it, I wouldn't have had the courage.

I asked Ron why he was going. He said it was for the pleasure of my company. Little did he know that that wouldn't be worth much when we really got going. I know now that I really needed him both to jump start my trip and to give me support and strength as I was more depleted than I knew. Making a commitment to him kept me going when I was flagging. I was sinking. We had an unusually gray winter, my son was about to move out of the country, Olivia needed a lot of help, and my life in Ashland wasn't amounting to much of anything. I had reached a time when I couldn't commit to anything.

My wonderful ignorance of what a pilgrimage entailed helped also. How many times in my life have I jumped without looking? And, truth be told, how many times had I been glad that I had? Many. It is ironic how many friends have praised me for my courage in undertaking this walk when I ended up praying daily, hourly, for the courage to continue and the strength.

Our plans were open-ended. Ron had only three weeks that he could miss work. He also had a strong desire to see the ruins of the castle of the Knights Templar, which was near the beginning of the Camino. We kept it open that we might split up and I spend longer than he would.

I flew from Oregon to the East Coast, visited with friends and family and walked every day. I went to Martha's Vineyard with Alice and was insanely allergic. So I thought. By the time I arrived at Ron's to pack our packs and set out, I had a full fledged sinus infection, fever and all. I hadn't even had a cold for a whole year. Was this the broken hip all over again?

Ron was very cool about it. He prescribed an antibiotic and offered “You can change your ticket and come when you are better.” I was too sick to make such a decision, so we went. This involved an overnight flight to Madrid, a race across the city to the train station, first time with the pack on, Oh God, a five hour train ride. The fever was going away but I was hungry, coughing, tired. At the station we met some wonderful cheerful, beautiful done-up southern women and shared a long taxi ride to Roncesvalles. Our start place.

We arrived at Roncesvalles in the afternoon. It was a stunningly clear and beautiful weather. It felt like we had landed on another planet. The huge building had been a hospital, monastery or convent, or all three as we would later encounter. There was nothing else in the town except a few restaurant-bars. The fields around were perfectly groomed, having been cultivated for thousands of years, the river was pristine mountain water. I was sick. My mood didn't improve as pilgrims who had started their journey in St. Jean Pied de Port in the Pyrenees were straggling in with frightening blisters,twisted ankles, sun burns, moaning and groaning about the tortures of their long steep first day. A few had started much further, one woman at Lourdes, another at du Puy. They were in better shape. I was in a completer fog, almost unable to be civil. I was exhausted, stuffed up and plotting how much energy, money and wit it would take to get the hell out of there.

Our accommodations were in this walled pile of stone with a courtyard, huge building, hotel, hostel (albergue) and little chapel. It was newly renovated, Gracias a Dios. The sleeping chamber was a giant room filled to the brim with bunk beds. Hundreds. We signed up for the pilgrim dinner. I made garbled conversation with some woman who spoke some language and we ate an awful soup that called itself 'vegetable' but tasted like flour and water, and the freshest steamed trout you can imagine. We were in Basque country. Ernest Hemingway here we come. The Mass in the chapel was touching with talk about our courageous adventure and God. If there had been a travel agent around I would have been on the next plane.

I was having a fit because I had accidentally smashed my Kindle at the Madrid airport. I can't remember ever going to sleep without reading. The only actual book I had brought was The Quiet Mind, Sayings of White Eagle. Sleep that night never came. I coughed all night. I took a million trips to the rest room, I fidgeted and watched the man across from me precision fold his stuff about a hundred times. I listened to the snoring of 200 people and suffered claustrophobia (cloister phobia) when I discovered that the doors were locked. I felt guilty because I knew I had disturbed the sleep of many others.

They turned the lights on at six AM and started hustling us out of there. My dreams of a leisurely cup of coffee and some wonderful pastry fled fast. We were the last to leave. Shuffling the pack and my long winded complaints about my lack of sleep delayed us. It was cold. We were hustled out the back door. I NEVER start my day without coffee, Oh God.

Ron couldn't get his walking sticks to adjust properly. Several nice men, Danish I think, stopped and tried to help. No dice. Everyone else hustled past us looking like they knew what they were doing. We had no choice but to start walking. I was crying inside and maybe a little outside. I kept having flashbacks to events with my daughter. I missed my Dad, I was sick. No coffee. Heavy pack. No book to read. Moan, groan, agony, pain, grief, sorrow.

We walked and the day brightened and warmed up. There was a cafe. There was food, and the people we had thought headed to walk fifty miles before breakfast were all sitting around drinking coffee and chattering. Things were looking up. Sun, food and cheerful pilgrims changed my mood. We were officially launched.

By mid afternoon we had walked about seven miles and came to a spartan town that had a store and a lunch spot. It was cold again and I had already had to soak me feet in an ice cold stream. The shopkeeper laughed at my Spanish and would only speak Basque. I couldn't walk any further but there was no alberque for another 10 miles. We finally found a woman who had a guest house and took a room with a hall bath. The town (thirty farms) had emptied out. I was restless and sad and coughing and sniffling. Ron let me use his Kindle. I started to get the idea that if you weren't walking and you had had food, and there were no pilgrims about, it was a very quiet, bare scene. Everything was quiet, except my mind. Years of meditation practice didn't kick in and help me when I tried to still my monkey mind. I was dizzy, disoriented and heavy.

I won't describe all the pleasures and tortures of the walk. We walked through deep rural farm country, much of it built up between 700 and 1200. The animals often lived in the first floor of the houses. The gardens, fields and woodlots were so beautifully established they looked like they tended themselves. The book Heidi was often mentioned by passing pilgrims. It was such a contrast to the state of Oregon where I live. In Oregon everything man has touched looks raw and crude to me; denuded hills, silt filled rivers, big roads for few people, houses often without character and too many machines. When we annihilated the Native People, we began the wild west approach to raping nature.

The weather was perfect, As we walked on, I complained a lot about my aches and pains, about whether I was too hot or too cold. Sometimes I was so done that I flopped down in the middle of the trail crushing my pack beneath me. Ron stayed in his mode of seeing the bright side of everything and proclaiming wrongly again and again “I am sure that this is the last hill of the day: it's all going to be easy from now on.” I also put my foot down on the “Hi Five 'maneuver every time we came to food, or passed a marker or had an imagined triumph. God. I became the nay-sayer to his boundless optimism, but really enjoyed his joy at meeting some of the wonderful folks we met as they invariably passed us.

At first, people asked us why we were making this pilgrimage. Then the question kind of faded away. I came to suspect, and was later proven correct that we couldn't know anything more than that for some reason we all found ourselves there in the mountains of Spain, on this path. The Way.

Any web search can tell you the history, the myths and legends that abound and the famous people who have trod this path through nowhere following little yellow arrows and scallop shells embedded in stone. This walk feels like you are walking through nowhere into the now. Druids are said to have known this: the Milky Way lights this field of stars. It follows one of the great Ley Lines on this planet (earth meridians powered by mighty chi). The Crusaders came, lost souls, mighty warriors (right up to modern times) mystery schools, ordinary people. Stories of secret energy, flash backs, little and large miracles and most of all, time for nothing.

Saint James' message was that Christ's loving gift from his incarnation, his death and resurrection was that there is no death. Catholics call Him the resurrection and the light. Old childhood memories from growing up Catholic flooded me at strange moments. I had never liked Medieval architecture because I contrasted it with the glorious buildings of the Renaissance. On the Camino, the tiny, dark, little chapels dotting the countryside seemed brave, solid, strong, grounded, simple. The stone crosses marking the path each made me hesitate for a moment and think of previous pilgrims. Daily I wondered, how could I, with my great gear, money in my pocket, sunscreen, a good friend, complain about my privations when hungry, cripples, agonized mortals had gone before me. I could and I did. God forgive me.

I have always had a loose relationship to places and things. Mr. Edmunds, always insightful, upon meeting me said' You will never have a home. You are at home everywhere.” I knew I was a gypsy at heart. Some of my happiest moments have been setting out on a trip with my backpack on my back. Not this time, that wasn't how I began, but once I had begun, that feeling kept growing in me.

That was one benefit of the pilgrimage that started to happen. I started to remember me. I am a news junkie. I didn't miss it. I didn't have to define myself by how much I knew about the world. I am a person to whom everyone spill their guts. I enjoyed meeting people, but I didn't have to hear their back stories. I took what I saw at face value. We greeted each other with “Buen Camino”, we ate lunch together, we found out what country we were from. Everybody recognized North Americans. Do we have a scarlet letter on our chests? Even with that obstacle of having been born in the US, I was accepted when I accepted. We were all coming into the present moment.

Somewhere along the way, Ron got royally pissed off at me. He had wounded me in the past (without knowing it) when he would ask me for my intuition about some concern he had. When I sat with his question and gave him my answer, he would say “No, you're wrong”, and then tell me what he thought. This might sound trivial except for the fact that my intuition is my rock solid place. I was catapulted into an soul search. “Why would I tell him anything? Why would I expose myself? Why would I let doubt creep into my heart?” Not wanting to grapple with this and not feeling that it was productive, I slammed shut a door and decided that I would talk with him about food, scenery, blisters and that kind of stuff. I was unwilling to get into some neurotic thing about who was right or spiritual competition about insights. Again, I was fighting for my life on this walk.

It seemed that when I challenged him, he thought I was judging him and that he was coming up lacking. I thought I was prodding him to be more true to himself. I am grateful to Ron for his strong reaction. I see it as part of my letting go. It wasn't at all a time for back and forth and explaining. My process was just beginning. I wasn't going to give myself to that kind of a relationship with Ron. I don't care if I am right or profound or wise or anything like that. I need to get closer to being true to myself.

That wasn't the first time that year that I had given someone I care for the power to hurt me. One day last fall when I was physically and spiritually exhausted, a friend I thought was rescuing me, verbally assaulted my integrity. I could hardly breathe. At that second I knew that a spiritual warrior never leads with her vulnerability, Lao Tzu. I was crushed, but I was also beginning my Camino. The question that had been forming was that if it was my karma that had put me more than once in the position where intimate friends could bite me, then how do I get rid of that karma?

That question brought me to a much larger question. My daughter Olivia has been sick and I have been killing myself, quite literally, trying to help her and suffering with her. There is some good Buddhist mojo in compassion, but it does no good for either of us when I lose my center, my hara, my life, in doing so. I would willingly make that sacrifice if it made her well, but that wasn't how our dynamic was playing out.

So, what was my karma that had involved me so heavily in my daughter's misery? How do we start to lead separate lives? How does one get rid of these entanglements? In other words, how do you get rid of old bad karma? How do you create new good karma? How do I die to become? How do I love fully without getting hurt?

These were the questions that arose. Ron seemed a little sad and miffed that I was not engaging with him. I was not ready to tell him what I was struggling with. He had accused me of trying to say profound things because I want praise from people's reaction. I was fighting for my sanity and to have a future. This was my stuff and the Camino was making me confront the big question of how can I give glory to God if I am depressed and miserable?

Lama Marut has said that the road to peace and happiness starts where you are. He joked while hammering home his point. We have been stuck in the “You'll get your reward in heaven” scenario. It goes like this - misery, misery ,grief, suffering, pain, helplessness, victim hood, death – Heaven! The Buddhist picture is a – a little happy, more happy, happier, happiest – Nirvana! It really has more logic behind it to my way of thinking.

I had formed my quest. I didn't do a thing about it. Just kept on walking, eating, sleeping with my new best friend, earplugs, and reading the only book I had, White Eagle. As luck would have it I came upon this saying in White Eagle:

THE WAY TO TRANSMUTE KARMA

We come to help you. A thought from you, a prayer, a hope, and your brethren know and are with you: but we can not take from you your free will, nor rob you of your experience; we cannot free you from your Karmic debts. You must accept for payment debts that you have incurred, and surrender yourselves to the infinite love of God. But we can assure you that your Karma can be softened by the love of the Lord Christ. You can work out your lessons joyfully. This is the way to transmute Karma. As soon as you have learned the lessons your Karma is meant to teach you, it will fall away. It will no longer exist.

I was to joyfully accept my lessons, being grateful for the people, events and so on that seem to cause my suffering and bring pain in my heart. I had heard and tried this before, but on the Camino, I decided to practice it with much more resolve, even when I didn't feel it, especially when I didn't feel it. After all, there was all that time while walking. As I plunged into each day, and more especially when I could hardly carry on, I repeated over and over step by step, “For the Glory of God”, and also “Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is with thee (I pictured the Annunciation), Blessed art thou amongst woman, and blessed id the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

I pictured the depictions of Mary, of Christ by Leonardo, Michaelangelo. I pictured the Pieta. I started to forget my burdens. In some moments, I forgot my hunger, my blisters, my story.

Answers, per se, didn't arrive fully conceived in my consciousness, but a kind of peacefulness crept up. A quiet place, that I had forgotten was in me.

The mantras took form; “poco a poco, paso a paso, dia por dia,” “For the Glory of God” “Hail Mary”, “Buen Camino.”

A tentative sense of wholeness was returning to me. I started to feel other people's karma dropping away from my tangled past. I felt compassion for myself and for others. The Way to Christ and the overcoming of some Karma was beginning. I was still having some kind of Post Traumatic Stress. Certain sounds, smells, brought back painful images of powerful events, but I was starting to see from a bit of a distance, to see that I could have compassion, but it was crazy and crazy making to be inside of others and lose myself. I was to lose myself in the Highest, not the muck.

My helplessness was lifting, my dark cloud. The physical challenges were still intense for me. Everyday I flirted with the idea of paying someone to deliver my pack ahead, but it seemed too complicated. How could I know how far I could possibly walk? How could I carry my food, water, rain gear? I ended up making the non-decision to carry my pack myself. We had discovered a lunch that most places served. It was a simple salad with a hunk of tuna, some hard cooked eggs, some local cheese. With it you got the thingy that held oil, vinegar, and salt. I eat salt as one of my food groups and it was never available unless you ordered something that needed vinegar and oil. Some pilgrims started to bring me salt when they got some. My other dietary mainstay was the Torte de Santiago. It is an almondy confection that is not too sweet. It really filled us up and was easy to carry. My body was emerging from its clever disguise of roundness. I was losing weight, but gaining shoulder muscles and a flat belly.

Olivia had told me to use my stomach muscles to carry the pack or my back would get too tired. I tried this when I remembered which was mostly when I felt pain in my lower back or hips or knees. Thus, another step got added to my survival routine; stomach muscles,”Glory of God”, “Hail Mary”, complain about how the book we had never quite told us how challenging the terrain was, bitch about the Germans who felt it was their duty to correct me.

One youngish German woman, about 42 came upon me collapsed, lying on top of my pack on the trail having a smoke. She didn't say “Buen Camino” or “Are you OK?” or “Do you need water?”. She came too close to my face for my comfort, hands on hips, and said “Do you know that smoking is bad for your health?”

“Get out of here!” I said incredulously.

“Yes”, she said and start to inform me with statistics.

“No”, I said, “I mean get out of here.” She looked non-plussed cut short her infomercial and walked away.

More Karmic questions. Do I have a sign on me saying “Take your best shot?” An Austrian man, passing me rapidly, had already informed me of something I already knew. “Your hat is inadequate.” I had brought my kyacking hat. It was soft and light weight. He meant that I should have a wider brim, but because the back of the “inadequate” hat kept getting bumped by my pack and knocked over my eyes, I wished I had brought a baseball hat. I was cussing it pretty regular.

That time I didn't bother to give a mean reply. I was starting to see that it was his problem, not mine. If he had to greet a stranger with a bummer comment, he couldn't be all that happy. My sign on my back, in my imagination, came off.

Ron's comment that had upset me morphed into his problem not mine. The endless struggle to help Olivia started to shift from my suffering to hers. I saw my grief at her suffering and it started to look like my choice. I began to glimpse a picture of her destiny as separate from mine. She was suffering greatly. I could choose to look at my relationship with her as a gift to me. Our relationship had led me to despair and kind of forced me, in my despair, to ask (beg, plead) for help from Mother Mary, from God, from Buddha, toward Christ. She was my teacher.

“Good thing”, the thought came, “that my first attempt at the Camino had been aborted by my broken hip: the perfect timing was not in place. I was not stripped naked enough to be a pilgrim. I was in the dark, not ready for the Light on the Path.”

In my meditation group which had met for years, many friends had alluded to feeling a strong connection with the Knights Templar and their Mystery Schools. Often I had looked around and in their faces bearings, gestures and attitudes that made sense of this. I had felt a connection with Christian Rosencreuz, but nothing more. I didn't have a feeling that I had been persecuted, of in hiding or a fighter for Christianity. I saw myself tending gardens and being a contemplative.

On the Camino, I felt different stirrings regarding past experiences. At he risk of echoing Shirley McClain, There were a few places where I felt safe. That sounds weird, but I mean deep down safe in those squat, ancient, stone chapels. I am not drawing any cosmic conclusions, I hadn't even known I was in a not safe zone until I felt safe.

I was appreciating Ron more and more. He had been the impetus for my re-engaging and taking up the pilgrimage. He was always, and I mean always, ready to help me. More than once he offered to walk to the end of the day's trip, find a place to sleep, and come back and carry my pack . When I had moments of “I can't do it” his offers gave me the courage to carry on. He never bemoaned the fact that he could have gone further, done more, that I was holding him back. I also know that being Jewish, he didn't have the years of association with the Saints, and how all the Catholic stuff works. We had many discussions about the Israeli/ Palestinian situation. We met a charming Catholic Palestinian, friend of everyone, who didn't hide his hurt when the troubles in his land came up. Once again, I felt a sense of shame to be connected with US Foreign Policy. Again, already.

Talking about the traditions of the Jews, I felt sad that the warnings about worshiping false idols , coming I assume from the ancients worshiping the Golden Calf, that seemingly halted all creation of art to express the Jewish faith. I have never had the feeling (perhaps some do) of worshiping the statues, the paintings, the architecture, even the saints of the Catholic tradition. I did have the sense of being shown through the treasury of art, how some guy a thousand years ago pictured dear St. James, or the Virgin Mary, or Christ himself. These portrayals opened me to new dimensions of gifts from the Saint, the courage with which he lived and the inner transformations he went through because of his devotion to his Master.

'Transformation ' isn't a big enough word. 'Knowledge' is. Saint James 'knew' that Christ, by his resurrection demonstrated that there is no death. It is no wonder that the Mystery Schools of the Knights Templar sought the Way of Saint James. And it is no mystery why they had been massacred for their knowledge.

I let go of the notion the the pilgrimage had anything to do with how far one walked, whom you were with, why you had come. Each of us was finding what we were looking for. This was a walk of gifts, some of which I was reluctant to open until I was forced to.

A few times I planned on taking a day off. I was too tired. But after a few cups of coffee and a bit of sitting around, it felt stupid not to go on. Strange thing though, the short walk days, 6 or 7 miles, didn't get us to our destination any earlier than more ambitious walks. We just ended up taking longer breaks, collapsed more, followed the butterflies.

There were times when we came to a fork in the Path where we couldn't see any markers. Kind people had put yellow arrows or scallop shells marking the path. Some of the markers were a thousand years old, carved in stone crosses. This being said, there were places where cow paths merge in the middle of nowhere and branched in all directions. Taking the wrong way wouldn't have been a disaster except there would be no food or shelter to be found. When we came to unmarked intersections invariably a butterfly appeared and fluttered down one path. I followed the butterfly and invariably, 100% of the time, was led in the right direction. Hummm.

As we approached Santiago de Campostella, I felt we were going too fast. Imagine me thinking that after my painfully slow start. We had taken a train and bus for part of the trip to fit into Ron's need to return to work. I had no desire to scuttle him. He was part of my Camino, snoring and all. At the same time I was less and less inclined to talk, to read, to interact. I was forgetting my past and giving no thought to the future. I was 'being'. And still praying or repeating my mantras over and over. Now not so much to cramp thoughts of of my mind as to rest in the familiar repetition.

Walking a shorter number of miles than most pilgrims presented any number of problems. There were not many, if any, towns or albergues in between the conventional stopping points. Often if we decided in the morning that we would walk ten miles, around four in the afternoon we were miles from a place to sleep. One afternoon I hit my limit and we had to call a taxi to drive us to the nearest place to sleep. He took us to a new hotel on a highway and someone met us and gave us the key and then left. We were the only people there, no help, no guests, no one. It was weird. I am usually very social, but daily I was becoming less so. Ron liked to have a good dinner and relax and schmooze. I liked to eat snack food early and be more alone. I was getting quieter and quieter, enjoying solitude. Moi!

We had slowed down. I had expected that walking into Santiago would be like coming into any large city, that is; more traffic, faster roads, signs, noise, but we were in real countryside right up to Monte Gozo.

Monte Gozo is a hill about 7 klicks outside of Santiago. It is a spot where all the different Camino routes come together. Who knew that people were walking from all directions at the same time? The usual ancient chapel was on the pinnacle along with a huge modern sculpture, refreshment stands, and tons of people all of a sudden. There was a palpable excitement in the air. This was it. And 'it' was so many things to so many souls.

You could see Santiago de Campostella in the distance down a very steep hillside. (going down was perversely more painful than ascending) We couldn't see the old town or the huge Cathedral. Now my slow walking became different. I was savoring each step. Trying to soak it all up, being pleasantly distracted by the sudden onslaught of people. Hoping to find a room.

As always, it was a lot further away than it looked. When you look across the mountains or a valley, you see as the crow flies. When you walk, you meander around fields and properties until you can't even figure out what direction you are moving toward. When we arrived at the alberque it was impossible to contemplate staying there. It was huge, holding around 300 walkers. It was on a high hill and the town was way below. There was no way that I would go to the center and be able to walk back up at night. Never.

So. We walked. I prayed. I complained. Could I not make it after coming this far? It seemed very possible.

We did it. We allowed each other the 'high five'. It was a bit overwhelming to come into the town square and be in front of the grand cathedral and the more grand hotel and the other grand buildings. For the Glory of God. For the 'Love of Pete'. Thousands of people from tour buses, large groups from many countries. Had I mentioned we only met a handful of USAs? Had I mentioned how shocked everyone was at how the decline of America was manifesting? The great square was also a bustling marketplace selling key rings, statures, walking sticks. Who needs them now? And food places everywhere. Oh God, the wonderful smells of chocolate, bakeries, garlic.

We sought a hotel in the center. Ron found us a great hotel. One drawback which was why there was an empty room...fourth floor walk up. But now we were invincible. Ron carried my pack up. It was getting lighter by the day as I left a trail of my belongings as I realized I wouldn't need them anymore. I needed Ron to do that. Thank God.

Thanking God was actually what I was doing. I was thanking God for the peace in my heart, for finding my karma, for feeling free. For a subtle understanding of the things I knew and had been taught, but hadn't incarnated into my total being. That's not bull shit. There were many things I had heard since childhood but hadn't taken the time or space to 'know'. For example “God is everywhere”. So simple. “Yes, of course”, but to experience it fully. This was new. I could give many examples. You know them yourselves. “Be here now”. Wow!

The office where you get your Camino Certificate (with your name in Latin) was so well hidden that even locals had trouble directing us. You would think that with 1,000 people a day most of the year and 3,000 per day in July and August, the street would be worn out. But we no longer had the yellow arrows or the little scallop shells or the butterflies to direct us. Maybe when you arrive at the destination you discover that it is all the Camino now.

At the office, we climbed more stairs and presented the cards that we had had stamped each stop along our route and a lovely smiling volunteer carefully wrote my name in Latin and gave me my certificate of completion. A young couple waiting in line on the old stone stairs pointed quietly at me and the woman said to her boyfriend, “Look, she's crying.” I didn't realize until that moment that tears were running down my cheeks. Relief, sadness, triumph, joy, I don't know. Just tears.

We bathed. I put on my skirt that I had carried the whole way and Ron treated me to a really fine dinner. Later, as I was throwing away dirty stuff that I never wanted to see again (think socks) I made a list of every item I had brought, including the sticks, the pack, the boots as well as note paper and pen and every thing had been a gift from family and friends. (except for one tee shirt). I had so much encouragement for my journey. A few more tears fell. And I fell asleep saying “Hail Marys”.

The next day was the Pilgrim's Mass. In fact every day is the Pilgrim's Mass, for over a thousand years if the stories are true. After breakfast and coffee and more coffee visited the Cathedral. Another chance to wear my skirt. Although some pilgrims came in straight from the road after walking all night. They weren't so dressed up. As you can imagine, this church was a work of art, which has been added to through the ages. Many gorgeous altars and sculptures and paintings were gifts from grateful souls through the ages. The mood of the gathering hoards had a real buzz. There was a mix of eager anticipation mixed with solemn awe.

I almost didn't go up behind the main altar to visit the great silver coffin-like thing that is said to hold the remains of Saint James. I almost didn't go because of the long line of people waiting in line to ascend one at a time. I almost didn't go because it seemed touristy. But the line was moving fast and I had come that far. I couldn't have anticipated the feeling of lightness and almost electricity that I experienced when I followed the tradition and spread my arms and lay my head on the silver box. It felt like something from Saint James came to me. No shit.

Where to after that? I saw that the tiny little boxes where the priests hold confession were open for business. Unlike in the USA, you kneel face to face with the priest , with your back to the congregation, which was now in the thousands. I began, “Bless me father for I have sinned. It is 52 years since my last confession.” He didn't blink. Either he was used to this or he didn't comprehend my Spanish. Again with the tears, “I have often put myself, my worries and my comfort before God.”

He looked in my eyes and put his hands on my head and said, “God loves you.”

Then the moment was over and he asked “Ingles?”. I said, “Si” and he took out an little box of index cards and found what he was looking for and handed me the one that said “Two Our Father, three Hail Mary.” I laughed. I could have murdered my mother and gotten the same penance. It was the only card in English in his box. I whipped off the prayers and found Ron and we elbowed our way into a great perch from which to attend the Pilgrim Mass.

The mob in the Church was pressing forward. A spare little nun came to the pulpit as the organ was blasting. She started rehearsing us for some liturgical responses. The she tuned us up about no cameras, leave a space for the priests and altar people to get through and another space up front. The extra space was for a hospital bed with a dying man on it and a huge family with some severely handicapped children in wheel chairs. The no camera rule was so absurd in that setting that some of the priests saying the mass were whipping out their i phones and snapping pictures while saying mass. It was kind of annoying at first with hundreds of flashes going non-stop, but the annoyance faded as the strength of the event started to unfold.

There were ten or more priests serving mass, each speaking a different language, none of which was English. Many of them had just completed the Camino themselves. One from Mexico was still in his jogging clothes. Each spoke, in their own language, the traditional pilgrim welcome. Then each spoke a few words from themselves. The church was so quiet. The liturgy went on and then the Cathedral priest gave his talk. He spoke about the fact that the Camino was just starting. The pilgrimage so far had just been a warm up, our showing ourselves our intention and our dedication to our intention. Walking toward the resurrected Christ could be our everyday job, that by sacrificing ourselves and losing our familiar lives we had begun to find our higher, better, more eternal selves.

Then a mighty army of priests and altar boys managed to deliver the sacrament of Holy Communion to everyone. More tears, a joyful lift in my heart and it was over.

My karmic lesson...my lesson about karma...everything has a cause and everything has an effect. So my karma with Olivia causing my pain..the cause is my clinging to the hope that I can help her that I can fix her that I can't be happy unless my kids are doing well. The effect is that she always feels more sadness and pressure from making me unhappy. I am unhappy. I can't get on with my life. To change this I need to let go of the hot coal (I can change her, it, whatever.) Then I make new good karma by not bringing suffering to her, myself others, The effect is I am happy. Clear the way to resurrection rather than continuous crucifixion