We got to the other end of the beach and crossed a bridge over a river into Pobeña. After walking for a few minutes we noticed that we weren't seeing any yellow arrows. This is a common occurrence, because even though the trail is generally well-marked, there are some important stretches that are hardly marked at all. Or you lose the trail by missing a single marking because it is hidden, or because you aren't looking, or because it isn't there.
"Yes", the next man we asked said to us, "I think the path goes along the shore back there. You missed it."
I hate backtracking. "And the carretera?" I ask.
"Yes, that will bring you to the same spot. You need to get to Covarón, and then continue from there."
Anabel and I looked at each other and decided that we would keep walking. We had not gone very far, however, when we noticed that this was a bad idea. It is very stressful to walk along narrow country roads where there is traffic. We found a side road which led steeply uphill. It looked like it could bring us to a point further along the trail, so we wouldn't have to backtrack. To be safe, we asked a man who was working in his garden.
"Yes, you can get to the trail along here. You'll come to two stone pillars at the top of the hill. Walk through them, and you'll meet up with the trail."
The going was steep uphill, but the road was good. We found two decrepit wall fragments that could pass for pillars, but when we walked between them we ended up in cow pasture. There was no trail here. We heard the breakers of the sea up ahead, but a heavy fog was rolling in and we couldn't see very far. We picked our way along the grassy hillside on which the grass was a little too high and the hillside a little too steep for the walking to be comfortable. The fog rolled over us and we couldn't see more than a few steps ahead. We came to a fence. Eventually we reached a place where we could see the trail practically right underneath us. It was a difficult descent, though -- a steep cliff at some points, but even the easier bits were a difficult scramble. Anabel made it down with no major problems, but I took a while to descend, trying to be as tender as possible to my knee, but still making some whimpering sounds as it took a few jolts.
But the trail was very easy and attractive from here, more of a promenade. We met plenty of other people, but most appeared to be taking a walk along the beach and not a pilgrimage. For the third time since we had met up yesterday in the late afternoon, Anabel started getting into a conversation with a man who was walking roughly alongside us. He had done the Camino himself, and hearing him speak, I felt like a loser. He said that you are easily able to cover 35-40 Kilometers a day. On some days he had done up to 50. Me, I was having difficulty making an even 20 Km per day.
I had to keep reminding myself that it isn't a race, but apparently I did not fully believe that. Why did I feel this tinge of jealousy?
Eventually the conversation flagged between Anabel and this man, and he resumed his pace and left us behind. The fog came and went. We crossed from Basque Country into Cantabria, and had an overweight shirtless Spaniard take a picture of us at the border marker. We reached the end of the promenade, and somehow got off the trail and ended up on the carretera again. We went up and down some switchbacks and eventually got to Ontón. It was one in the afternoon, and the only bread store we could find had just closed for the siesta time. We were sort of stuck on the carretera, roughly parallel to the autovia (freeway), but with steeper slopes and more switchbacks. Sometimes we would cut corners on the switchbacks, saving us some distance but putting an extra strain on The Knee. My feet, too, were burning by now. We had lost track of where the trail should be.
We reached Mioño and there was a bus stop bench beside the road. We sat down for a break, but Anabel wanted to keep going. I told her that she should go ahead, I'd stay here and rest a while.
There was an construction work going on nearby. The whole northern coast of Spain seems to be a construction area. There was an information booth which was closed, and a building which looked like town hall, appropriately modest for a modest little town.
I lay down on the bench and reflected on what a bad place this was to try to take a nap. There was traffic and construction noise all around. I decided to try following the advice I had gotten from my German roommate in Bilbao, and listened intently to the noise.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
67: Steps towards despair: A burden to God
I suffered much of my life under an oppression that, I think, many Christians suffer under: the idea of being a burden to God.
The good news of the gospel is, of course, that we can be free from our sins, but this is not always perceived as good news. For one thing, "our sins" can sound too much like "fun stuff" and we see the gospel as being a proclamation that we can be freed of everything we enjoy about life. This in itself can get us on the road to despair, because we have a hard time reconciling the joy of the Lord with the idea that we must give up whatever we find enjoyable.
But an even greater burden lay in the Christian message that Jesus died to take away my sins. This translates to the view that every sin I commit has caused him pain at the cross. Since, despite my efforts, I will continue to sin until the end of my life, it follows that Christ would suffer less if I were to die today than if I were to continue living (and sinning) for another couple of decades. And that Christ would suffer even less if I had not been born at all.
Throughout my life I have heard many sermons in which the utmost was done to get me to feel sympathy with Christ's suffering. No doubt there is spiritual merit in meditating on the suffering of our Savior. But the side effect has been to make me despise my life, which, after all, was the cause for his suffering. It has made me wish I had not been born, which is another way of saying that it has led me to despair.
I was not only afraid of a regular occurrence of sins adding up; I was also worried that new sins would be born. In other words, it was not only a matter of having more years to live in which more situations would arise in which I would again fall prey to the temptation to lie. It was a fear that new situations would arise in which I would fall prey to temptations I had never known before. As a 7-year-old I had not really struggled with lust. I would have had fewer sins, and therefore inflicted fewer injuries on my Savior, if I had died before reaching an age in which I made my acquaintance with lust.
So who knows what else is coming towards me in the years to come? I imagine situations in which I am coincidentally holding a crowbar at the precise moment that someone makes my temper boil over. How easily one can take a swing in blinded rage and murder someone! Wouldn't it be better for me to die now, before I have done something so awful?
Or what if I start drinking, and over the years slowly develop a habit of drinking uncontrollably? What if, in a weak and depressed moment, I am offered a hard drug that soon imprisons me in addiction? What if someday I am seduced? What if I join a movement that seems to promote high ideals but in the end corrupts me into becoming a violent power-monger?
It could all happen if I keep living. I certainly don't trust myself to be immune to any of these temptations. Considering how far God has allowed me to wander, I don't even trust Him to keep me safe. Sure He will forgive me, but come on -- what does forgiveness from God mean to the widow and orphans of a man you have just killed? The only way to avoid further damage from sin is to stop sinning, and the only way to stop sinning is to stop living.
The good news of the gospel is, of course, that we can be free from our sins, but this is not always perceived as good news. For one thing, "our sins" can sound too much like "fun stuff" and we see the gospel as being a proclamation that we can be freed of everything we enjoy about life. This in itself can get us on the road to despair, because we have a hard time reconciling the joy of the Lord with the idea that we must give up whatever we find enjoyable.
But an even greater burden lay in the Christian message that Jesus died to take away my sins. This translates to the view that every sin I commit has caused him pain at the cross. Since, despite my efforts, I will continue to sin until the end of my life, it follows that Christ would suffer less if I were to die today than if I were to continue living (and sinning) for another couple of decades. And that Christ would suffer even less if I had not been born at all.
Throughout my life I have heard many sermons in which the utmost was done to get me to feel sympathy with Christ's suffering. No doubt there is spiritual merit in meditating on the suffering of our Savior. But the side effect has been to make me despise my life, which, after all, was the cause for his suffering. It has made me wish I had not been born, which is another way of saying that it has led me to despair.
I was not only afraid of a regular occurrence of sins adding up; I was also worried that new sins would be born. In other words, it was not only a matter of having more years to live in which more situations would arise in which I would again fall prey to the temptation to lie. It was a fear that new situations would arise in which I would fall prey to temptations I had never known before. As a 7-year-old I had not really struggled with lust. I would have had fewer sins, and therefore inflicted fewer injuries on my Savior, if I had died before reaching an age in which I made my acquaintance with lust.
So who knows what else is coming towards me in the years to come? I imagine situations in which I am coincidentally holding a crowbar at the precise moment that someone makes my temper boil over. How easily one can take a swing in blinded rage and murder someone! Wouldn't it be better for me to die now, before I have done something so awful?
Or what if I start drinking, and over the years slowly develop a habit of drinking uncontrollably? What if, in a weak and depressed moment, I am offered a hard drug that soon imprisons me in addiction? What if someday I am seduced? What if I join a movement that seems to promote high ideals but in the end corrupts me into becoming a violent power-monger?
It could all happen if I keep living. I certainly don't trust myself to be immune to any of these temptations. Considering how far God has allowed me to wander, I don't even trust Him to keep me safe. Sure He will forgive me, but come on -- what does forgiveness from God mean to the widow and orphans of a man you have just killed? The only way to avoid further damage from sin is to stop sinning, and the only way to stop sinning is to stop living.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
66: Getting to La Arena
I wake up early again. My sleeping bag is wet with the dew. It is always a debate whether to get up right away into the chilly morning air, getting an early start and knowing that I'll be warmed up pretty soon, or stay longer in the sleeping bag, relatively cozy but also quite bored, waiting for the sun to warm and dry my surroundings a bit.
I wish I were one of those people who can just go back to sleep when they wake up in the morning.
After breakfast we continued along the pilgrim/bicycle trail. Last night around dusk there had been a lot of cyclists, but now it was practically empty.
"Many of our best cyclists are from the Basque country," Anabel had said.
I eventually found another staff and followed her example of walking with two. My feet were getting blistered and needed all the support they could get. My knee, too, was feeling sensitive.
A man walked alongside us for a while. He found it quaint that we were traveling such a long way. He himself was not a traveler at all, he told us. But he did have to do this walk every morning because of his health condition.
Once again, I lost interest in the conversation after a while, and started lagging behind while Anabel continued talking to the man for the better part of an hour. When our ways parted we were almost at the beach of La Arena.
I had been saying that I might take a swim once we got to the beach. Anabel told me that was crazy, it was way too cold. At the time, this comment had strengthened my resolve even more, but now that we were actually at the beach, I did not have much desire to get in the water. It would involve changing clothes, and there were no dressing-rooms in sight. I took off my shoes and waded around for a bit. Then we walked across to the other side of the beach, where the trail was to continue. Anabel posed with our walking staffs for a picture.
I wish I were one of those people who can just go back to sleep when they wake up in the morning.
I wait in my sleeping bag until that gets boring. I pull some clothes in the sleeping bag with me and get dressed before stepping out. We had left all our remaining groceries in a bag on the picnic table, hoping that no cats or mice would be attracted to it during the night. Everything still seemed to be there, and I started putting things out for breakfast. Anabel was waking up.
After breakfast we continued along the pilgrim/bicycle trail. Last night around dusk there had been a lot of cyclists, but now it was practically empty.
"Many of our best cyclists are from the Basque country," Anabel had said.
I eventually found another staff and followed her example of walking with two. My feet were getting blistered and needed all the support they could get. My knee, too, was feeling sensitive.
A man walked alongside us for a while. He found it quaint that we were traveling such a long way. He himself was not a traveler at all, he told us. But he did have to do this walk every morning because of his health condition.
Once again, I lost interest in the conversation after a while, and started lagging behind while Anabel continued talking to the man for the better part of an hour. When our ways parted we were almost at the beach of La Arena.
I had been saying that I might take a swim once we got to the beach. Anabel told me that was crazy, it was way too cold. At the time, this comment had strengthened my resolve even more, but now that we were actually at the beach, I did not have much desire to get in the water. It would involve changing clothes, and there were no dressing-rooms in sight. I took off my shoes and waded around for a bit. Then we walked across to the other side of the beach, where the trail was to continue. Anabel posed with our walking staffs for a picture.
65: Steps towards despair: A burden to the people closest to me
I do not fall asleep for a while, actually. I usually don't.
As I continue my thoughts on being a burden to the world, the circles get smaller and smaller, and two uncomfortable things start happening. The first is that it gets more personal, more emotional. Saying that I am in part responsible for the death by starvation of children in Africa is one thing; saying that my life is a nuisance to my parents and my siblings is completely another. Because (and this is the second disturbance) my parents and my siblings would not call me a burden.
I have caused them so many difficulties. As a child, sick and insomniac, my parents took it in turns to carry me through the house, trying to get me to sleep, all night long. My mother once fainted with me in her arms. For years she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
But my parents have never given the impression that this was too high a price to pay for having me.
I remember as a child, pulling my sister's hair. She was crying from the pain, but she was far too good to retaliate. She just took it.
And my brother, he suffered the most. I had an unpredictable temper and beat him up regularly, all the way into my teens. Once I hit him so hard he blacked out. In my mind I can still see him staggering backwards against a wall, his eyes glazing over and him sliding awkwardly, sideways downward and collapsing on a heap. Once I threw a deodorant can at him and hit his forehead. Again, there is an image in my mind of him reeling backwards, his eyes tight shut and his mouth open in an expression of pain and holding both his hands against the blood flowing over his eyebrow.
But even worse than the physical abuse were all my other forms of lording it out over him. All of his ideas which I quenched, all the times I ridiculed a song he liked or an opinion he held, all the times I discouraged him from following a goal, all the optimism and excitement which I put a damper on. I often wonder what sort of person he would be today, how much more his personality would have unfolded, had I not throttled so many developments.
But I am loved by them all. I'm not sure how I would really know what love is if it weren't for my family. And the truth, the difficult truth, is that I am the only one in my family who believes that my family would be better off without me. And what's more, my view of myself as an unjust transaction towards those around me is much more hurtful to them than any of the other injuries and inconveniences that I have ever caused them. No one else blames me for being alive. No one else sees it as a difficulty or an injustice. But they all suffer, not because I exist, but because I wish I didn't.
It gets complex. It becomes a whirlpool. My best (theoretical) solution to every problem I've caused (or faced, for that matter) is that this problem would never have existed had I not been born. Including the problem of me hurting those around me by wishing I had not been born. Thus my theoretical solution becomes a non-theoretical problem.
But still, it persists. If I had not been born, it says, I would not cause anyone pain by wishing I had not been born.
But still, it persists. If I had not been born, it says, I would not cause anyone pain by wishing I had not been born.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
64: another night in a picnic area
Anabel and I got to one sort of picnic area after a while. It was a bit like the rest stops along a highway, but it was mostly for cyclists and pedestrians. There was a rancid smell in the air though, probably from a garbage bin or something, and so we kept walking. I did not want to eat my dinner and go to sleep in an area that smelled like that.
Shortly before dark we reached a similar parking area. There was even a gasoline station just a stone's throw away. We sat down and unpacked some food. Anabel had a baguette that, she warned me, would be "algo chicle" because it was already a few days old. I got her to try some of the pumpernickel that I had found at a shop in Bilbao, because she was completely unfamiliar with it. It seems that dark bread is not so popular in Spain. Between the two of us we also pulled oranges, cheese, chocolate, salami, tuna and yoghurt drinks out of our backpacks.
There was a view of some apartment buildings, and there were people on the street in front of them doing some sort of Basque dance. Anabel told me that she had a Basque flute with her. I don't even have a harmonica, I thought, even though I'm the one who studied music. But for the most part I was glad to be taking a break from music during this time, even though I did a lot of singing along my trek. I was thankful that I had gotten rid of my guitar, and was trying to imagine what that walk from Gernika to Bilbao would have done to my knee if I had had that extra weight on my back.
"Are you OK with sleeping here?" I asked Anabel, pointing to the grass and bushes around us.
"Yes", she said. She had been carrying an isolation mat with her for the whole pilgrimage, and had been hoping to make use of it at least once in an outdoor setting.
I was experiencing something very typical for me: the feeling that the spot I was at wasn't perfect for spending the night. In my various trips -- whether I'm hitch hiking, cycling or whatever -- I start getting into this mode where I keep thinking I'll find something better further along. This means that I usually end up collapsing beside the road around 2:30 AM, sleeping next to some junk pile or in the dark corner of a parking lot because the grass in the field that I passed four hours before was a little too long for my taste, and I had walked on into the darkness hoping to find something more ideal.
But I knew that we wouldn't be likely to find anything better than this. There was some garbage lying around, but I could live with that. I walked over to the gasoline station and used their bathroom to brush my teeth and refill my water bottle, and was again surprised that no one was charging me money for it, like they would have in Germany or the Netherlands.
A lady was walking her dog past the picnic area as I returned, and I hoped that people wouldn't be walking their dogs past my sleeping body all night long.
Anabel had spread out her isolation mat and sleeping bag beside, and halfway under, a large bush. I went around to the other side of the bush and lay my trenchcoat in the grass. It wasn't an isolation mat, but at least it doubled as a coat, cape, and a whole bunch of pockets. I crawled into my sleeping bag, stuffed earplugs into my ears, and went to sleep.
Shortly before dark we reached a similar parking area. There was even a gasoline station just a stone's throw away. We sat down and unpacked some food. Anabel had a baguette that, she warned me, would be "algo chicle" because it was already a few days old. I got her to try some of the pumpernickel that I had found at a shop in Bilbao, because she was completely unfamiliar with it. It seems that dark bread is not so popular in Spain. Between the two of us we also pulled oranges, cheese, chocolate, salami, tuna and yoghurt drinks out of our backpacks.
There was a view of some apartment buildings, and there were people on the street in front of them doing some sort of Basque dance. Anabel told me that she had a Basque flute with her. I don't even have a harmonica, I thought, even though I'm the one who studied music. But for the most part I was glad to be taking a break from music during this time, even though I did a lot of singing along my trek. I was thankful that I had gotten rid of my guitar, and was trying to imagine what that walk from Gernika to Bilbao would have done to my knee if I had had that extra weight on my back.
"Are you OK with sleeping here?" I asked Anabel, pointing to the grass and bushes around us.
"Yes", she said. She had been carrying an isolation mat with her for the whole pilgrimage, and had been hoping to make use of it at least once in an outdoor setting.
I was experiencing something very typical for me: the feeling that the spot I was at wasn't perfect for spending the night. In my various trips -- whether I'm hitch hiking, cycling or whatever -- I start getting into this mode where I keep thinking I'll find something better further along. This means that I usually end up collapsing beside the road around 2:30 AM, sleeping next to some junk pile or in the dark corner of a parking lot because the grass in the field that I passed four hours before was a little too long for my taste, and I had walked on into the darkness hoping to find something more ideal.
But I knew that we wouldn't be likely to find anything better than this. There was some garbage lying around, but I could live with that. I walked over to the gasoline station and used their bathroom to brush my teeth and refill my water bottle, and was again surprised that no one was charging me money for it, like they would have in Germany or the Netherlands.
A lady was walking her dog past the picnic area as I returned, and I hoped that people wouldn't be walking their dogs past my sleeping body all night long.
Anabel had spread out her isolation mat and sleeping bag beside, and halfway under, a large bush. I went around to the other side of the bush and lay my trenchcoat in the grass. It wasn't an isolation mat, but at least it doubled as a coat, cape, and a whole bunch of pockets. I crawled into my sleeping bag, stuffed earplugs into my ears, and went to sleep.
63: steps towards despair: a burden to practically everyone I've ever met
I remember as a kid, looking out my bedroom window at a few other kids playing in the street. One of them was overweight and I yelled something like, "hey, fat pig" at him.
For no reason.
I remember saying "hey stupid" to a new kid in school, because he was, you know, the new kid. I remember mocking my classmates for their spelling errors or for getting questions wrong. I remember contradicting and interrupting my teachers, to the extent where I probably still hold some sort of record at my old school for number of times I got kicked out of class.
For a while I went through a lying phase. This was mostly in fifth grade. Not only would I lie in order to worm my way around getting caught (for homework I hadn't done, for example), but I had a bad case of one-upmanship whenever someone told a good story or joke. I made up some adventure of my own, unverifiable to anyone in the room.
I'm far less comfortable with lying today, but my one-upmanship remains, in some more socially acceptable forms. It isn't necessarily even one-upmanship -- my stories are not always as good or as exciting as the ones the other people tell -- but it's a form of self-validation. "Well, I guess that was a pretty good story, but I'm here too, I have stories too." Sometimes I even feel that I can only move a conversation along by contributing a similar experience of my own to it, instead of continuing talking about the other's experience. This may seem like a minor thing, but it is symptomatic of my entire life: even in my apparent attempts to connect with others, to help someone else along, it is really all about me. I live by theft.
I remember how a friend and I would wrestle with the other kids living in his building. It wasn't exactly brawling, but it was more serious than play-fighting. Once I groped a girl inappropriately during such a fight (she was just reaching adolescence). What is incredible to me in retrospect is how naive I was about it. There was no thought of getting a cheap thrill in a sexual way out of this; I simply considered it a valid move in a semi-serious skirmish with a girl.
But her reaction, the look on her face and the sound that she made, has haunted me all these years.
What is the use of my life? Some guy out there might have an eating disorder because of the way people called him names when he was a chubby kid. God only knows what psychological disorders some girl is carrying around from a grope in a hallway fight. Who knows how many of the cruelties on my part have seriously injured others. And what have I done in return? Have I done anything good of which one can say, "well, of course you'll do some damage along the way, but you're doing something good as well"?
Nothing comes to mind. It seems like so many empty words. Even the better things I have done have been like the stories I tell -- a form of self-validation. Whose life is enriched because of me? Where have I even neutralized the damage I have done? I can't even apologize to most of the people I've hurt, because I can't track them down anymore.
Part of being a Christian means that you can't drag this stuff around with you all your life; you must accept God's forgiveness for it and move on. But far from uplifting me, this discourages me even more. For one thing, even in my more willing moments I can't surrender it, and so I continue to feel like a failure for carrying this around with me anyway. For another, it often seems like such a scumbag's way out;I'd like to pay back the damage somehow.
But of course I can't. Even my most determined efforts to do some good in order to compensate for the bad I do have only resulted in more bad.
And that, too, is a miserable realization. Where else can all this lead but to despair? What conclusion can possibly follow other than the conclusion that the world would be better off if I hadn't been born?
For no reason.
I remember saying "hey stupid" to a new kid in school, because he was, you know, the new kid. I remember mocking my classmates for their spelling errors or for getting questions wrong. I remember contradicting and interrupting my teachers, to the extent where I probably still hold some sort of record at my old school for number of times I got kicked out of class.
For a while I went through a lying phase. This was mostly in fifth grade. Not only would I lie in order to worm my way around getting caught (for homework I hadn't done, for example), but I had a bad case of one-upmanship whenever someone told a good story or joke. I made up some adventure of my own, unverifiable to anyone in the room.
I'm far less comfortable with lying today, but my one-upmanship remains, in some more socially acceptable forms. It isn't necessarily even one-upmanship -- my stories are not always as good or as exciting as the ones the other people tell -- but it's a form of self-validation. "Well, I guess that was a pretty good story, but I'm here too, I have stories too." Sometimes I even feel that I can only move a conversation along by contributing a similar experience of my own to it, instead of continuing talking about the other's experience. This may seem like a minor thing, but it is symptomatic of my entire life: even in my apparent attempts to connect with others, to help someone else along, it is really all about me. I live by theft.
I remember how a friend and I would wrestle with the other kids living in his building. It wasn't exactly brawling, but it was more serious than play-fighting. Once I groped a girl inappropriately during such a fight (she was just reaching adolescence). What is incredible to me in retrospect is how naive I was about it. There was no thought of getting a cheap thrill in a sexual way out of this; I simply considered it a valid move in a semi-serious skirmish with a girl.
But her reaction, the look on her face and the sound that she made, has haunted me all these years.
What is the use of my life? Some guy out there might have an eating disorder because of the way people called him names when he was a chubby kid. God only knows what psychological disorders some girl is carrying around from a grope in a hallway fight. Who knows how many of the cruelties on my part have seriously injured others. And what have I done in return? Have I done anything good of which one can say, "well, of course you'll do some damage along the way, but you're doing something good as well"?
Nothing comes to mind. It seems like so many empty words. Even the better things I have done have been like the stories I tell -- a form of self-validation. Whose life is enriched because of me? Where have I even neutralized the damage I have done? I can't even apologize to most of the people I've hurt, because I can't track them down anymore.
Part of being a Christian means that you can't drag this stuff around with you all your life; you must accept God's forgiveness for it and move on. But far from uplifting me, this discourages me even more. For one thing, even in my more willing moments I can't surrender it, and so I continue to feel like a failure for carrying this around with me anyway. For another, it often seems like such a scumbag's way out;I'd like to pay back the damage somehow.
But of course I can't. Even my most determined efforts to do some good in order to compensate for the bad I do have only resulted in more bad.
And that, too, is a miserable realization. Where else can all this lead but to despair? What conclusion can possibly follow other than the conclusion that the world would be better off if I hadn't been born?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
62: Leaving Portugalete
It took a long time for the photo store to get Anabel's pictures from her digital camera. During that time I went to two different bookstores, neither of which had a pocket-sized New Testament which I could take for the rest of the pilgrimage. I had a small booklet containing the four gospels -- a Spanish man at Taize had given this to me -- but I wanted to read around in the Epistles as well.
As the process in the photo store was delayed and delayed, we met a man who immediately began to talk to us about the Camino. He was one of the "Amigos del Camino", who dedicate themselves to promoting and improving the pilgrim ways to Santiago. He said there was another pilgrim shelter near Muskiz, but it wouldn't be open in April, and to walk it would take more hours than we still had daylight for. He walked with us until we were out of town, talking incessantly to Anabel with a million words of advice for a pilgrim. I was starting to tune out what he was saying, but Anabel kept asking questions.
Once outside of Portugalete, we started off at a brisk pace towards the lowering sun. Anabel had two large walking staffs, which looked sort of funny. There was something spider-like about the way these slender legs helped her walk.
"So why are you taking this trip?" I asked her. I asked this of every pilgrim I met along the way, although I eventually learned that it was not such a good idea to start a new acquaintanceship with something so personal, even though it would seem like the most natural question two pilgrims might ask each other.
"Turismo ecologico," she answered. "This trail has the infrastructure of essentially one long series of nature hikes. Also, I thought that crossing the entire country on foot would be a great way for me to do something, you know, get a feeling of achievement, to be able to believe in myself."
The words "believe in myself" usually just bounce around inside my head looking -- unsuccessfully -- for some meaning to attach themselves to. They must mean something, or people wouldn't use them, but I don't know what they mean. I've always "believed in myself", in the sense that I've never doubted my existence. What more can it mean to believe in oneself? People talk about it as if it were a sort of validation for one's existence.
I once wrote into my journal: "Even in my darkest hours I've believed in myself. That's part of what made them so dark."
"And you?" She asked.
It was only fair for her to take revenge by asking the same question. It is a difficult question, but I had the answers that I had been working out, even if they weren't the complete reasons for my doing this.
"Well, I wanted to travel again, see some new part of the world, but I hate traveling in countries where I can't communicate. I haven't been in Spain before, but I do speak Spanish, so this is ideal. And, as you say, it's a great infrastructure for walking, which is a travel mode I wanted to explore a little more. And I wanted some away time to come to peace and learn how to pray."
"So you're a believer?"
"Yes. Aren't you?"
"Well, I'm Catholic, but I don't believe any more."
"Yes?"
"When I was a child, my cousin became very sick. My mother told me to pray for her, so I was praying, praying, trying everything, you know, but she just kept getting worse. And then," her voice started failing her a bit, "and then she died. But my mom said I should keep praying, so that her soul would be set free from Purgatory, and I continued praying..." she was fully weeping now. "I'm sorry..." she said, trying to breathe normally again and wiping her eyes. We walked on for a while. I was experiencing the helplessness of every man who is confronted with a crying woman. The natural impulse is to put your arms around her or something, but I've learned that giving in to this impulse is not always a good thing. "Don't hold on to me" and all that.
"And then," she said a little more calmly, "later on I saw what this whole thing had done to me, and I decided that there is no one up there. No one who cares, anyway."
We walked in silence for a while. The evening sun made everything golden. The pilgrim trail here went alongside a bike trail, and cyclists in training raced past us.
This, I thought, was the kind of Catholicism I've grown up being taught to reject. This idea of appeasing God by praying enough, of spiritual blackmail and perpetual uncertainty. Every brand of Christianity can play such power games, but what is it about the Roman Church...? I was fully intending to discover my own spiritual connections to Roman Catholicism on this pilgrimage, the ones that I had never known as a child because I grew up in the sort of context in which Catholics aren't even considered Christians.
"Have you tried telling Him?" I finally asked.
"Telling whom?"
"Telling God. Tell Him He doesn't exist. Tell Him He's not fair. He can take it."
"Why should I do that?"
"Well, what can you lose? If you are angry at Him, you're not making it better by keeping your anger to yourself. Even if there is no God, any psychologist can tell you that there's value in releasing your emotions. But if God is there -- well if He's really unfair then you can at least tell Him so, but if He really loves you then He'll be glad to communicate with you, even if you're afraid that He won't like what you say." I started babbling. I often get this way. I tried to explain to her that God actually likes us. I told her of how long it had taken me to understand this, because I had been told all my life that God loves me, but had taken that to mean that He's forbearing with me, gets frustrated at how hard it is to change me, suffers when I do bad things, and is just generally burdened by my existence -- everything except the most obvious characteristics of love, such as "enjoys spending time with me" and "is more interested in freeing me than in controlling me". I tried to say that Jesus loves our friends even more than we do, loved Anabel's cousin, loves us more than we can love ourselves.
I don't remember what I said and how trite it may have sounded, but I remember the feeling. I'm not sure what it means that I become a babbling idiot when I speak about the love of God. It is interesting that in those moments I have so much conviction -- not pretended conviction but true, deep confidence -- in what I am saying. I can wrestle with God all night long and accuse Him of everything, can blame Him for creating me and thwarting me and tormenting me, can ask Him to take away my life because I have no desire to keep going. But when I start talking to someone about the love of God, I believe strongly and passionately in the love of God.
What does this mean? Does my own talking convince me? Does my conviction awaken in time for me to talk to others, and then wane again when I am left to myself? Is the love of God more credible to me when I am in the presence of someone who I wish were experiencing it? Do I subconsciously force myself to believe something because I want someone else to believe it? Or do I live in the conviction, but forget about it too often and need reminding? Do my words to others serve as a reminder to myself?
Many things I do not understand.
As the process in the photo store was delayed and delayed, we met a man who immediately began to talk to us about the Camino. He was one of the "Amigos del Camino", who dedicate themselves to promoting and improving the pilgrim ways to Santiago. He said there was another pilgrim shelter near Muskiz, but it wouldn't be open in April, and to walk it would take more hours than we still had daylight for. He walked with us until we were out of town, talking incessantly to Anabel with a million words of advice for a pilgrim. I was starting to tune out what he was saying, but Anabel kept asking questions.
Once outside of Portugalete, we started off at a brisk pace towards the lowering sun. Anabel had two large walking staffs, which looked sort of funny. There was something spider-like about the way these slender legs helped her walk.
"So why are you taking this trip?" I asked her. I asked this of every pilgrim I met along the way, although I eventually learned that it was not such a good idea to start a new acquaintanceship with something so personal, even though it would seem like the most natural question two pilgrims might ask each other.
"Turismo ecologico," she answered. "This trail has the infrastructure of essentially one long series of nature hikes. Also, I thought that crossing the entire country on foot would be a great way for me to do something, you know, get a feeling of achievement, to be able to believe in myself."
The words "believe in myself" usually just bounce around inside my head looking -- unsuccessfully -- for some meaning to attach themselves to. They must mean something, or people wouldn't use them, but I don't know what they mean. I've always "believed in myself", in the sense that I've never doubted my existence. What more can it mean to believe in oneself? People talk about it as if it were a sort of validation for one's existence.
I once wrote into my journal: "Even in my darkest hours I've believed in myself. That's part of what made them so dark."
"And you?" She asked.
It was only fair for her to take revenge by asking the same question. It is a difficult question, but I had the answers that I had been working out, even if they weren't the complete reasons for my doing this.
"Well, I wanted to travel again, see some new part of the world, but I hate traveling in countries where I can't communicate. I haven't been in Spain before, but I do speak Spanish, so this is ideal. And, as you say, it's a great infrastructure for walking, which is a travel mode I wanted to explore a little more. And I wanted some away time to come to peace and learn how to pray."
"So you're a believer?"
"Yes. Aren't you?"
"Well, I'm Catholic, but I don't believe any more."
"Yes?"
"When I was a child, my cousin became very sick. My mother told me to pray for her, so I was praying, praying, trying everything, you know, but she just kept getting worse. And then," her voice started failing her a bit, "and then she died. But my mom said I should keep praying, so that her soul would be set free from Purgatory, and I continued praying..." she was fully weeping now. "I'm sorry..." she said, trying to breathe normally again and wiping her eyes. We walked on for a while. I was experiencing the helplessness of every man who is confronted with a crying woman. The natural impulse is to put your arms around her or something, but I've learned that giving in to this impulse is not always a good thing. "Don't hold on to me" and all that.
"And then," she said a little more calmly, "later on I saw what this whole thing had done to me, and I decided that there is no one up there. No one who cares, anyway."
We walked in silence for a while. The evening sun made everything golden. The pilgrim trail here went alongside a bike trail, and cyclists in training raced past us.
This, I thought, was the kind of Catholicism I've grown up being taught to reject. This idea of appeasing God by praying enough, of spiritual blackmail and perpetual uncertainty. Every brand of Christianity can play such power games, but what is it about the Roman Church...? I was fully intending to discover my own spiritual connections to Roman Catholicism on this pilgrimage, the ones that I had never known as a child because I grew up in the sort of context in which Catholics aren't even considered Christians.
"Have you tried telling Him?" I finally asked.
"Telling whom?"
"Telling God. Tell Him He doesn't exist. Tell Him He's not fair. He can take it."
"Why should I do that?"
"Well, what can you lose? If you are angry at Him, you're not making it better by keeping your anger to yourself. Even if there is no God, any psychologist can tell you that there's value in releasing your emotions. But if God is there -- well if He's really unfair then you can at least tell Him so, but if He really loves you then He'll be glad to communicate with you, even if you're afraid that He won't like what you say." I started babbling. I often get this way. I tried to explain to her that God actually likes us. I told her of how long it had taken me to understand this, because I had been told all my life that God loves me, but had taken that to mean that He's forbearing with me, gets frustrated at how hard it is to change me, suffers when I do bad things, and is just generally burdened by my existence -- everything except the most obvious characteristics of love, such as "enjoys spending time with me" and "is more interested in freeing me than in controlling me". I tried to say that Jesus loves our friends even more than we do, loved Anabel's cousin, loves us more than we can love ourselves.
I don't remember what I said and how trite it may have sounded, but I remember the feeling. I'm not sure what it means that I become a babbling idiot when I speak about the love of God. It is interesting that in those moments I have so much conviction -- not pretended conviction but true, deep confidence -- in what I am saying. I can wrestle with God all night long and accuse Him of everything, can blame Him for creating me and thwarting me and tormenting me, can ask Him to take away my life because I have no desire to keep going. But when I start talking to someone about the love of God, I believe strongly and passionately in the love of God.
What does this mean? Does my own talking convince me? Does my conviction awaken in time for me to talk to others, and then wane again when I am left to myself? Is the love of God more credible to me when I am in the presence of someone who I wish were experiencing it? Do I subconsciously force myself to believe something because I want someone else to believe it? Or do I live in the conviction, but forget about it too often and need reminding? Do my words to others serve as a reminder to myself?
Many things I do not understand.
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