cinco cosas que debo recordar - five things which I must remember

Kathryn Harrison considers in her book, Pilgrimage to Santiago, what exactly she will remember about her walk. She pleads with her mind, insisting “[d]on’t let me forget…Please make me remember” (148). Tonight, my fellow pilgrims and I were asked to consider five things that we hope to remember (or perhaps even are afraid to forget). As soon as this was spoken memories and images flooded my mind, sometimes building on one another, sometimes competing for a place on the list. And though there are far more than five things I hope to remember, here are few of the things I plead never to forget:

• The kindness of strangers. Whyte writes that “even with those you know, the stranger’s love is best of all.” While I don’t necessarily agree with the hierarchy of this comparison, this pilgrimage has shown me the love of strangers more frequently than I would ever have imagined, and there is certainly something to be said for someone investing in you with no expectation of return nor with any feeling of obligation. Two days ago we entered a city, and a few of us briefly left the path to make a pit stop at an ATM. As we waited for the change to come out, a man walked towards us. I, a naturally suspicious person, warily observed his approach and waited for the inevitable request (hopefully it would be in the form of a request) for money. Instead, he pointed towards The Way, telling us in Spanish that the path lay in that direction. He smiled and mentioned other travelers he had seen (he was very excited about some pilgrims from South Africa), and then went on his way. He did not linger; he did not request; he did not want anything except to make sure that we could follow the path.

• The changing landscape. The way the forests are surreally green. The trees are draped in moss and entombed in ivy; stone walls line the paths, but these too are so blended with moss and clover and trees that seem to sprout from the rocks themselves. But just as I would think that I had entered an enchanted forest that would surely end at the door of a Candy house, the path would open to fields stretched out with wildflowers decorating them—purple, blue, white, and yellow jewels dotting the green—with the mountains in the distance rising up like a backdrop...and the ocean is still to come.

• Surprises. The way that I round a bend in the road of a small town just in time to see a group of chickens clucking their way towards me, or a herd of cows moseying their way to a new field so close I can reach out (and I have) to touch them as they pass.

• Charlebranch. Many of us are by this point limping a bit. I use my trekking poles (at least on descents) as though they are crutches rather than supports, bearing my whole weight on them. Others have found large limbs to help them ease the pressure on their knees. But Colbi found a small and slightly flimsy twig. The image of her swinging this twig (which she has named Charlebranch in tribute to Charlemagne) back and forth with her steps, claiming laughingly that she “can really feel the difference in her knees,” and insisting that it is her therapy stick, is one of my favorite moments of the journey.

• The beauty and the pain. I have been asked a few times if the pilgrimage has become a metaphor to me. As I reflect on my progress so far, I cannot help thinking of the moments (and there are many) where my knee, or foot, or knee again will be in so much pain...and then I will see something so beautiful—like a sea of eucalyptus trees—and be entirely distracted. The pain is not gone; it simply is forced into submission by the things I care for more. I think life is, or could be, lived like this—accepting the pain. Ignoring the pain. Realizing the pain is, if not necessary, simply part of it.