Once upon a time...

Leaving Saria today my walking companion and I—delightfully distracted by stain glass windows, lush fields, and the generally picturesque countryside—lagged behind the rest of the group. As we approached a small bridge shrouded by overhanging limbs, we came upon two older gentleman—fellow pilgrims on their way to Santiago. They smiled warmly as we came near, and one of the men remarked in a German accent that the area looked just like something from a fairytale. This was no hyperbolic remark; the area did indeed look exactly as I imagine the forests of my childhood books to look. Huge trees lined the path with knotted and intersecting limbs. The sound of gently running water under the bridge added a sense of life and vitality. Here you in fact seemed to leave the city officially behind and enter into a different realm. The men told us to go before them, and as I crossed the bridge they narrated my progress: “the princess crosses the bridge and meets the prince on the other side!”

A few steps further, one of the gentlemen turned and asked if we were from Indiana. The question surprised me; the only indicator that we were was my t-shirt, which was entirely covered at this point by a jacket. However, I replied “yes” immediately, and he exclaimed “tell Shannon we said hello!” My confusion momentarily deepened, but he explained that he had been in the same coach with Shannon on the train ride into Saria. I instantly recalled that Shannon had told us of two German brothers in her coach, who had entertained their fellow companions (but that story is hers to tell!)

These strangers (aside from the innumerable yellow arrows) became my first waymarker (a sort of living sign that we were on the right path). I had expected to run into our fellow group members, but instead I came face-to-face with a story they had told. As the day progressed, I began to think increasingly of this blend between the story and the experience—between the forests in the fairytales and the beautiful paths that are wonderful but painful to cross, the way that others’ experiences and stories shape our own reality, and the way we become the stories (and shape the stories) that others tell. Already on this pilgrimage I feel that I am not writing my own story; I am adding a page to the story of those who came before me.