It is within the silence, flowing deep beneath the surface of life's oft cyclical chaos, even in the midst of the crowds, in a sacred stillness of our conscious choosing, that we find ... every … single … answer.
I have believed these words for as long as I remember.
I’ve done my level best through the years to catch a glimpse, even grab her by the tail, to hold this beloved notion close, but somehow, always, after too brief a time, off she’d slip into the wild wonder and leave me wanting. But with the choice to sidestep life for a time, alone, consciously diving in to deeper quiet, that shy, beautiful truth cuddled in and whispered to me all the while. When I felt myself slipping from heart-listening to head-contemplating, her drawing back was palpable. Gratefully, away from a world of distraction, I was attuned enough to recognize it happening. I’d still my cluttered thoughts and reassure her with closed eyes and I’d (as my dear papa would say), “Plug in, turn on and tune in,” before she had a chance to scoot.
It seems near impossible to me to convey in words how essential this is, for each, and all, of us in this world to live our days with authenticity, see with compassion, speak truth with respect, and love with wild abandon … but if I could share only one gem that I learned along The Way, it would be this.
Still your mind, your life, long enough to fall in love with the divine You again. Trust her, listen completely to his wisdom and, seriously (for reals), follow wherever (absolutely wherever) that Voice leads … for every single decision you ever, ever make. From what to eat, who to dance with through your days, which fears to lay down so you can gather hope close again, to how to speak to your partner, your child, friends, strangers and how to align your passions with your actions.
This is the frame-of-heart I was in, when I was tuning into my body to know when to stretch, how to breathe to heal, how far to walk, choosing what would enrich and uplift me, who to pause to speak with and who to smile softly to as I passed.
I was so rooted in being the observer, that I simply knew that if I listened and let (for me the Friend I call) God lead, I would be delighted, healed miraculously, nourish my body and my joyful spirit well and meet precisely the pilgrims I was meant to, exactly when I was supposed to. The El Camino de Santiago famous seashells and yellow arrows may have led my body, but THIS is what guided me to the extraordinary all along the adventure. It would not have been the transformational experience it was otherwise.
And so, when I Google-searched where to eat and a restaurant popped up that gave me a tingle, I trusted that I would have the physical strength to walk there, and I’d find something amazing. Guess what? Oh, you know I did.
I followed the steps and benches appeared where I needed rest, trees mesmerized me in the glow of afternoon, young kids played basketball to conjure a memory of my own sweet boys and our lazy afternoons, a bridge appeared that led to an incredible park and a tucked-away, creek-side restaurant welcomed me to the tunes of a band (crooning in English no less) who stole my heart as a young girl. Perfection.
No, they were not serving the famous paella I’d hoped for. I was still getting used to that siesta time of day where there is no food served, or a select menu, (wine and café con leche ever flowed), but as fate would have it, I did have the best pizza of my life, met a Canadian fan who offered to take my picture, and basked in the pure joy of being stream-side in this beautiful place of Sarria.
It’s also, why I found the strength the next day to walk the near-3 kms beyond the church I thought I’d attend to the convent mass that Cristina ‘happened’ to tell me was worth the walk – or at least I thought I’d make it. Story below, but first a glimpse of the stroll, the eats and the view.
The following morning, I was itching to begin El Camino, but in the need to heal up to head out I would rest one more day in Sarria. That didn’t mean I wasn’t determined to venture forth to at least catch a glimpse. I had no idea the ah-ha-s that awaited me.
There’s a sur-reality in this place. Amidst ancient buildings etched with history, creeping moss and the majesty of hearing Spanish spoken in passionate tones, it is hard to imagine that ‘regular’ life exists. This is the crux of the wow-factor, that all this wild beauty is present and life drums on ‘just so’.
I passed families at the park, people going about their day, meeting with amigos for a café, and all the while as I took in the architecture, window dressings and displays, the stonework on the streets, I could barely keep my jaw set and my enthusiasm, for every little ordinary thing, contained. And then, I stepped into the café to grab a to-go, which is basically unheard of in this country (people still believe coffee is for sipping while sitting and conversing face to face). Every server was dressed up in costume. I smiled and gestured that I loved their vibe, but it was killing me that I didn’t have the words to ask and get the skinny. And then I wandered by these hallowe’en-esque kiddos and parents in masquerade garb and snapped pics discreetly, as to be polite. I had to just bask in the joy of the gathering and leave my research until later.
I was to later discover I was catching a glimpse of Carnival as celebrated uniquely in this small village in Galicia.
Blissed but out of breath, feeling the tightening in my spine, I paused. Nothing however, at this point, was going to keep me from following my little map to El Camino’s starting point and a peak at what was in store for me, finger’s crossed, crack of dawn the following morning.
Suddenly … there it wass … the infamous yellow arrow. Annnnd a staircase that induced a gulp and made my back ache just lookin’ at it. Lol. Determined and absolutely running on European-dream adrenaline and desire for adventure – and deep breathing with the belief I can heal as I move, I began. Up, up, up.
And oooh what an amazing discovery at the top. Narrow streets alive with colour, hand-painted signs and wares for sale in shops that would be teeming with visitors during peak season. In this quiet time, I felt like a local. I turned the corner and this incredible mural greeted me, as the church of Santa Mariña, in all its magnificence, towered above. I got close, looked for a schedule of services, and set my sights on attending the evening session, and shuffled onward.
I am wildly alive with wonder in a new place, open, in awe of it all; the tingling emanating from within jacks up the rose in my coloured glasses and there are moments of near bursting. I would listen to monks chanting in one earbud to keep me grounded and write to draw it all to me, and spill forth there, so as not to scare the poor people simply moving about their ordinary day.
Strolling along the cobble stones, seeking a haven for breakie, warmth and place to jot my thoughts, I passed the famous Casa do Concello (Townhall) and discovered a gem of a spot that piqued my interest to enter in … Mason o Tapas.
I’d died and gone to cozy heaven. The place near empty, I snuggled up by a glorious fire, right beside a window peaking out to the Sarria beauty in the street beyond. If I built a house and picked my meditative spot, this would have been IT. Oh the small, yet overpoweringly joyful miracles discovered every step along This Way.
The fire was divine, the writing flowed sweetly, the café con leche was to live for and although they abruptly let me know “no comida”, they brought me the most incredible (and famous) Galician pound cake for breakfast!
Seriously, one of life’s exemplary moments. As I peeled out of my wool sweater to bask in the warmth, sipped and nibbled, and wrote surrounded by the luxurious din of the Spanish as they gathered to connect on this fine Monday morning, I was keenly aware that this would be a moment I would carry to the end.
And this wasn’t even the last bit of divine alignment I’d see this day.
For as far back as I can remember I have been struck and inwardly, and instantly, moved to deep calm by small, clean, orderly spaces with grand views. I’ve been drawn to solo and silent retreat, strangely-so to my compadres growing up. Beginning in my 20s, no matter what country I was living in at the time, when all my friends were gathering to whoop it up, often I would simply whisk myself away to some silent space. I may have worked in restaurants and ran a night club in Grand Cayman, but in my ‘off’ time I was spirit-connect bound or when I ran communications for a non-profit for my day job, on weekends I’d hit the trail solo and camp lakeside or find a quiet B & B to rejuvenate within.
I remember walking into my room at a particularly precious place I was staying at, and I almost came to tears with joy. The space was only about 8 x 8 feet, but the single bed with white quilt embossed with tiny white flowers, side table and small antique chair by the window, looking out to the field and rolling hills beyond, was heaven for me. Again, at a retreat home overlooking Lake Superior, same sweet set up, same stirrings from within. And a particularly dear spot that conjured inspiration was an 8 x 8 tree house – room for one and a part of me felt drawn to live there forever. Every single time I’d research and discover retreat space, there I’d find a small, tidy room, a desk for writing, a cozy chair for meditation and – an extra bonus I came to cherish – a wood stove. With each initial reveal came the familiar reaction, not of entering a new space, but somehow returning to a place my soul knew.
It wasn’t until I had the experience of attending a tradeshow for a client, called the Body, Mind and Spirit Expo, that I came to put potential puzzle pieces together. On a break, I decided to check out some of the booths and Jeanie, this lovely, unassuming seventh-generation numerologist with great juju drew me in. I sat and before I’d realized exactly what I was doing she asked, “Who died three years ago dear and changed your life forever?” It was my mother, and I’d not even told her my name yet. That was cool. She went on to explain to me that I’d been a nun in the last number of lifetimes, and while I was dismayed with the ways of the church as a whole at times, I treasured working with community and helping others to mend their hearts and find peace.
Time stood perfectly still in that moment of reveal, and a flood of memories came to me. In particular, when watching the Sound of Music as a girl of about seven, when Maria heads to the convent to find a haven away from the pain of unrequited love, I remember thinking that nothing could be as wonderful as being in that quiet, simple place.
Being a former nun could also explain much about the opposing side of me that ran wild, seemingly wanting to experience all that life and love had to offer, like a kid let loose in a candy store, after centuries-long hiatuses. 😉
All this I share to create context for the moment when Cristine at the Oasis Albergue told me that rather than attend mass at the church I’d seen that morning, Santa Mariña, I should hike a further two and a half kilometres or so up the hill to attend mass at the monastery – no back pain would keep me from exploring that inspired suggestion.
After dinner, as I set out, already sore from the morning’s tour, there were moments when I thought I was insane to try. But there was no way I was going to pass up the chance to return to ‘my home’ of sorts on my last night in Sarria. As Cristina explained to me, in off-season with the few masses they offered to the public, this was a rare opportunity indeed.
Now, of course the nuns would not be conducting the service, but just to catch a glimpse of where they wandered, slept, and lived, and pray where they prayed, the anticipation of the experience was inexplicable to me (not being an overly religious gal in this life). And so, I hoofed it, up, up, up, winding my way, pausing to rest, hoping beyond hope that I could not only make it to the top, but find the energy to travel all the way down the mountain, rest up and be ready to begin my first leg of the El Camino journey at sunrise. If I’d had a friend there who knew the pain I was in, undoubtedly, they would have pointed out the illogical nature of it all.
Luckily, there was only me and a rare and burning desire to make it.
Strolling the antique-store district on the way, I entered the world of ancient European relics and caught a glimpse of days passed, mesmerized by the stories each piece seemed to reveal. Turning away from town and up the hill, I made my way onward. In the soft afternoon glow of this grey day, the trees were magnificent, the moss alive, and my heart so grateful it was like everything single living, breathing element of nature and this place was there just for me.
Even the officer I had to ask, in broken Spanish, for the final directions to reach the church, seemed to appear magically from around the corner. And when he beamed and pointed, with a “recto luego a la derecha” I was sure he’d emerged to perform his duty just for me in that moment.
My destination, sitting on the crest of a hill, made the last leg to the monastery the toughest but the view from the top was spectacular. Unfortunately, my being mesmerized took time, that and my being a wee bit slower than usual, and I had just moments to make it to the church on time.
Funny (not funny) though, as I crested the hill to see this magnificent church I would find myself utterly alone.
*Hover for caption insights.
There it was. My breath caught. But there was total silence, no cars, people or gathering of locals at 6:27 for a 6:30 start. Was this it? Had I missed the moment?
I held out hope, walked closer, taking in, in the deep silence of it all, the energy of this mysterious place of familiarity.
Pictures do not do justice to the magnificence of this place, cannot tell the tale of the countless lives that ended up on this doorstep crumbling in spirit, desperate for hope, desirous of a way to see life’s pain or purpose through.
The air was thick with melancholy and reverence.
As I put hand to church door and gave a push, ignoring the sign that said, “No entrance or tours today,” my heart sank.
I made my way to where the nun’s reside, longing to see a face, to be waved in.
To my utter surprise, I felt myself close to tears. Maybe it was due to all the physical agony of the last few days, but I almost felt abandoned for a moment… like I’d been inspired to make this truly ridiculous trek in my condition, only to find that it was all for naught? I felt an ache of longing, for rest and wanted desperately to find my way through gate, to solitary room, lay down, pray and find a filling for the void.
I turned to go, conjuring the courage to face the hike home. But as I did, a single car in the lot caught my eye. Two ladies, dressed in wool and their best pearls emerged. I thought, “Those ladies definitely look dressed for an event fit for God.” I approached and asked in garbled Spanish, with a little help from Google Translate, about mass at 6:30 p.m. “No Ingles,” they replied but as they headed for the church door, they ushered me along with them.
A check of her watch, a subtle but stern shake of the head, (I believe meant for the tardy padre), a press of the buzzer to the church, and to my gob-smacked delight, this seemingly-frail, anything-but, dear one pulled out her cell phone to contact the powers that be directly and determine what the hold up was. A satisfied smile and a nod of the head led me to believe I may be in luck.
Moments later a young man was dropped off by taxi and came sauntering down the stone walkway past us. The ladies greeted, if not with a slight scolding refrain as he headed to the door. The three of us made our way to the main church door; no back entrance for us.
We stood waiting and I found the phrase to compliment my new friends on their dress and I apologized for mine. They smiled and said …
“No debes disculparte, eres un peregrino vestido para conectar con Dios en el camino.”
Translated … “You musn’t apologize, you are a pilgrim dressed for connecting with God on The Way.” Again with those tears welling, Jen?
I felt such a relief as the priest opened the door and made way for, yes, just the three of us, to enter into this glorious church and pick our pew.
I got to take pictures before the service began, and sit in the echoing silence, fully present to the whisperings of those centuries-old, lingering, spirits. I was privy to the happenings, before The Happening – the lighting of each candle, the stepping out to change and return in full garb, the entrance of the senior padre to perform his prestigious part of the service. And then it began.
Now, not being Catholic myself, I do not feel the connection to the traditions, understand the semantics of the service, but I have a reverence for the paths and beliefs that encourage a connection with an energy and being greater than ourselves. And I can appreciate those who walk this earth with love as their modus operandi. And so, during the Spanish and Latin phrasing, this is what I felt pulsing forth from within the words.
Honestly, at this point as well, standing still was excruciating, but I would not be deterred and so … I prayed, I thanked the Universe and divine souls guiding for the opportunity to be on this adventure, asked for strength and courage to surrender to what would come and… yes, asked for a miracle to heal my back so that I could accomplish what I came to do.
I had the curious experience while living in the Caribbean of seeing Benny Hinn ‘perform’ miracles, and heard of those able to stand up out of a wheelchair and walk after a passionate conjuring of God’s might. But I don’t believe in those kinds of miracles.
I do however believe in the power of one's mind to overcome nearly any ailment and obstacle. And, well, I believe that the divine that is the essence of who we are, is determined to flourish when we throw logic to the wind and demonstrate our unwavering faith. That excites and truly inspires me to set limiting understandings aside and do all I can to show up in openness, take as-if action and prepare to celebrate when the dazzle comes.
And come it did. Difficult to wrap your head around? Perhaps. But as truth is my witness, as I took communion and headed back to my seat, knelt, prayed deeply and in my own way – tears actually streaming to release what was and make way for what could be – I finished, stood, and walked straight out the door and back to my Oasis, pain free.
In the dusk of the eve, I carried a lightness in my heart as I bid my kindred grammas adieu and nearly skipped all the way back; this time the tears flowed in awe and wild thanks for what I’d witnessed and become in that moment.
Tomorrow this peregrino would take to The Way with gusto. Wanna come?
Next post, we leverage that miracle n’ hit the trail.
Jennifer Maki