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I stayed a week in Santiago de Compostela.
Before taking a plane to Paris, I visited the cathedral a final time. I was still sore about not getting to see the botofumeiro swing, about not getting to touch the Tree of Jesse, and about not getting to go head-to-head with Santos dos Croques, but I had yet to visit the apostle’s crypt, to pay my respects, and to leave my friend’s prayer intentions that I had carried to Santiago on her behalf. Furthermore, I had something that I wanted to say to the apostle. I wanted to tell him that, once and for all, I was going stop acting like I was a scorned object; that I was going to leave the past in Santiago; and that I was going to begin being the person of dignity and grace whom I hoped I really was.
After revisiting the Portico de Gloria’s central column, I shuffled in a slow-moving line to the high alter at the other end of the church, where situated above the table was a gilded statue of Saint James. I waited my turn to go through the small doorway on the side and up the narrow stairs into the passageway behind the statue where pilgrims hug the saint in gratitude, un abrazo por el apostol.
Thank you for the safe journey, I practiced in my mind. The couple ahead of me made their way up the stairs. I just want to say, I continued in my head, that when I leave Santiago-- Two elderly ladies behind me kissed their fingers then reached past me to touch the doorway. I’m going to stop giving off negative energies. Lady Number One bumped me with her bag. I’m going to start smiling and be kind. A third elderly lady pushed past me to press another kissed-on finger against the doorway. I’m going to stop caring so ridiculously about how others react to me. The girl ahead of me topped the tiny set of stairs. I’m going to stop saying ‘I’m sorry’ for every little thing. The girl ahead of me sneaked a picture with a flash. I’m going to stop being so self-deprecating. Lady Number One nudged me to go up. Um.
I stepped through the door and onto the pretty set of stairs. The girl ahead of me gave the jewel-cloaked saint a quick hug then wondered why I was holding up the line. I stepped onto the top step then into the narrow passageway. Uh, oh. My mind went blank. I put my arms around the metal statue, but I could not remember what I wanted to say. Um. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder and tried harder to remember. I, uh, I, just. Lady Number One topped the stairs. I’m blowing it. I’m blowing it. Lady Number Two stopped behind her. A tear rolled off my chin and plopped onto my boot.
And that was that.
I descended the exiting staircase and followed an arrow that pointed to another narrow chamber below. The passageway opened into a small, low-ceilinged room. Behind protective bars lay a small silver coffin. Within it were the bones of Saint James.
A couple of pilgrims and a few tourists looked at each other in silence then watched me as I tiptoed forward and slipped the envelope with my friend’s prayers through the bars as she had asked me to do. I hoped they did not think that I was littering; there, of all places.
Relieved of my burden, I walked to the room’s far wall and stood awhile, meditating on the apostle’s ministry and recovering from my When-Do-We-Get-to-See-Santa-Clause disappointment upstairs. The room filled quickly. A Spanish woman said a few words about the bones having been authenticated in 1884 by Pope Leo XIII then the room emptied.
And that was that.
The crowd swept me out of the cathedral and back into the plaza, where, one last time, I passed the fountain and, ahead, the azabache venders to my right. Then I climbed upon one of the giant Praza da Inmaculada steps and just sat there, listening to the street performers play their stringed instruments and flutes, letting my eyes adjust to the sunlight, and collecting my final thoughts about my bipolar Camino experience.
On the Camino— that awkward, surreal microcosm, I had wrangled the details of a stripped-down life, had dealt with pain and homesickness, and had appreciated tiny surprises and funny moments. I had seen myself as I really was, and I had seen life in its fragility and finiteness. I had not had a lot of grand epiphanies, nor had I encountered cinematic, ecstatic truths.
But there had been some breakthroughs:
Intellectually, I had diminished the dogmatic assurance, which previously had narrowed my mind against speculation. I radically had questioned and revised my own thinking and even had allowed myself sometimes to think heretically. I had realized how arrogant I have been to summarily dismiss ideas that have influenced careful thinkers from the past and present; and I had hoped all the more that I would never willfully shut off challenging questions by prejudging them; mock other points of view without investigating them; hold onto beliefs regardless of the facts; or close my mind to the possibilities of error or enlightenment.
Spiritually, I had grown closer to God Who helped me to not feel so alone and to believe in myself; Who reunited the being-I-am with the being-I-wished-to-be; Who challenged me to seek ideals that lend me dignity; and Who showed me how my securities as well as my insecurities have prevented me from loving.
Through the various stages of this difficult journey, I grew to have faith that I might be transformed into an authentic, virtuous, loving person, who is at ease with her self and with others; who takes the right risks; who has forgotten the past; who lives in the present; and who projects a hopeful future.
In the end, I resolved to never be a person who distinguishes between human beings, both for the sake of brotherly love and because such distinctions yield spiritual impoverishment; to be fair and free in my dealings with others; and, above all, to serve coffee with a tiny spoon.
I stayed a week in Santiago de Compostela.
Before taking a plane to Paris, I visited the cathedral a final time. I was still sore about not getting to see the botofumeiro swing, about not getting to touch the Tree of Jesse, and about not getting to go head-to-head with Santos dos Croques, but I had yet to visit the apostle’s crypt, to pay my respects, and to leave my friend’s prayer intentions that I had carried to Santiago on her behalf. Furthermore, I had something that I wanted to say to the apostle. I wanted to tell him that, once and for all, I was going stop acting like I was a scorned object; that I was going to leave the past in Santiago; and that I was going to begin being the person of dignity and grace whom I hoped I really was.
After revisiting the Portico de Gloria’s central column, I shuffled in a slow-moving line to the high alter at the other end of the church, where situated above the table was a gilded statue of Saint James. I waited my turn to go through the small doorway on the side and up the narrow stairs into the passageway behind the statue where pilgrims hug the saint in gratitude, un abrazo por el apostol.
Thank you for the safe journey, I practiced in my mind. The couple ahead of me made their way up the stairs. I just want to say, I continued in my head, that when I leave Santiago-- Two elderly ladies behind me kissed their fingers then reached past me to touch the doorway. I’m going to stop giving off negative energies. Lady Number One bumped me with her bag. I’m going to start smiling and be kind. A third elderly lady pushed past me to press another kissed-on finger against the doorway. I’m going to stop caring so ridiculously about how others react to me. The girl ahead of me topped the tiny set of stairs. I’m going to stop saying ‘I’m sorry’ for every little thing. The girl ahead of me sneaked a picture with a flash. I’m going to stop being so self-deprecating. Lady Number One nudged me to go up. Um.
I stepped through the door and onto the pretty set of stairs. The girl ahead of me gave the jewel-cloaked saint a quick hug then wondered why I was holding up the line. I stepped onto the top step then into the narrow passageway. Uh, oh. My mind went blank. I put my arms around the metal statue, but I could not remember what I wanted to say. Um. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder and tried harder to remember. I, uh, I, just. Lady Number One topped the stairs. I’m blowing it. I’m blowing it. Lady Number Two stopped behind her. A tear rolled off my chin and plopped onto my boot.
And that was that.
I descended the exiting staircase and followed an arrow that pointed to another narrow chamber below. The passageway opened into a small, low-ceilinged room. Behind protective bars lay a small silver coffin. Within it were the bones of Saint James.
A couple of pilgrims and a few tourists looked at each other in silence then watched me as I tiptoed forward and slipped the envelope with my friend’s prayers through the bars as she had asked me to do. I hoped they did not think that I was littering; there, of all places.
Relieved of my burden, I walked to the room’s far wall and stood awhile, meditating on the apostle’s ministry and recovering from my When-Do-We-Get-to-See-Santa-Clause disappointment upstairs. The room filled quickly. A Spanish woman said a few words about the bones having been authenticated in 1884 by Pope Leo XIII then the room emptied.
And that was that.
The crowd swept me out of the cathedral and back into the plaza, where, one last time, I passed the fountain and, ahead, the azabache venders to my right. Then I climbed upon one of the giant Praza da Inmaculada steps and just sat there, listening to the street performers play their stringed instruments and flutes, letting my eyes adjust to the sunlight, and collecting my final thoughts about my bipolar Camino experience.
On the Camino— that awkward, surreal microcosm, I had wrangled the details of a stripped-down life, had dealt with pain and homesickness, and had appreciated tiny surprises and funny moments. I had seen myself as I really was, and I had seen life in its fragility and finiteness. I had not had a lot of grand epiphanies, nor had I encountered cinematic, ecstatic truths.
But there had been some breakthroughs:
Intellectually, I had diminished the dogmatic assurance, which previously had narrowed my mind against speculation. I radically had questioned and revised my own thinking and even had allowed myself sometimes to think heretically. I had realized how arrogant I have been to summarily dismiss ideas that have influenced careful thinkers from the past and present; and I had hoped all the more that I would never willfully shut off challenging questions by prejudging them; mock other points of view without investigating them; hold onto beliefs regardless of the facts; or close my mind to the possibilities of error or enlightenment.
Spiritually, I had grown closer to God Who helped me to not feel so alone and to believe in myself; Who reunited the being-I-am with the being-I-wished-to-be; Who challenged me to seek ideals that lend me dignity; and Who showed me how my securities as well as my insecurities have prevented me from loving.
Through the various stages of this difficult journey, I grew to have faith that I might be transformed into an authentic, virtuous, loving person, who is at ease with her self and with others; who takes the right risks; who has forgotten the past; who lives in the present; and who projects a hopeful future.
In the end, I resolved to never be a person who distinguishes between human beings, both for the sake of brotherly love and because such distinctions yield spiritual impoverishment; to be fair and free in my dealings with others; and, above all, to serve coffee with a tiny spoon.
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