Resident Pilgrims

My City is dressed up for Christmas with white lights dripping from every tree. Tall grey buildings wrapped up red and green butt up against a cold grey lake; our own little sea. Churches with their alters full of rich velvety poinsettias, are lit solemnly with tiny candle flames as strains of Handel's Messiah ring out from countless choir lofts. The smell of infinite cookies baking dances through the air as a frazzled population races through final holiday preparations. A thin layer of snow turned ice crackles underfoot as impish children race from one fantastical santa land store window to the next, while in between random spurts of binge shopping, we smile.  My city is dressed up for Christmas.. and she is so lovely.


... And oh so far from Spain... 


My knees no longer ache and that makes me sad.

For weeks after saying goodbye to Saint James and returning home, my body felt tight and creaky, and my mind felt as though I had left it elsewhere. I ate like a horse and craved manchego cheese with an almost homicidal intensity. (as a side note.. manchego is freakishly expensive in the states.) I searched out Milka chocolate, mixed sprite with multiple types of beer (with some truly foul results..) and caught myself cutting vegetables in my kitchen 
with the same little pocket knife that had accompanied me across Spain.


I itched to walk... all the time... everywhere.. my hand reaching for my trusty walking stick. Upon returning home, I threw out multiple pairs of high heels, avoided makeup like the plague and I spent hours pouring over the thousand (or two) photos I had taken on my way to meet James, trying to narrow them down to the few pictures that friends and family would have the patience to look through.



I brought up the camino in nearly every conversation I had with anyone..
"Oh, you want to go out for thai food  ..Well, when I was walking to Santiago.."
"Really? You think blue is a good color.. Well, in Spain..."

And every argument with my husband ended like this...
Me: "I'm sorry, but when was the last time you walked a thousand kilometers?"
Husband: "are you gonna stop using that excuse anytime soon?"
Me: "Nope.  Wanna go for a walk?"
(...exasperated husband stalks off...)

I just wanted to be left alone to write, to read, to make music and most of all... to walk. As a result, I aimlessly followed yellow arrows painted on the sidewalk only to end up following a utility company's proposed repair dig.  And one of my many unplanned walks resulted in my getting locked inside a cemetery. (seriously, read the sign at the front gate ALL the way to the end!!)  On any given day my heart urged me to run back to the camino to carry on since it seemed that a  thousand kilometers wasn't a great enough distance to effectively walk away from myself.

I returned from Spain with a new desire to respect and take care of my body in a wholesome natural way, and to that end I joined a school of martial arts where I am learning Tai Chi from 'Johnny Cage' (a privilege lost on me as my first and last video game was 'Duck Hunt'... I am now vegetarian and anti gun..) I simplified life, cutting back on classes and students.. only to discover that while I truly enjoyed the extra time, I miss those students and their families horribly and am wondering if it would be a terrible faux pas to offer them a time back. As my fall season wrapped me up in its slightly less hectic schedule of choirs, students, masses, rehearsals, and classes, I realized that perhaps the camino was not about showing me what is wrong with my life but rather showing me that the life I have built might possibly be exactly where I belong. I have been able to find contentment and joy even as I search out new challenges and adventures. However, in the recent loss of our kindhearted sweet Indian grandfather, we see the limits of this life. We must live it every single moment of every day. I see our beloved Ajooba (grandfather) stepping up between my Saint James and Shiva and they are chatting, their heads angled together. They look up towards us, "what are you doing wasting time watching us?" they say while waving us away. "Go on.. LIVE!" 


As my horrifying sock tan lines fade completely away, I feel my pilgrimage memories take on a misty dreamlike quality... that is until one gray, cold in the bones kind of Chicago day when I open my mailbox and spot a slightly tattered envelope with the words "Par Avion" stamped ever so crisply. As I pull Jean-Pierre's lovely letter to my heart,  I lift my face and feel the radiating warmth of a beautiful meseta sun.

"And Now," I say with a hint of dare and mischief to my beloved Saint James , "What shall I do next?"