From a liturgy of those setting off on a pilgrimage: “Be for them, Lord, a defense against emergency, a harbor in shipwreck, a refuge in the journey, shade in the height, light in the darkness, a staff of the slippery slope, joy amidst suffering, consolation in sadness, safety in adversity, caution in prosperity, so that these your servants, under your leadership, may arrive where they are boldly going, and may return unharmed, and the church which laments their absence may experience the joy if their safe and prosperous return…” The Missal of Vich AD 1038
The story is barely believable. He washed ashore in a stone boat, for Heaven’s sake. His bones are buried at Compostela, which in the year they were discovered, 813, was the furthest most point of the known world. That put the little village on the map, along with such teeming metropolises as Jerusalem and Rome, as one of three places where remains of the apostles are known to be buried. James, and his brother John, called away from their nets for bigger fish, reputedly carried the Gospel to the northwestern reaches of the globe, preaching and founding churches, establishing the very first communities of Christians. Ironically, what they were selling from the very beginning was “The Way” –the idea that faith is, and always has been, a journey. And not a circular one either; we do not end where we began. For I have been remade…. As the story goes, St James made the unfortunate decision to go home for the weekend, where he was greeted by Herod Agrippa, who promptly beheaded him and went to feed him to the lions. Rescued by faithful friends and believers, his body and head were carried back to Spain and installed as relics in a little chapel overlooking sea, which over the centuries has grown into a great cathedral in his honor. And thus the waterman of Galilee came to rest along foreign shores that must have been of some comfort, to hear still the music of the tides in one’s eternal rest.
Our first day of walking is every bit as wet, since it’s been raining for weeks. We depart (virtually) the quaint and picturesque town of St Jean Pied-de-Port (literally, “foot of the pass”), a gateway across the Pyrenees and one of the most popular starting points to the Camino. It’s wet and overcast but mild, and the promise of spring is everywhere: in the shimmering puddles, the emerging bulbs and slowly greening lawns, the early insistent ruckus of the birds that follows us around the block. Other seasons are changing as well, like that scene from Narnia where all the activity and characters have been turned to stone and the warm breath of Aslan slowly brings them all to life. Today, a third vaccine is announced, and one of our universities publishes the bold goal of 90% in-person classes for the fall, where less than a week ago Sophie’s school was on a strict 14-day lockdown. She could leave the room for one of three reasons: to get food, to go to class (if you had one) or to exercise outside–alone. Her roommate quarantined and she sailed alone, zooming and texting and making the most of her party-of-one until–success!–this week the spike ends and the restrictions are lifted. Case counts drop in the state of Virginia for the 9th straight day in a row. And there’s a rover on Mars snapping selfies so all things are possible, and an asteroid the size of Arizona is on its way past earth this week–so close it could smack our satellites, so all things, all things are unpredictable, and here we all are. The days pass, the weeks advance…. Ellie makes her first venture out of state in 12 months — a road trip to her roommate’s family home in Charlotte, and if that hot place of ill-repute has froze over I’ll be less surprised, but I book a flight. A flight, for goodness sake! Where else? Home, to New England. I just sit there, stare at the done deed on the computer. It’s been a calendar year…and a lifetime.
Apparently the very first pilgrim (after James himself) was a French Bishop who got it in his head to walk to Compostela to pay homage to the relics. In 951. His footprints marked the first official “way” departing from the French side of the mountains. Thousands had followed by the time 200 years later that an innovative pope got the wild hair to declare that anyone reaching the end of the Camino and taking communion at the high altar in Compostela’s cathedral would be granted a plenary indulgence — if the pilgrim were to achieve this feat in a “Holy Year.” A holy year, I discover by reading a little further in the two-year old guidebook, “occurs when the Feast of St James (July 25th) falls on Sunday. This happens with a time sequence of six, five, six and eleven years. The last four Holy Years were 1993, 1999, 2004 and 2010. The next July 25 which will fall on a Sunday will be — [are you ready for this? my Lord who metes our each and every step] — in 2021.”
The Camino in a Holy Year occurs when the feast of St James (25 July) falls on a Sunday. It is the only time that the Door of Mercy (also known as the Porta Santa) is available to enter the cathedral. This door is located on the east side of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral (facing the Quintana Plaza). It is normally prevented from public access with wrought iron gates and is opened with a ceremony on 31 December prior to the first day of the Holy Year. Oh, to have been able to be there this past December. Did they hold it, I wonder? I told you this walk was a good idea. I can’t help that it’s virtual. I’m walking it in a holy year. For me it’s starting to feel a little like swimming the wild horses at Chincoteague and winning a pony. Showin’ up to American Idol looking like nothing much, with the song that brings down the house. Like a golden ticket fluttering out of the candy bar of life–that one, last best shot to all you’ve ever hoped and dreamed… Can it be any better than this? Take that, you nasty pandemic! I’m going to walk right on up and pass through that Door of Mercy.
The opening ceremony involves the Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela striking a temporary wall (erected the day before the ceremony) three times with a ceremonial silver hammer. When the wall collapses and reveals the door the Archbishop cleanses the area with Clorox wipes– oops, sorry!–holy water and olive branches and is the first person to walk through. On 13 November at the end of the pilgrim season, the door is sealed until the next holy year with a similar ceremony which replaces the temporary wall and blesses the stones laid with incense. Well then. The door will close without me this year. But not forever. Not forever. It almost closed without Ellie once, in Paris, at the Cathedral of Notre Dame. (See Detournement — July 2018). We saw it, we stood in it, that stunning cathedral, we saw its majesty before it burned. The bones of that memory still with me, carried from place to place. We had arrived, after a long afternoon of one of mommy’s famous “walking tours” (read, relentless foot march akin to a military drill), in the nick of time–only 15 or 20 minutes before closing at the end of the day. The cathedral was closing to the thousands of tourists who circulate the interior in preparation for an evening Mass. Making a bee-line for the massive carved oak doors fronted by tall iron gates, Sophie and I had gotten ahead of Ellie, slowed by the thick crowds out on the parvis, the patio or large paved square in front of the cathedral. When I saw the gates were still open I made the split-second decision to go for it, especially as my quick survey of the actual openings to the cathedral noted they were each now flanked by a uniformed guard, coming out to eye the crowds, glance at their watches and start to pull closed those huge no-go gates. I grabbed the girl closest to me, thankfully my daughter, and began to run–like, don’t miss this train run–waving frantically for Ellie to see us over the sea of people and pick up her pace as well–to hurry, hurry! and in the last frantic woosh! of bottle-necked bodies through the narrow portal, the bars of the gate hard against our backs, were the last three to slip through before the gendarmes closed it.
Into a service of Vespers. It was like entering a different land–from the hot teeming parvis to this dark, cool mile-high space filled with the streaming evening light, striping the massive columns and striking the stone with the refracted hues of stained glass. Instantly still, instantly hushed, we stand in silence and awe, unable to move, the thrum of the day’s heat and intensity lifting off us like motes. The church air is significantly cooler. It smells of stone, and old incense. I am almost certain I can smell the centuries themselves, all nine of them. The service is ending, the chanting lifts my spirit and provides an unexpected sense of earthly belonging. I am not a misplaced 20-year-old student you can chase out of here. I am not a tourist seeking a cheap glimpse, a selfie and a cool respite. I am a returning pilgrim come to thank her God, stealing a scrap of time to pray, to give thanks, and to enjoy this holiest of places. In the 30+ years that separate my steps on this stone floor I, and the people I bring, have come to know our God, and we tread with a surety that undergirds our trepidation and tourist status. When they come for us I try very hard to be the last out of the building.
That was only day two or three of mommy’s 11-day march to sentimentality the summer of 2018. Though I didn’t discover any grails or fountains of youth I came darned close, picked up at the airport by my French “brother” of 1984, slept in the bedroom I once occupied 35 years ago, and coming up out of the Paris metro knowing exactly which way to go to reach the Seine by foot. This is what I am trying to tell you, that the way by heart and the way by foot…are one. That trip with the girls was a virtual pilgrimage, too, not so much for my feet, as I walked all six of ours off on the hot, hard cobbles Ile de la Cite, but of my heart. The night before we left the city I hauled them back on the metro and the hike all the way out to Place des Invalides to see the Tour Eiffel lit up like Christmas eternelle, to sear that illumination into their memories and their hearts, like indestructible bread crumbs for the day I am gone and they may find their way back…. I discovered that the heart remembers every step, though you may forget, and the privilege, the rare privilege to pass this way again was like being given the chance to live a second lifetime. Very glad, very grateful I took it.
A Camino holy year is significant for many Catholics as it provides an opportunity to have their sins to date forgiven and pardoned by decree of the Pope, which is only available in holy years. It is a religious rite called a plenary indulgence. If you complete a pilgrimage to Santiago in a holy year and participate in certain sacraments (religious observances) you are granted the plenary indulgence. In layperson’s terms, this means your sins to date are forgiven and any punishment relating to them in this life or eternal life is pardoned. Dang. And I thought all I was getting for my registration fee was a neck gaiter and a shell patch.
“Pilgrimage’s emotional center is hope.” (Kerry Egan, Fumbling: A Tale of Love, Grief, and Spiritual Renewal on the Camino de Santiago)
Our Day One trek is soggy and mild, puddles and mud but between showers, so that is good. Even in a day as dreary and rainy as this one, our inaugural walk goes well. It is a good “bust free” feeling, fueled by a little social media hype, to be sure, but good nonetheless. Even in a week, a month, a season a year as utterly locked down as this, it is still possible to “travel” with a little imagination, a little resilience, deep patience and a lot of hope. Are those buds on the trees and crocus chins pushing up through the frozen mud? Is that a soccer schedule cropping up in my calendar, an appointment here, a sub day there? Well, put me on a calendar and call me a date. Life indelible. This time last year I had just dug out the big eraser to swipe clean our family planner of all the field trips, activities, adventures and that succumbed to an ominous and impossible future. And I thought the 8th grade bowling trip was a big deal. Silly Jenny. What do you mean Camille may never come again?? As we now know, all of it died. But now, this now and here, the bulbs of our to-be are poking up everywhere and I can’t seem to walk far enough, or fast enough or full enough to contain the hope-fuel that propels us forward. So, go ahead–you try and tell me this little pedestrian endeavor is just an online gimmick–and I’ll buy you a ticket to sail on a stone boat. I am on a march. A march of healing and hope all the way to Santiago, and I’m going to make that Feast.
One hikes the Camino for many reasons, I read. Many for the obvious spiritual call, some for the fitness challenge, the personal challenge, the discernment, the healing, there are so many reasons. As I undertake the walk, in this holy year I realize our timing will align with the gradual receding of the pandemic. Dare I think it? Say it? Imagine it? Speculation went down with the Babel of 2020. My original sign-on to this programme says 150 days, three miles per day to reach Compostela by the Feast of Santiago. Where will we be in five months? Little by little, life is returning. By the end of this month two of the three of us gathering on the “girls’ weekend” in New England will be vaccinated. Vaccinated! Never have I felt so super human or less deserving, so euphoric, so relieved and then so staggeringly grateful. I about lost it. At the big tent vaccination set-up Bill and I went to last month as HCPS employees, they had an area roped off for medical emergencies, allergic reactions and the like. Restrooms there. Water station here. Medic there. I looked all around as I gently rolled my sleeve back down and thanked the nurse, but there was no spot designated for emotional meltdowns. I was looking, believe me. What am I saying “thanked the nurse” I all but embraced her to the point of pain and promised her my firstborn. I could barely make it out of the building to go sit the obligatory 15 minutes in my car. Virtually unchanged. Didn’t feel a thing. Fundamentally and essentially changed forever. I’ll give you sins are forgiven. Jesus himself just took away my mat and told me to walk.
Now, where did I leave that ceremonial silver hammer? Seems I have a temporary wall to knock down.
Souvenirs 
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