There are times self-care is impossible and “The only way out is through”

 

Each of the official “Camino” routes, has a personality, and characteristic all its own. The “traditional” Camino, made famous in the movie The Way, and known as “The Way of St James”, is typically the most popular and so has the greatest number of pilgrims each year. The Northern Coastal Route of Spain, is rough and beautiful but is not well supported by lodging services. The Inland Portuguese Route, also popular, winds its way through miles of vineyards and agricultural land. Anne and I chose what is known as “The Portuguese Coastal Route”. Though relatively new, we believed it would be the route best suited for us with its quiet beauty and long miles of soft surfaces. Still, when one walks nearly two hundred miles there will be stretches that are not the quiet, idyllic earthen paths that one imagines. The actual physical surfaces that we experienced during our camino varied with each bend in the road. True we had many miles of beautiful seaside boardwalks and soft trails through shaded forests, but we also got to experience parts that were far from perfect.

 

On our first day, thanks to our decision to skip a ride on the metro to the edge of Porto, we ended up walking a full twenty-two miles from our hotel to the bustling seaside city of Pavoa de Varzim. Our first seven miles, leaving Porto, we walked solely on cobblestone streets and sidewalks. We were strong and fresh and never noticed our feet at all. Then, when we reached the coastline, we were met by mile after mile of beautiful wood boardwalks. The ocean was to our left, dunes covered in beach-grass were to our right, and a bright sun warmed our shoulders. There are no words to describe the beauty and the ease of this portion of our journey. We had never imagined that Portugal, with its struggling economy, would have invested millions in mile upon mile of wooden walkways. So extensive was their boardwalk system that we could walk for hours, even on isolated beaches, and never touch the thick sand below. Truly, the marvel of this defies both logic and description, and, while I still don’t understand it, I am grateful to have been the recipient of this extravagance. These were great miles!

 

Even so, when we stopped for lunch early that afternoon at a seaside bar, I pulled out my journal and wrote: “My feet hurt. Ache. Hurt. Hurt. I pray they will hold up.” I didn’t know, in that moment, what still lay ahead that day.

 

Our hotel that night lay in the middle of a very busy, beach resort city. It was, of all things, right next door to a casino. (It turns out that even the most meaningful of spiritual pilgrimages are not always filled with the holy, sacred spaces that one anticipates; we learned right away that we wouldn’t necessarily be separate from life just learning from life.) The final, longest, and hardest miles that day were all spent on stone streets as we searched the city for our lodging. Our feet were killing us. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this was the first of several times on The Camino that I experienced a type of pain completely foreign to me. Really, how could I have been familiar with it? After-all, I had never before been through a similar experience. I remember that we believed we were getting close to the end that day, maybe a half mile to go we thought, when we came across one of those huge city information signs on the opposite side of the boulevard. There was heavy traffic that evening as we wove between slow moving cars to get a closer look and reassure ourselves that we were drawing close to our hotel. We don’t read Portuguese but we couldn’t miss the large red arrow that pointed to words that clearly communicated “You are here!” Our spirits sank when we realized we still had over three miles to go.

 

I will never forget that awful feeling. I am a proud woman. I couldn’t voice my fear out loud, my shame was too great at my foolish choice of footwear. I honestly wondered how my screaming feet were going to make it over stone streets for three more miles. In my weakness and my pain, my poor shoe choice felt like a moral failing. How could I have screwed up so badly? We had walked over nineteen miles already and our three hardest were still ahead of us. It felt as though we had zero options but to continue. We had no phone, we couldn’t call a taxi (And seriously, who am I kidding; We were still the same two women who had refused the metro earlier that day!) Our bags were already at the hotel so it’s not as though we could stop early somewhere else. I guess I could have sat down and rested, but there was that damn pride again. Anne would have willingly taken a break with me but I knew that she was as tired, hot, and hungry as I was; I didn’t want to be a burden. And face it, there is always that voice deep inside of me that says: “Only crybabies cry Uncle!” Besides, a break at this point wouldn’t have solved anything, only postponed the inevitable. It was obvious: The only option was forward, the only way out was through. 

 

Luckily there have been only a few times in my “real life” that I’ve had that gut wrenching realization that I was out of options and that the only way out was forward. 

 

The first time was shortly after my first husband packed his bags and walked out the front door for the last time. I had three young kids, tremendous shame, and even greater fear. We’d had false starts in the direction of disintegration before, but I knew this one was finally for real. It was my introduction to a new level of terror and anxiety. Like others who have found themselves there, I couldn’t eat or sleep. I almost couldn’t breathe. If you have been through this before you know exactly what I mean. For four weeks I sipped water and lost twelve ponds. Just like that first afternoon on the Camino, sitting down and quitting wasn’t one of the options. I had three children and their lives had just gone up in flames too. It felt like my job to do everything in my power to keep them from noticing. Silly, I know; How could they miss it, but my mother instinct still urged me to protect them as best I could. In hindsight I would say I didn’t do a perfect job. While I know that’s true, I also know I did the best I could. 

 

Another time, years later, my second husband, truly the love of my life, landed in intensive care with a massive spinal staff infection. For nearly a week I sat at his bedside and I was growing weary. I was scared too, I’d never seen him so weak and vulnerable as he lay hooked up to so many tubes and monitors. Life was feeling a little touch and go already when I received a call that my college-aged son was just down the hall, in the same hospital’s emergency room, following a weekend of poor choices and another sort of disease run rampant. I have three men whom I love more than life itself, two were in the same hospital fighting diseases over which I was powerless. The walk down the corridor between their two rooms felt like those last three miles into Porto de Varzim: Long, painful, and exhausting. Sitting down was not an option.

 

Life hands all of us times like these, crises so large we are lucky to keep breathing. Self-care would be great, but it’s not the daily special, it’s not even on the menu. The only way out is through.

 

All I have to offer in times such as these, is that there’s truth in the saying that: “This too shall pass”. It will pass, whatever it is. Everything comes with an expiration date, even pain. Sometimes we just have to muddle forward and wait it out. Sometimes in life that is all we can do, wait it out. Sometimes tenacity is the only tool left in the tool box. It helps to keep breathing, and it helps to not look too far ahead as we put one foot in front of the other.  It also helps, if we can bring ourselves to do it, to ask for help. No one can carry me, I don’t even expect God to carry me, despite that old “footsteps in the sand” poster that was popular in the seventies.  He does companion me though, when I allow it, and so do my most trusted friends when I let them. When I’m brave enough to tell my truth in crisis I at least have company while I wait for pain to pass and joy to return. 

 

That evening in Porto de Varzim did pass of course. We eventually made it to our hotel, literally hobbling through the lobby.  We’d planned a night of touring the town, but found our first of several “Camino illusions” quickly crushed. THAT was never going to happen on this two-week pilgrimage! Like many of the following nights, Anne counted and treated her blisters, while I soaked, rubbed, and rested my feet. I remember the pain, but I don’t feel it anymore, and of course that old cliche is true: “What doesn’t kill us does make us stronger” especially when we learn a little something from the experience. Anne’s blisters calloused, my feet grew stronger. In a funny kind of way I can see that this “crisis”, like the other more serious ones in my life, not only came to a close, but also served purpose in my life. I am stronger, I am wiser, and while I can’t carry anyone else I have become a decent companion for others who face dark, frantic, and scary seasons. It’s the price I’ve paid to learn compassion. 

 

Reflections:

 

I’ve learned that when I’m feeling strong I have the luxury of delight, but when I’m tired it’s fine to simply yearn for relief. You couldn’t pay me to relive the most excruciating days of my life, but it is worth everything to know now what I know about the nature of physical and emotional pain: Sometimes the only way out is through, it will always pass or at least dim with time, and moving forward while remembering to breathe is always my best strategy.

     1.  When have you felt absolutely exhausted by life?

     2.  Who and What helped you survive those times?

     3.  Is there anyone who needs your presence today as they navigate their own dark days?