This too shall pass; Even the beautiful boardwalks come to an end

 

I’ve written a lot about the walking surfaces in Portugal, both the rough cobblestone roads and the smooth boardwalks, and the effect that each had on my aging feet. Interestingly, as we crossed the border into Spain we left both behind. When I noticed, and finally realised that Spain tended to pave with asphalt, instead of stone, I felt a deep sense of appreciation that relief from bone numbing soreness had arrived at last. I fell in love with this country, if for no other reason than how they had chosen to pave their roads! (If I hadn’t been on a walking pilgrimage I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. It is amazing what personal perspective does to shape one’s attitudes.)

 

We’ve all heard the saying: “This too shall pass”. It’s usually offered by well meaning friends when we find ourselves in the midst of some painful muddle. It’s supposed to offer hope and sometimes it does. I’ve found it useful to remind myself not to take the good days for granted either, as pain and grief have a way of returning. The Camino reinforced this for me; Even beautiful boardwalks come to an end eventually, even when we fail to notice in advance.

 

I have sensed some impending losses as they approached: Our annual family weeks at our home in Oregon, near perfect Thanksgivings in California, college football games and tailgating with dear cousins while our daughter was a college student; All of these are behind us now. Other parts of my life: Good health, good moods, and even good will in my first marriage passed without much fanfare. New love and old comforts, hormones and sex drives, if we live long enough we say “good-bye” to all. I have a friend who says that growing older just means we have to come to terms with letting go of almost everything.

 

I’m experiencing some of that, and seeing first hand how difficult that is, as I witness my own parents, who, in their nineties, are now locked inside a memory care home for their own safety. They have said “good-bye” to so many of their belongings; Even their coffee table, my mom’s most cherished piece of furniture, was removed because it posed a tripping hazard. Without their awareness their minds have slipped away as well and I have had the grief of losing them, the real them, as their personalities and bodies have been ravaged by the dreaded deterioration of Alzheimer’s disease. My father with his twinkling eyes and self-centered stories, my mother with her wise insights, advice, and trim little size six body; What I would give to have one more day with those parents. I’m growing older, and they have lived so long, that it is a surreal juxtaposition. I’m letting go of so much about my parents, at the same time that I'm letting go of some things about myself. It’s impossible to escape the truth: The reward for living a long and healthy life is the dubious opportunity to get lots of practice saying “good-bye”. 

 

Some life endings aren’t as long and drawn out as a battle with dementia: There are good-bye's that are more abrupt. I’m not sure which is worse, when we have warning, or when we are surprised. 

 

I see now that there were clues that the boardwalks we’d loved were ending, even though we missed those signs in the moment: Coastal bushes, that had always before been neatly trimmed, came over the edge of the side railings, we found ourselves walking single file as our path narrowed, instead of side by side as we had become accustomed. Our path deteriorated so gradually we unconsciously made the adjustments without noticing. Suddenly, as we rounded a bend, the walk literally lay collapsed on the sand ten feet below our feet. It reminds me of how my parent's life has diminished so imperceptibly that now they can barely squeeze themselves into it, yet still they seem not to notice. I know that soon it will collapse completely. 

 

There is a picture of us at this ending point; We both instinctively sat down, removed our shoes, opened our packs, and grabbed a snack as we considered our options. Did we know our time on the Portuguese boardwalks were over for good? I don’t think so. We imagined there would be more, but there never were. Like the last time I actually held a real conversation with my parents, I never saw the end coming, and didn't realize that it had, until long after the fact. 

 

That day on the beach we couldn't really backtrack so Anne and I swung over the ten foot edge, headed to the water, to cool our feet, and walked forward to the city ahead. We never held a ceremony, or conducted a ritual to say “good-bye” to our beautiful Portuguese boardwalks. I’m fairly certain that my parents never held a ceremony to say “good-bye” to themselves, their minds, or each other either. Sometimes the signs of impending loss are too subtle to mark the day.

 

Like so many of life’s lessons I knew this already: "This too shall pass" but like so much else these days I feel it at a much deeper level. 

“

I don’t want to drag my feet, nor focus on endings so much that I become morose or paralyzed by sad dread. I want to walk, and to keep moving forward with confidence.  I love these words of Jack London: 

 

     “I would rather be ashes than dust! 

       I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should  be            stifled by dry-rot. 

       I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than  a    sleepy and permanent planet. 

      The function of man is to live, not to exist. 

       I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. 

       I shall use my time.”

​

Reflection:

​

The camino reminded me to savor my steps without looking back too often, or ahead too far. It taught me to to pray for that delicate balance of awareness minus anxiety, and gratitude minus grief. I once had a friend who asked: “What if you lost everything you've failed to feel grateful for in the last month?” That got my attention! Conscious, intentional gratitude, that is what I’m aiming for as I try to notice every one of my life boardwalks while I still have them. I tell myself: “This is the easy part, don’t make it hard.” I want to celebrate the figurative boardwalks in my life with their beauty and ease, and I hope that when this season is over I will notice my narrowing path and swing with ease over the next edge and carry on confidently. On The Camino it was slower going on the beach but it wasn’t all bad feeling the soft sand under our feet. Spain lay just ahead across the river, and just like the next season of my life it didn’t hold the extreme ease and beauty of wooden walkways, but neither did it have the hard sharp edges typical of both youth and cobblestone roads. 

​

     1.  Is there anything about your current life that you are longing to have pass, or is this a season you will hate to see end?

     2. Do you tend to live in gratitude for what you have, or anxiety over losing what you love?  

     3.  When you look back over past "endings" was the anticipation of the transition even more painful than the actual ending itself? How did your anxiety over impending loss affect the life you were still living? Have painful endings ever ushered in an even more satisfying season?

​