Tuesday, September 15th
I just came back from an evening walk after dinner with Brenda, scouting out a location for tomorrow’s writing and art classes. We’re staying in our current lodging in Ribadiso for next two nights. Tomorrow will be another creativity day for us.
As we walked through farmlands in the golden hour, the perfect hour for photography, I remarked how wonderful it was to walk to our scouting destination, rather than driving. Moving at the pace of our feet means being aware of every vista, noticing subtle changes in light, observing the color of the fields and the meeting place of farm and sky. We’ll be writing tomorrow about “the questions we’re living with” by a meandering creek—a wonderful spot.
The temperature dropped significantly today. At the end of yesterday’s miles, I was sweaty and drooping, but today, we woke to a cool, refreshing day. It was perfect hiking weather—warm with cool undertones. And for us, it was a “short” day—just eight miles. We reached our hotel by 1:30 in the afternoon, giving us the rest of the afternoon to do whatever we wanted: laundry, swim in the pool (yes, this hotel has a pool), rest, hang out. Brenda taught a bonus art class and I slept for a few hours. I’m dealing with a cough and and needed the extra rest. I’m also counting on a nice, long night’s sleep tonight, so this post will be on the shorter side.
Mostly today, I wanted to share a poem written for us on this pilgrimage. It was sent to us from Jan Haag, who runs a writing group with a focus on grief in the Sacramento, California area. One of her students, Melisa McCampbell, is with us on our pilgrimage, so Jan has been following our journey and my travel blog online.
She wrote this poem in our honor of our individual and collective journeys.
What does a stream remember?
I don’t know, but I sit myself down next to one and ask.
And then I listen.
And in the quiet, the water making almost no sound that I can detect,
Stream answers:
We remember everything. As do you.
Especially on the anniversary of that day, that year,
when so much was lost, when it felt to you like
the beginning of the end.
It is not the end. It was never the end.
We keep flowing, even when it seems that we are dry,
when you can see nothing but river rock,
so many stones that add up to those lost.
You don’t have to know them, any of them, to feel their passing.
They have whooshed by you on the way out of their bodies
into the stream—
which is us, which is you, which is everything.
Take heart, as you do every day, in the flow,
in the coming and going, even in the leaves,
which still look so green, which are beginning
to silently turn,
to begin the fall.
—Jan Haag
Today, while walking our route, we started hearing distant music. I heard it first—it sounded like a keyboard. Around a couple more bends, we came to this stream crossing and a wonderful musician on the other side.
Turn up your sound! Here’s the featured musician and the appreciative pilgrims coming his way. What a wonderful place to make music.
Here are a few more images from the kilometers we’ve been walking:
I’m going to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be back with you tomorrow.