Hesitation at the Gate of Santiago

The long sturdy appendages at the end of my arms, that the Spanish call batones, are almost as natural to me as the limbs I was born with. My sticks helped me climb the Pyrenees and across the vast assortment of terrain of Northern Spain; at the end of each day I collapse them, reverently stowing them under my bed where I take refuge. Other pilgrims have misplaced or left theirs behind, resigned to going on without them. I’d sooner leave a trusted friend behind than my batones, for they are my second pair of legs. They make it possible to negotiate the trail when the rain has turned the Camino into a gushing stream of slippery rocks and mud. In Santiago however, they are as useful as two additional thumbs when lacing my boots. I’m glad they are fastened to my pack, leaving my arms free to entwine my peregrino pals that must be celebrating in the shadow of the cathedral. I began flirting with this notion this morning, maintaining that a group of my friends are just far enough ahead of me to explain why I haven’t seen them.But I do see an arrow painted on a utility pole. It seems obligatory, possibly an afterthought following some renovations. I wonder if the clumps of dried yellow paint and the drippings left on the pole mark the end of the precise and intentional way makers. Nonetheless, I’m grateful for anything that marks the way. The arrow sends me across the street only to be led back just two crescent blocks later, by another. 

The uncertainty of what lies ahead beacons me to journey inward, where wise archetypes slumber until their counsel is needed. A pictorial timeline of pilgrims coming to Santiago for centuries flashes across my mind. They’re not ignoring you, says an awakened archetype, it’s that pilgrims are a daily and hourly occurrence. With that, I continue walking what’s left of my Camino but not at my usual pace. My pace, a combination of trekking pilgrim and meandering pedestrian, tells me I’m holding back, like a race horse willfully refusing to perform at her full potential. Could it be because it’s day thirty-three of my pilgrimage? In the 2012 Camino de Santiago guidebook by John Brierley, Day 33 is the day that pilgrims, who have followed the prescribed maps, will reach Santiago.

The past thirty-two days have had a reliable kind of tomorrow on the other side – filled with the routine of walking, locating food, water and shelter, showering and sleeping – made distinct by the weather and those I met along the way. Now Day 34 will soon make its way into my life without invitation, or the familiarities that I’ve used over the past month to define the person I’ve become. A month that has proven to be the longest of any month of my life. Maybe I’ll walk steady and vigilant so not to alert tomorrow that I am near.