ship of stone
Sail your ship of stone
to bring us all the holy bones
that we must find when we’re alone
Ave MariaMuxia far from Rome
to the cathedral that once shone
for it is there we will atone
Ave Maria
Ave Maria— chorus of “Ship of Stone”
I began the day early – but not as early as Felix. As I started down the road, here he came, back to meet me near the albergue, asking, “Did you return the key?”
Feeling in my pocket, I sheepishly pulled out the room key.
“I saved you,” he smiled, reaching for it. “I will return this. Go, go on.”
The Primitivo. Even now, I had options, but I knew which road I was bound for this day. The Hospitales Route was the high road. Crumbling remnants of medieval hospitals for pilgrims, now nothing more than low, broken walls, marked the highest points of the path. Monks during that time offered their caring attention to those reaching the most difficult and dangerous part of the oldest pilgrim journey.
As I passed the sites, one by one, along the exposed trail, I heard Felix’s voice, the soon-to-be nurse transported to a past life high atop the Camino Primitivo: I saved you.
Felix was the only one who knew that I had an important day planned, and, true to his generous nature of kind concern, he made sure I didn’t miss it.
The healing road. Ailing peregrinos had only to knock on the door of the nearest hospital/hostel to find rest and accommodation until they were on the mend. Walking on dirt paths and rock, flowers everywhere, I was completely alone, just as I had hoped, with only the butterflies fluttering along ahead of me.
I passed among cows in high pastures, directly through the herds. Horses all bent their heads together, grazing the highlands; the foals trotted over to have a better look at me, but I continued on my way.
The weather on the Hospitales Route was notorious for impassable storms, I had read. Just like back in Colorado, the high country was unpredictable, demanding respect. Yet here I was, hiking familiar alpine-like terrain, under a familiar bright blue sky, the clouds rolling past, burning off.
I had feared the Primitivo would break me. But my legs knew exactly how to hike this path, my feet confident and sure. While the coastal trail had been new to me, I was at home on the top of the world. With no shelter along its windswept ridges, you come face to face with the truth – of yourself. The mountains will reckon.
there is no hiding
from the wind
it searches
everywhere
Midday, I came to the highest elevation I would reach. Stepping away, off trail, I approached the steep mountainside, where it slipped away to join more mountains and hills, as if in endless ranges. The time had come.
Carefully, on a level spot of grassy ground, I emptied out my backpack before I started, laying everything out along my beloved walking stick, Saint Thomas, the broken but strong embodiment of all my doubts about myself and my way in the world.
Standing again, I put on my empty pack, and I faced the sea, that greatest comfort for me.
La Mar. Her vastness lay before me, an endless witness. Seventeen-year-old me stood by my side, silent and sober. The wind sang around us, as I read the three poems.
you are my birth
mother nothing
moreyou gave
me
up years agoand have been
giving
meup over and
over every
daysince
you do not know
how to mother
a daughteryou wanted a son
I am
the greatest
disappointment
of your young
Life –a mirror
you are
the greatest
disappointment
of my young
Life –my mother
I paused, feeling the words echo from the mirror itself. My hair blew around my face, bent over the small notebook as if reading from a holy prayer book.
threw rocks at you
oh my brother
to pay back
every touch
and every torture
young gladiators
circling in the arena
of our mother’s kitchen
for the only chair
at her table
yours
in the end
in the beginning
it was always
yours
as I fell
into wet ditches
where broken
field tile
cut my leg
to the bone
I have walked
with this scar
ever since
always
I remembered, every violation, every sick game gone wrong, every unholy smile and every penetration. I remembered afterward, walking past my mother’s turned back in the kitchen, time after time, my steps like the undead. I remembered how she refused to look at me, to see me.
The wind sang. I thought about the tiny boy, my brother, alone in the night behind unlocked doors, waiting for his mommy to come back to him. To save him.
The wind sang. I stood, remembering how, decades later, she finally told me what had happened to her. And how she had still been unable to stop lashing out at me, forever her lightning rod, taking the fiery fury of her deepest grief, this motherless child, with no one to protect her.
my backpack is heavy yes
I agreed
but I alone must carry it
and if I emptied every item out
still it alone
is heavy
my backpack
is my life
and if I emptied every item out
still it alone
has always been
heavy
I will walk
The Primitivo
I will walk
the far high trail
I will stand
among the mountaintops
and I will empty every item out
and find the stone
that heavy heavy weight
you
have given
me
with all my strength
from all these years
of carrying
my backpack
I will hurl your stone
as far
as I am
from you
Holding that pale, ugly, acned rock in my hand the entire time, I now gave it to 17-year-old me, who took a deep breath, held it for an instant in time, and then threw the heavy stone with the deep-throated sound of a thunderous effort, a yell of protest and a cry for mercy and a rebellious shout of anger and sorrow. It was gone, my inheritance, gone away toward the sea, which was now sending thick clouds up and over the mountains, as if to claim it. I took it as a good sign, that the sea would take that burden, wash it from the mountains, and cleanse us all.
I packed up my backpack, holding and smiling at each item, carefully putting all the basic necessities of my life back into place. Then, with the practiced hand of a peregrina, I pulled my water bottle from its pocket and opened it. I thought of how impossible a task it had been for my mother to embrace me, to raise me, to safeguard me. Flicking my fingers into this holy Camino water and over this holy ground, I said the kindest words I could give to her: “I release you, from me.” I dipped the water again, and touched it to my forehead first, where someday that third eye of wisdom might grow, then flicked it out over the space again, saying, “I release me, from you.” I touched my heart, felt its beating under my wet fingers. I stood a moment, touching my own heart, and then, holding my hands open at my sides as if to the future, I said, simply, “It is done.”
And the wind sang. I listened to it for a moment, as if I heard something, a voice; then I picked up my stick, and I walked on. I crossed over the next mountain. I just walked, lighter.
Huge eagles circled the valley, riding thermals in search of prey, or guarding unseen nests. Suddenly, a gigantic shadow crossed the trail, as an enormous eagle swooped directly over me, so close I felt my hat lift, and heard the rush of its wings as it passed. I shivered at the thrill, ducking to my knees instinctively; but the great eagle was already circling back up above the valley once more. I thought of my father, who always wanted to return as a great eagle in his next lifetime, and I was pleased to think it might be him, come to check on me after my emotional day.
But the emotion running highest just then – was gratitude. Gratitude to understand, and to be able to let go, of all the heaviness of anguished loss, all the times I had to stand my ground and fight, all the times I had given up only to struggle on miserably afterward, all the endless, endless rage.
Gratitude, here on top of the world, under a sky that glowed that amazing blue. I felt strong, and capable. Felt young. Felt like anything was possible.
As I reflected on my small ceremony, wondering if it would have any impact on the world back home, my father’s eagle suddenly flew a circle around the peak before me, and a cloud instantly darkened the mountain.
“Whoa,” I said out loud, stopped in my tracks, as the sun immediately returned, and all the day remained bright, clear.
I knew then – I was free. I had not cast a curse; I had offered a blessing. A wild, strange, wholehearted forgiveness, circling the rock of misery to see it from all sides, releasing the massive weight like the highest, heaviest mountain that even the strongest and fiercest of eagles could never carry. Soaring beyond the deep, dark shadow. The warm light illuminating what could expand and rise.
These coincidences are mysteries to me, and I cherish them.
The song on the wind carried me the rest of that day. It was called “Ship of Stone.” I had entered the days of singing.
To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.
— Lewis B. Smedes
oh Saint James, first to die
among the faithful, I walk beside
the hayfields like you used to do
what it put your mother throughMary and the mother of Saint James
crying out their children’s names
the holiest agony in their breasts
that nursed the sacred hearts at restsail your ship of stone
to bring us all the holy bones
that we must find when we’re alone
Ave MariaMuxia far from Rome
to the cathedral that once shone
for it is there we will atone
Ave Maria
Ave Marianever did Pelayo in his dreams
realize what’s happening
sons of mothers laid to rest
faith of mothers put to testdigging underneath the stars at night
there the bones are shining bright
but even in the silver box
cannot replace the life that’s lostsail your ship of stone
to bring us all the holy bones
that we must find when we’re alone
Ave MariaMuxia far from Rome
to the cathedral that once shone
for it is there
we will intone –A-ve Marie-ia –
Ave Maria
— “Ship of Stone”