Gorma Tales of the Camino: Francesca Holds the Lightning Bolt
Gorma traveled down into a valley that was most pleasant. It was morning, and birds sang for the delight of a new day. Apples and pears hung full and sweet from the trees in the cool air, and the raspberries growing along the fences and stone walls were nearly ripe. A small stream trickled through the valley, winding between the stone farmhouses with their red tile roofs.
Gorma was watching the cows drinking the clear water and grazing the thick grass, their bells clanking under their sturdy necks, their tails swishing gently. “Yes, butterflies, it is time to walk,” she had just finished saying to the sweet flutterings dancing before her, when there, in a wide place on the path, stood a beautiful young woman.
Her smile was magnetic, her hair the color of living iron, and her body powerfully strong. She stood still as a statue, just a few feet from the rippling stream. Gorma stood beside her for a full minute, which is a very long time to wait. “Have these waters cast a spell on you?” Gorma finally asked, knowing that to name a spell begins to break it.
“Yes and no, Gorma; yes, and no.”
“Ah, so true. Tell me more,” replied Gorma.
The young woman was Francesca of the British Isles, and no stranger to little brooks and rivers, nor to the rain storms that refilled and refreshed them. But lately, things had taken a most difficult turn. “If I dare even to touch a drop of the water, a sudden storm arises out of nowhere, and I am struck by lightning! A little bird may splash its feathers in a puddle, and if one feather’s-worth of water touches me in any way – flash! The lightning strikes and I awake later, off in a meadow. The morning dew on the grasses along the path was trouble enough to pass safely, but this stream – oh Gorma, Gorma, what shall I do?”
Gorma nodded seriously. “And to top it off, you must be so thirsty.”
“So true! How will I live without water? But how can I live with it? Oh Gorma, Gorma, the lightning has driven me from my beautiful Britain forever, I fear.” The thought of it made Francesca’s lip tremble, but she dared not cry, not even one tear.
“The Country of the Heart cannot save you from the lightning, Francesca. The Heart is a wet and weeping place at times, and lightning pulses through at every moment, causing the beating of the rhythm of the seasons. So the lightning must not end, Francesca. If it were to stop completely, all life would end.”
Francesca’s lip trembled again, as she stood like a statue next to the little stream. “Oh Gorma, Gorma,” she whispered. “What am I to do?”
Gorma looked into Francesca’s eyes, and Francesca saw there the answer. “What must be done, must be done, and no help crying about it,” Gorma said with a wink. She smiled. “You cannot help that you are a lightning rod, Francesca. You are strong and alive, and so the lightning finds your mettle attractive – so attractive, it sometimes gives you more than it should.”
“Therefore,” Gorma continued, “the lightning must be shared, as all brilliant moments of curiosity and understanding are shared with us, from the Great Aha, the universe, which has no other name, yet many names. The lightning is in the skies – and within each of us.”
Then Francesca looked back into Gorma’s eyes, and seeing flashing there a familiar light, she reached out her hand to Gorma’s. In that moment, they shared a look of mischievous expectation, and respect. For it is the lightning-quick minds among us, those lightning rods endlessly asking for deeper meaning, who are gifted with the white light of flashing insight. Gorma knew that only the hand of another can ground the lightning rod back to earth, for that touch allows them to drink the waters of creativity without losing themselves into the storm. We must hold hands with the lightning.
Francesca stepped across the bubbling stream and strode up the path, confident and brimming with new ideas. And Gorma walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, a storm grew, and thunder and lightning rolled through the dark clouds. But Gorma was not afraid, and neither was Francesca; they were excited, even as they dreamed.
Buen Camino, Francesca.