homecoming
seagulls
hadn’t realized
how much I missed them
until I heard their voices
calling me home again
Jerome and I hiked downhill through a forest of pine. The sweet smell and softness of the needle-covered path under my feet reminded me of home. Suddenly he stopped, and said, “Listen.”
I could hear the waves, crashing on a shore beyond the forest, the surf like something alive and breathing. We continued walking through the densely forested hills, listening to the ocean we could not yet see. Finally, we stepped out of the forest, and – there it was. The sea. I was back to the sea.
Excited to arrive, with only a few kilometers left, we walked happily across a road toward the direct path to Muxia, and – there she was.
Joanna.
Unbelievably, without missing each other by a day, or an alternate route, or a coffee break, we met again on the path.
We screamed! We screamed with delight and joy, relief and wonder. What a fantastic surprise! What a gift. Joanna, who taught me affection, was hugging me tightly again.
She kept saying, “I knew! I knew! We thought you would follow behind us, but I KNEW I would see you!” With many friendly kisses, she insisted I come visit in Poland, and I agreed, I must. We took photos, and Jerome took photos of the two of us together, hugging and laughing.
Then, with a shock, she said loudly, “Oh! You must go!”
“What – why? We just found each other!”
“No! You must go! Christoph – he is in Muxia! His bus leaves at half-past two – go to him! Go to Christoph!”
Go to Christoph. I could not believe it. I didn’t want to let Joanna go, but she hugged me again, and said, “This is the miracle,” her lip trembling slightly at the mysterious ways of the God she loved. She nodded firmly. “You go.”
Buoyed by the wonder of Joanna and her thrilling news, Jerome and I walked easily to Muxia by 1:00pm. I anticipated a real goodbye with Christoph, and vowed to myself be honest in every moment, nothing more. Checking in at a private albergue – first bed available – I went to look for Christoph by 1:30. I had an hour.
I checked the two bus stops in the tiny village. I checked the seaside promenade. I checked the tourist office. I stopped to think. Where would I find Christoph? The church. I walked out to the church of La Virxen de la Barca, checked the crowd on the plaza in front, checked inside. It was approaching 2:00.
Knowing him, he would be at the bus stop early, so I went back to wander the outdoor cafes nearby. There sat his familiar figure, back to me, carefully watching all the new pilgrims entering town. I walked up and sat in the chair beside him. Christoph turned.
“Hey!” We were smiling and laughing. While I had been looking for him, he had been looking for me, in the cafes, along the sidewalks, now watching for me to arrive. I had just missed him at the church by 15 minutes.
“Joanna said you are taking the bus?” I asked.
“Yes, back to Santiago. I will meet my wife’s plane.” She was joining him, coming out to see Muxia; it seemed he had contacted her and arranged this at some point recently while he journeyed. I was surprised, and then not surprised.
“After I left Santiago, I had a couple of hard days,” he shared. I wondered what all he had been struggling with, if I had been a factor among many, but I didn’t interrupt. “Now I have made peace with these struggles,” he concluded, and I felt the distance from him as I smiled, familiar with this trick to set a difficult boundary; we had talked so much about it, and now I could plainly see it.
“I want to thank you so much, Christoph,” I countered. “You were key to much of what I learned on the Camino, because we did our intellectual ‘sparring,’ you know? To measure each other’s minds.”
He laughed. “We use it to create distance.”
“I agree. To hide.” I looked past the invisible wall. “It let me respect your opinion later, however; when we talked, I could hear good points you made, that I needed to hear.”
“I…was not that important to this,” he protested.
“You were. I could hear this, only from you. Thank you.”
His wife had just finished her internship for her B.S.W. – her degree in Social Work. She had just finished it, and was arriving the very next day, to celebrate, with Christoph. It dawned on me that this was not the original plan, that when he said he left at “just a terrible time,” that the timing of his Camino “was the worst,” I could see the strain he had placed on her, how his Camino had potentially sabotaged her success – or ignored it. Unenthusiastic, disinterested…absent.
Five long years to make a CD. I felt for them both, as they tried to repair this choice and its effects.
I said, “Don’t go,” in our half-joking way we had used before, which of course meant, Don’t go yet, because I’ll miss you.
He surprised me. “We will be in Muxia tomorrow night – we could meet up, if you wanted to. Will you be here?”
“Yes, I can be, easily. I have no timetable.”
“I think you will like her,” he said earnestly.
“I want to like her, Christoph. I do. I want you to be happy in your life.”
As we waited for the bus, I told him about adding a new image to my walking stick, made from a red string I found, already knotted and shaped. “Over a broken place on my stick, I have tied a Sacred Heart, with an X like crossed arms, embracing it.”
“Really!” he responded, like he always did.
“Yes. It is the Sacred Heart of Santa Barbara, I believe.” I gave him a satisfied smile.
He grinned his huge grin and whooped, “Yes! We love our Santa Barbara of the Camino!” And as his bus arrived, we hugged, a huge, tight hug.
I said, “I love you, Christoph.”
“And I love you, Barbara.” We stood back in our embrace, smiling at each other. “See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So much more, we said. I talked about how my first two husbands cheated on me, got girlfriends, and how painful this was to my heart. We agreed, we had both been cheating – on ourselves.
I called it “this longtime dalliance with social work instead of writing and music,” and he immediately understood, saying, “Yes, it is the same for me.” This feeling of being understood, this is what I fell in love with.
As Jerome had told me, damaged children, they believe no one can ever understand them. This is the great prison – ALONE, always. It is not freedom. It is a deserted island, with no resources, barely surviving until you die. It is no island paradise. It is a torture.
In his work, they taught the children that their feelings were the key to being understood. Being able to feel, and to name what you feel, allowed you to give meaning and context and weight to your thoughts and experiences, so that others could understand what you meant. So that others could understand You. “We teach them that of course they can be understood.”
Jerome spoke of the danger of children becoming chameleons, changing to be whatever is acceptable. We talked of buying acceptance and a fragile peace, a threadbare security, through good grades or best behavior or other, terrible prices to be paid.
And I remembered Christoph’s comment to me: “I hope one day to be free as you are, Barbara.” And the word Joanna used: “I feel free when I am with you.”
Sitting at the cafe table, overlooking the harbor in Muxia as the bus to Santiago drove away in the distance, I considered the possibility that I had beaten the odds, escaped the shadows. That I was among friends who understood me, and had been, all along the Camino. I no longer had any need to hide myself away.
I didn’t need to be a chameleon of duty, or romance, or approval, but simply me. At home in the world, writing, and singing, and loving people. Able to make myself understood, and so, able to make connections.
Free.
I sat watching gulls swoop over the water, as the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky, then wandered home, to the albergue.
what – are – you looking for
and what – are – you finding
you talk – like – you’re always sure
but you look – like – you’re hidingAnd I just have to ask – what is sacred
I just have to ask – what is sacred
I just have to ask – what is sacred
to you…
(I just have to ask)if you – lost – all you have
what – would – you have left
if you – lost – your camouflage
where – would – you hide nextAnd I just have to ask – what is sacred
I just have to ask – what is sacred
I just have to ask – what is sacred
to you…
(I just have to ask)— “What is Sacred (The Chameleon)”