third time’s the charm
I turn my new
washed socks
and sand
sprinkles the air
like snowflakes
remember
remember the sea
Apparently so intent to hike over the highest mountains, I took the high road I had planned to skip. The Primitivo was showing itself to be a path of choices already made.
I wasn’t technically lost; my route over the third high hill I did not intend to hike was, in fact, a route on the Camino…an alternate route. I had just intended to be a slacker, but missed my slacker exit. So I got lost by staying on track, and took the Alto de la Campa – the high scenic route. The very high scenic route, off the main roadways; the good kind of missed exit, you realize later, after the point of no return is far behind you.
A road biker in spandex called out, “Buen Camino!”, giving me a panting thumbs-up as he passed me on the other side of the tough, steep road, both of us loaded down and climbing on. Taking the turn to Arbazal, my road became even steeper. The guidebook had said that once I reached the village, the route would flatten out and become easier. One thing was instantly clear: Smart Alex had never walked the route through Arbazal. Using only my toes to ascend the road like I was rock scrambling on the approach to a summit, I reached the top of nowhere. Green mountains stretched before me in all directions.
Walking up such precipitous roads is actually the easy part, though you’re a sweaty mess and your pack feels like a freight train going the opposite direction. It’s the downhills that will get you. It’s the choices you made earlier that tell, now.
I had walked with a slightly unbalanced pack, not wanting to halt my momentum to stop and readjust, and so now my left shin was hurting, especially when absorbing the impact of the downhills, and I had a long, steep downhill before me. Several, in fact. Kilometers of downhill.
As I looked down the road, I was concerned, as a shin splint could lead to a stress fracture and could end my camino. Seventeen-year-old me winced at the thought, remembering stress fractures causing calcium deposits like goose eggs on both shins during my short-lived high school basketball days.
But then, she heard something.
A rhythmic music pulsed in my mind. Bomp-bomp-bomp, BAH-dah, bomp-bomp-bomp, BAH-dah, bomp-bomp-bomp, BAH-dah, bomp-bomp-bomp, BAH-dah – what the heck? “La La Land”?
The charming grin of my youngest, teenage son, Magnus (Max for short), appeared in my mind as if beside me, head bobbing as he sang along, laughingly taunting and encouraging me. A high school jazz musician, Max had loved the sweetness of the movie, “La La Land,” and, in his own lanky sweetness, often grabbed me for an impromptu dance step as we walked together anywhere, into the grocery store, dropping off a book at the library, walking through the park. Now, here he was again, offering his hand.
I grinned back. Picking up Saint Thomas in both hands, I envisioned Max and I wearing top hat and tails, dancing with canes. This was it – our big musical number. With a nod, and one of Svend’s winks, I began singing along to the cadence, “bomp-bomp-bomp, BAH-dah,” and started dancing down the hill, first to the left, then right, then left again, angling jauntily down the steep inclines, laughing with Max. Feeling no pain. Not the coach’s “no pain, no gain” of my own teenage experience – NO pain. Just fun. Only a delighted, exhausted joyfulness.
I understood that my three treks astray on the Camino represented something significant. I decided they were more Camino magic, three hikes to let me learn one lesson, about: Marriage. Dancing and singing down those kilometers, I knew I had tried to walk paths that were not my Way, that were defined for me by limitation and the expectations of others, trying to fit in, to prove something to other people.
I had tried to prove that, despite my rocky early years, I was fine – the ultimate fine, I was girl-next-door-ordinary, some definition of normalcy that safely but firmly defied my early branding of “gifted” and “brilliant” and “extraordinary,” and numbingly belied the obvious signs of artistic and spiritual seeking and a call to walk a little wild and a little stupid at times. And because, deep down, I didn’t actually, truly believe that I was fine the way I was, I had chosen marriage as a sign of social acceptability, a golden band of respectability. I had done this three times. And three times, I had completely lost myself, until I decided to leave that path and get back on track. To me. To walking my own Way. To thine own weird, wonderful self be true.
Yet my scrambles, over bewildering hills I did not mean to climb, had led me to my children. And these were people to whom I most definitely had nothing to prove. They had seen me in some of my most idiotic moments, and still loved and respected me. I liked to think that, because I took the time to explain my miscalculations to them, they felt a generosity toward their wildly improvising parent, while also learning that it was okay to make mistakes. But maybe they were just kinder than me. Or smarter. Or just healthier. They were people who seemed to take the high road naturally.
Only Max knew how to dance down the hills in joy, however. He knew already that, despite how much he might want to fit in, to respectable society, to new schools and new peer groups, no matter how hard he tried, he could not control Life. So he did his best, seeking structure and proven, clearly marked trails, measuring himself and his progress toward his goals; yet, surprisingly true to himself, he also allowed his love of improvisation, feeling his way. And a little child shall lead them, by bebop, funk, or the blues, sometimes playing his heart out, sometimes marching to his own cadenced drummer, one we could not always hear.
After that, if my legs even began to twinge, I did a little song-and-dance number, which shifted my weight and the pressures on my bones and tendons, easing the strain. I pushed myself up the hills, feeling strong, the way I loved to hike, but now, looking down from the tops of green mountains over a sea of flowers, I remembered how I had played on the beaches. My legs never gave me any more trouble, though I still had over 500 km to go to reach Santiago, Muxia and Finisterre.
But first, I had many high roads to take, over many, many hills. Time to follow the butterflies, over fences of my own making.
Improvisation is the ability to create something very spiritual, something of one’s own….It’s all about creation and surprise. It just needs to be appreciated and watered like flowers. You have to water flowers. These peaks will come again.
— Sonny Rollins, jazz sax legend
