Preparing for the Camino

On Monday, Daniel and I leave to hike across the northern part of Spain on a medieval pilgrimage known as the Camino de Santiago - the Way of St. James. God willing, we hope to walk a similar path that people have been traveling for over one thousand years.

The pilgrimage we have chosen to walk is 500 miles. At the start, I will be 16 weeks pregnant.

It feels like more than coincidence that we committed to our trip and bought our airfare just five days before we found out about the pregnancy, a completely unexpected and mixed-welcome life change. Personally, I have known and strived toward my own Camino since I learned about it in 2010. I had recently run to the contemplative wilds of Alaska in an attempt to more securely root myself in the sudden adulthood that I felt thrust upon me with the death of my uncle. Mortality and weakness were real and slowly afflicting those who had always encouraged, protected, and nurtured me. With my uncle gone, I felt the first icy chills of time blowing from an eternal winter through the void he left behind. A torch had been passed that I was not strong enough to protect, and so I ran to Alaska and learned about the Camino.

While there may be one route across Spain (actually, there are several), no two pilgrimages are the same. Every person on the pilgrimage is unique and walking through a portion of his or her own story. Even a return pilgrim approaches a different Camino, as they come during a different chapter of their life. The sentiment of the Camino is similar to a saying by Greek philosopher Heraclitus, "You could not step twice into the same river," in that both the flow of the Camino and the pilgrim are different. Some people view the Camino as a life challenge, others a spiritual quest, and others still as a tangible point of transition between life stages. Perhaps I was drawn to the Camino for all three reasons.

I returned to Seattle and waited. I focused my resources toward becoming myself and stepping into the adulthood from which I had previously run. I worked a stable job, I built healthy boundaries in my relationships, I created a place of safety in a garden studio in the beautiful Ravenna neighborhood. At the end of three years of stability and growth, I reached a natural transition point where I could pursue my Camino, a journey I hoped to be a celebration of my struggles. My Camino was rolled into a longer trip where I planned to visit four countries, Iceland, Spain, Nepal, and Thailand. My trip lasted three weeks in Iceland, before I returned to the United States for various reasons. Rather than complete the Camino, I moved to Maryland and got married instead. As a promise to myself and each other, Daniel and I vowed to return to walk to Camino together at the end of our time in Maryland.

That time is five days from now.

As I reflect on what we are about to do, I can't help but remember my Camino that wasn't. I planned for that Camino down to the mileage I would travel each day. Having spent the prior three months hiking and mountaineering, the question was not if I would finish the Camino but how long it would take me so I could move on to the next thing. I wanted that Camino to reflect a spiritual journey, but realize now that I was limiting what I could learn through my own assurances. Irony is the fact that I didn't even make it to the start of my journey before returning home.

That version of myself is contrasted with the me who is approaching this journey. While my bag is well planned and packed, my preparation for the physical strains of walking 500 miles has included a general sense of nausea, living off rice cakes and macaroni & cheese, and sleeping an average of 13 hours a night. The mirror reflects a body that I do not know, one that changes daily to grow and nurture the life inside. I expand, I ache, I fluctuate between periods of energy and fatigue. I cannot guess what the path ahead holds and if I will be physically strong enough to meet the challenges. I hang my Camino plans on the hook of "God willing" because this path feels outside of my control. I approach with humility.

Perhaps we do not choose our own Camino. I thought my first Camino was the perfect time to mark a point of transition in my life, a transition away from chaos. But now, standing on the precipice of one of life's greatest changes, my second Camino has already taken a depth that was not available in the first. What will the days ahead hold? How will I walk daily, carrying not only my backpack, but also the promise of a unique life? Am I strong enough for this task? For all the tasks laying ahead?

And so we prepare for our Camino, balancing excitement with panic and opening ourselves up to the unknown. God willing, we move on toward Santiago.