A Lot to Talk About
A Lot to Talk About
by Jeffrey Kendall | Salem, SD
In the dark, before dawn, the tribe and a dozen other pilgrims mill about the bar. No one wants to walk in the rain, but no one talks about not walking. Every day we get up and walk, regardless of weather, spirits, physical conditions, where we are, or whom we are with. There is comfort in habits, safety in routine, a sense that the walk is our work, and we need to work. We join acceptance of fate to an attitude of perseverance. We also possess hope that God has something for us on the Way, an explanation of the sufferings of our lives, maybe even metanoia: transformation, reworking, and reordering of our inner selves. We walk as individuals, with jumbled motivations and unique personalities, but as part of a community with a goal, a purpose, an overarching hope, and we do what our people do. My people walk. I walk.
The sun rises, and we depart in ones and twos. I leave last and come upon Lucia from South Africa. Too tired for Spanish, I introduce myself in English, also her native language.
“What possessed you to walk in a storm on the side of a mountain? I have a good excuse. I’m crazy,” I say, self-deprecatingly.
“My son died two months ago,” she answers.
Her openness and honesty shock and touch me.
“I am so very sorry.”
“Jamie was 17 years old. The pain is raw.”
Two weeks after his death, she tells me, she made plans to walk the Camino.
“There’re lots of stupid ways to respond to pain that would hurt you and not help you heal. You didn’t choose those. You chose something good.”
I want to be positive and come back to the present.
“Are you at least having an adventure?”
“I’m just trying to breathe,” she says.
Half an hour later, she tells me, “Jamie committed suicide.” He had attempted suicide before, she says, and she wonders if she missed a sign.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why are you here?”
“I have walked for two months and 1400 kilometers and not told a soul. All I’ve said is ‘God and I have a lot to talk about.’”
I look at her, smile, and tears seep out of the corners of my eyes. Even in the heavy downpour with rain on my face, she sees my tears.
Editor’s note: This excerpt is from the author’s book A Walk to the End of the Earth (Unmuzzled Ox Publishing, 2023). A review of the book appears in the Autumn 2023 issue of La Concha.
