buon camino
buen camino
alberto drops us
at the trinket shop
it is his passion to deliver pilgrims he says
then he takes a drag on his smoke and drives away
into the galician morning light
buen camino
yellow arrows lead
us up the stone steps
and out of town
through a forest of trees
in green velvet dresses
with ivy details
little old women
shuffle along the path
in sandals and skirts
as though out for a sunday stroll
is it sunday
i forget
every day
should be this holy
i remember the indigenous wisdom
of twila cassodore
you are walking on this earth
and she feels your footsteps everyday
the earth beneath my feet
a prayer on repeat
do you feel me now
do you feel me now
each time she answers
with a firm but gentle yes
patient mother to anxious child
the pungent smell of manure
wafts through the air
taking me back
to uncle dallas’ farm
my 10 year old self
chasing cows
on a pinto pony
named sparky
pigtails flying
completely unafraid
i wonder what she
thinks of all this
her picture is tucked
away in my pack
I wanted to bring her along
to show her how far she’s come
but maybe she is reminding me
how to be brave
lunch at an organic pizzeria
run by a german mother
who walked with her daughter
and decided to stay
in this tiny spanish village
surrounded by cornfields and cows
a texan at the next table
dressed in turquoise blue
from cowgirl hat to hiking boot
talks about the gala back home
while sipping a beetroot smoothie
and rubbing icy hot on her knees
we reach portomarin
on potato harvest day
buckets of russets
and pitchers of wine
this may be heaven
but it’s only day one
so we must keep moving on
running away or towards
still not sure
like jayber crow
i am an ignorant pilgrim
who cannot help but feel led
making our way to
palais de rei
a dog in the fog
and a golden road
waiting for the wizard of oz to appear
and say it was in us all along
the wisdom, heart, courage, home
just click your heels
all will be revealed
a field full of spider webs
glistening with morning dew
mama used to warn me about
the tangled webs we weave
we gather rocks
and carry the weight
of the tangled stories woven about us
and the tangled stories we weave ourselves
we arrive in town as the bells begin to toll
it is time to let go
of what is no longer ours to carry
we lay our burdens at her feet
the empress and the sun
the mother and child
each forgiving
an unraveling
mama, you were right
about the webs
miguel takes us to our hotel
he’s been studying near-death experiences
In toronto, bc
how many of us are having
near-life experiences
i wonder but don’t ask
wine and dinner
with a grey haired soap maker from tennessee
and a drunk farmer from down the road
a massive head wound
covered with a covid mask
either a bullfight or
tractor fight
he laughs
near death or near life
the line is often blurred
waking up to a poem by david whyte
sharpen your senses to impending revelation
miguel had too many beers last night
his senses seem a bit dulled
18 miles to arzua
a mother and daughter from destin florida
who are tired of hurricanes
and climate change
villagers under verandas
buen camino
buen camino
a black cat crosses our path
and out of the blue
i remember bits of a sorority oath
shame and ignominy will be heaped upon me
by all who know me
we enter a tiny stone church
and light a candle before the greek letters on the altar
the alpha and the omega
and a one eyed black cat
the beginning and the end
with something unexpected,
potentially dangerous,
possibly magical in between
life is like that: revelations
the road goes on and on
another hillside
another village
another taverna
a cold beer and a packet of crisps
a pilgrim stamp
buen camino
cheery sunflowers line the road
heads bobbing
laughing with us
or laughing at us
it’s hard to tell
maybe both
the cornstalks
stand tall and erect
indifferent
unimpressed
with our human attempts
at growth
an elderly couple
at a bus stop
in front of a cornfield
looking like a postcard
ruth and josette from malta
smoking a cigarette in the shade
wear your mask in arzua they warn
delta variant
life is all greek to me at the moment
does that mean it makes sense in greece
we need to find out
we finally arrive
at a little vineyard
outside of arzua
bright blue hydrangeas
the size of moons
two sisters from san francisco
drinking spanish wine in the shade
and face-timing about a homecoming dance
is she really wearing that dress
god i hope so
you’re only young once
our hostess carmen is barely five feet tall
but obviously capable
of very big things
she snaps her fingers and
we all pay attention
the dogs in the yard
the cows in the barn
the face-timing sisters
mostly her huge lumbering husband
who seems small in her presence
he carries our bags
which aren’t our bags
they belong to the grey haired
soap maker from tennessee
miguel had too many beers last night
carmen will sort it all out
we have no doubt
another day
another pilgrim’s breakfast
cake, cold cuts, and coffee
carmen’s husband drives
us back to town
dirty streets
lead to a rain soaked path
through eucalyptus groves
we inhale deeply
while discussing the meaning of life
with a young astrophysicist
from the canary islands
edgar sees god’s hand in the stars
but is currently having a life crisis
conversations that are deep and real like this
give him chicken skin he says over and over again
we think he means goosebumps
and we agree
we part ways at a taverna
as the sun breaks through the clouds
we give him rose quartz for his heart
he gives us a little silver key
the key to your future he smiles
we walk away wondering
eyes open
heart full
chicken skin
later a storm
rolls in and
crash lands
on our hotel
lightening
thunder
rain
i sense impending revelation
we wake up in the dark
walking silently along muddy paths
looking for signs in our headlamp light
the pagans followed the milky way
we follow painted yellow arrows
we may be truly lost
fernando reminds us it is not a race
then walks faster
and we try to keep up
with the seventy year old pilgrim
on his 10th camino
we will be back he promises
he says more but it’s so early
and my spanish is not so good
i think i say
my head is asleep
coffee is needed
the sun begins to rise
as we sip cafe con leche
and eat chocolate cake
monks in white robes
pass by and nod
we’re all just walking
each other home
we reach the hillside
spires in the distance
our first glimpse of
santiago de compostelo
fernando’s wife asks for a photo
the monks take a selfie
buen caminos all around
before we head into town
the santiagans are bored with it all
another day
another one thousand pilgrims
conch shells dangling from backpacks
a dirty flock
searching for salvation
and a clean pair of socks
inside the cathedral
we light candles
say prayers
kneel on tired knees
and listen for our names
to be called by the priest
in ruby red robe and slippers
maybe this is oz after all
maybe he is a wizard of god
the wizard says walking in a holy year
means all of our sins are absolved
not sure i believe him
but i take the stale wafer
and let it slowly dissolve
the shame and ignominy
that has been heaped upon me
by all who know me
including myself
a pipe organ begins to play
as a giant incense burner
flies through the air above us
a collective gasp
a collection plate
peace be with you
and you also
amen says the wizard
and we walk back
into the world
absolved
purified
fumigated
time for a drink
to wash down the wafer
we order some wine at cafe teria
said with an accent
it sounds fancy
we watch quietly
as the sun sets on santiago
you think this is something
you should see the sunset at finisterre
we promise we will
ely and bobby are from philly
this their fourth camino
ely spares no detail
bobby sips her sangria and nods
they’re heading to ireland tomorrow
to meet some pilgrims at a pub
a country song comes to mind
the road goes on forever
and the party never ends
we raise a glass to ely and bobby
and limp toward our hotel
pausing to sit and listen
to a man performing an italian opera
beneath a bright galician moon
full heart
eyes overflowing
chicken skin
again and again
the road to finisterre
is long and winding
the end of the world
the holy stones
the sacrificial site
the tomb of orcabella
the sun or the son
depends on the web you weave
the stories you believe
maybe you take strands
from them all
and create something new
the holy book of you
we sit on rocks
sorting our thoughts
rearranging our prayers
making ready for our great epiphany
i look out at the horizon
and remember a verse from a poem
sometimes you need the ocean light
and colors you’ve never seen before
painted through an evening sky
sometimes you need your god
to be a simple invitation
not a telling word of wisdom
an american expat
on her way to portugal
begins to chant in sanskrit
as the waves crash upon the holy stones below us
the world is weird and wonderful
invitation accepted
buen camino indeed