Camino Journal Day 26

April 27

Waking before the sun was up, I laid there in bed for a moment. I felt my body from the inside out. I felt my brain from within. My heart. My lungs. I was alive. This was a new day. I could choose what I brought into it. I could choose to be conscious or not. I could choose to work toward a kinder, gentler world or I could stay asleep and mindlessly go through each moment.

It was just after 5:30am. I felt great. I rose with an impulsive leap from the bed. I let in some more fresh air by opening the balcony windows wide while I packed up and then made my way down the stairs and out into the empty streets of Aviles. It was a new day. The signs were everywhere. The stillness, the darkness, the budding horizon full of an imminent dawn. I took a deep breath and made my way over to the plaza. I had an hour before they opened at 7am. I sat down and tried to focus on my breathing. I remembered Eckhart Tolle’s book The Power of Now and I tried to find the present moment. Breathe in. Breathe out. I am highly alert, but not stressed.

Here is my body. Here is me. Here I am. I am. That phrase again. The great I am. I am in the I am. My mind is THE MIND. I am part of the one. I am not separate. There is no self. All this mess of reflection and inner turmoil. It’s all created. I am being. I am a being who is being. There isn’t a separate watcher of self. I don’t love myself because that creates separateness. I am myself. I love being.

Every few seconds I catch my mind wandering off toward a thought pattern. A story I tell myself. I try to be vigilant and observe my mind. To catch those thoughts before they take hold. I am here. Here I am. My mind pulls toward thoughts of my father and my pain story. I try to pull back toward the present moment.

I am here. This wonderfully constructed Spanish plaza. The early hours. The glowing illuminated light still shining on the clock attached to the front of the government building serving as the center piece of this spacious city block. There was not a soul on the street but me. My pack laid leaning up against a pillar to the meandering walkway that prefaced the entrance to the cafe where I’d have a coffee before I started walking. I noticed my breath. I breathed in deep. I don’t often focus on my breathing.

I have money. My wallet is full of cash. My bank is full of digits. I can stay anywhere I like this evening. If I have to spend $300 on the last room, which is highly unlikely, I could do it. I could eat anything I wanted today and go anywhere. I could even leave the Camino right now and head home. Everything was fine. The moment was full of possibility and hope and contentment. I was content. I breathed in that air again.

Then my mind wandered off toward some other financial goal, “You really can’t be out here with all your debt. I mean you listed it and everything…”

I cut it off. Cunning little persuasive bitch, the mind. The mind is so cunning and overpowering. I felt thankful for such a wonderful mind but questioned why it would sabotage such a nice moment. I focused again on the feelings of being. What was my stomach doing? It growled at me. What was my body doing? It wanted caffeine. What were my feet doing? They were happy. My legs were happy too. My heart was pumping and happy as well. But my mind wandered again,

“You’re still fat as fuck, and nobody really likes you. You’re super hard to get along with despite the fact your fat. Fat people have to…”

I refocused. Where am I? I’m in Spain. In Asturias. In Aviles. What am I doing? I’m walking the Camino de Santiago - northern route. Did I need anything? I felt I had all I needed in the moment, except for that coffee, but here comes the attendant now. I better keep to myself and let him get inside and set up. I refocused again imagining the tasty cup of cafe con leche I would have in just under a half hour. I refocused again feeling the way the cold stone of the ground felt through my hiking pants. Cold against my butt cheeks but stung with relief when I stood up and paced the plaza. My legs felt good. I adjusted my belt.

Again, I asked, “Where am I?” And I answered in my mind, “I am in Spain. In Asturias, In Aviles. Walking the North Camino de Santiago.”

Is there anything wrong with the present moment?

“No. Nothing wrong. All is well.”

“And where has your pain-body gone now?”

“It doesn’t exist when I’m in the moment.”

Tolle, in his book Power of Now, says that all there is is now. The current moment. That is the only true place of consciousness. He says if we live in the past or future with our thoughts and mind, then we only stay asleep. That thinking types of thoughts that go along with your pain story is actually a form of unconsciousness attempting to create identity for the ego. Being present is being open to the moment. To being content with what is and accepting the certain isness of the situation. In the moment I had no debt, no bills, no gigs, no identity even. I was just being myself. Sitting there in the morning hours. Waiting. Observing. I am.

The man eventually opened up a few minutes early. I hesitated before going up to assure I wasn’t pestering him. I ordered a couple churros and a coffee. Sipped it quickly, rolled a spliff, took a few milligrams of Adderall, and waved cordially back at the barman as I hit the trail just around 7am.

I focused on my steps and the scenery. I put on an audio recording of The Power of Now and listened as I enjoyed the trail. In Castrillion I stopped and had a piece of Spanish Omelet and another cafe con leche. I rolled another spliff, which consists of a little bit of hash and the rest tobacco. My 50-gram block of hash was still fully intact, just 15-20 grams lighter. I’d make it to the very end most likely with some to spare. I didn’t want to just smoke cigarettes and so didn’t mind having a spliff every time I wanted to smoke. Over the years I had conflated my nicotine addiction with my marijuana use. A very dangerous road. Instead of a carton filter, which really doesn’t filter anything, just adds support to your spliff, I used real cigarette filters. I still got high.

I thought about Ekhart’s instructions to watch the “mechanics of the mind” and in so doing, allow myself to step out of the resistance patterns of old. The resistance patterns were all of my inner monologue and story of my life. All of the monsters from the beginning of the Camino. All of my pain from my parents and grad school and society. It was all wrapped up in this story of survival. This story of pain. The never-ending jaunt through the past in order to create an identity. I’d forgotten I was a part of THE ONE. THE ALL. GOD.

It’s a shame that the word GOD has become so overused and tainted with false understanding. People prefer to say THE UNIVERSE these days, and I like that too.

”The universe likes to be called GOD,” I hear whispering in my mind.

I enjoy calling GOD GOD. I am enjoying attempting a relationship with GOD. I realize my pursuit of GOD and Jesus is also this same attempt at being present. I take a deep breath and look around. It’s a normal city. People going about their business. Others eating. Others drinking. Others walking. What am I? I am a part of it all. I am one with the oneness. I sip my coffee. Puff my spliff, take a bite of tortilla and feel delighted.

“Where’s your wallet,” my mind asks.

My body fills with cortisol as my mind reveals all the terrible things that could happen if I lose my wallet. I nearly jump out of my seat to feel my back pocket. It’s there. The mind is so forceful. Being in the present moment nearly kills the ego. Kills the identity, and so the ego attempts in any way to thrust itself back into view.

I try to settle back down. My heart races. I finish up and head back on the trail. Around 10:30 I came to the teal pool the old woman had told me about. It looked so beautiful. So serene and inviting. I didn’t once think of actually swimming in it but stopped and took a photo.

“She’s a witch and she gets dumb tourists like you to go in there. They are fried by the water and the witch comes and feasts on their bodies.”

“Wow”, I think, trying my best to observe my mind. “Where do you come up with this stuff.”

And I felt the shift. The shift in the use of pronouns. The you was no longer me. The you was my mind. I am me and I am not my mind. “You’ll say anything,” I added affirmatively.

The trail seemed easier. I felt lighter. This was all new territory to me. In 2019, I’d gotten as far as Aviles, but turned back and went to Oviedo and over the Primitivo Trail. The you had changed. I was no longer talking to myself, berating myself, taking inventory and studying myself. There was no self. There is the I am, and there is mind. I am not mind.

I carried on fast as lightening. The sign said the stage was around 32 km or 20 miles. I felt my body. I coerced the food into the blood veins. I begged for more energy from each of my cells and pushed onward. The beauty of the trail is consistent and a reliable constant in this whole personality experience. It’s a true reflection of who we are. Nature and the trail, along with the animals, constantly reflect a reality of peace, order, understanding and contentment at all times back to the walker. I let this fill me. I notice it more today, being more present, but it’s been there as a cradle to the deep thinking and processing that has gone on so far. I felt such deep gratitude for this infrastructure and how well the Spanish maintained these trails and shared in their culture.

The inclines and declines didn’t bother me any longer and when I saw one, I’d attack it. I felt my muscles in my thighs consuming energy. Consuming the water and the Spanish Omelet as I used the mind to push them onward. Around 1pm I finished the recording of The Power of Now and put on John Osteen’s book “Power Over the Enemy”. I leaned into the literature and tore into the trail. My boots were so perfect. They didn’t leak, had no cracks, were so comfortable and supported my foot in every way. I stepped harder and with more affirmation.

There came a piece of the trail that spit me out on the highway. I walked a bit before hearing a man behind me calling out and waving. He was pushing what looked like a baby stroller. I waved back and stopped to let him catch up. He wasn’t coming down the trail. When he got close enough to me, he yelled, “I was waving at some friends who were driving by.” he has a thick French accent. I look puzzled and he says again, “I wazn’t waving at you.”

“Okay.” I say and wait for him to cross the road and catch all the way up to me.

“You are a pilgrim?” he asks me immediately.

“Yes, I say. Going to Santiago,” I look him over and at his gear. He’s young, handsome, bald, with facial hair. He’s well kempt and mannered, but his pushing a cart full of electronics and mismatched gear, almost like a homeless person. But everything is too clean for him to be down and out. “And you? I’ve never seen a contraption like that.” I motion toward his pushing cart.

“Want to take over?” he releases the handle and motions for me to take it.

“Oh no sir, I have my backpack,” I throw my hands up, “I was just commenting. It looks like a really cool way to do the Camino.”

“Well, I’m not doing the Camino, exactly,” he says perturbed, “I’m walking around the world. Many people are helping me. I have met many friends along the way. I was just at a nude beach yesterday.” he does a little thing to make himself look cute-like, “I had the beach all to myself.”

“Oh,” is all I can say, blushing a little. “I’ve been to some nude beaches in Barcelona,” I finally respond. “They weren’t exactly what I expected.”

“Well, what did you expect?” he asks.

“Honestly, I expected babes without bikinis, studs without speedos, and pretty people everywhere. But it was mostly retired older men. They laid sprawled out on the beach together like a group of seals.”

The man laughs and snorts. I can’t tell what he’s after. The trail splits and he stays on the highway and I disappear back into the cover of a few trees that line the way between the highway and the trail. They run parallel to each other all the way to the next town and with just a glance over to my right, I can see him going along with his little cart. Sure enough, we get to the cafe at the same time and enjoy our coffees with more conversation.

“So, are you spiritual?” he asks, this time with a little more emphasis on the s. He sounds gay.

“Yeah. I believe.”

"Is this like a spiritual walk for you?” Now I can hear the condescension coming.

“Yeah it is.” I say.

“And you’re finding what you’re looking for?” he cuts me off again, “I know. I’ve heard it all,” he continues, “I’ve been out here walking for years now.”

“On the Camino?” I ask.

“No not just the Camino. I’ve been here for just a little under a month,” he says. Same as me, I think. “So do you believe in God, then?” he finally asks.

“I do.” is all I can say before he cuts me off again.

“And so, like you’re an American and believe in God - from Texas, so do you think gay people go to hell?”

I nearly spit my coffee out. “Finally,” I say, “Someone else who gets it. I’m glad you’re not afraid to ask that, but the answer is no. I don’t believe gay people go to hell. I’m not sure heaven and hell aren’t right here in front of us. This life. And I don’t care if anyone is gay or straight or whatever.”

“It’s all a spectrum anyway,” he adds becoming friendlier now that we are both disarmed. “Everyone is a little gay, don’t you think?” he asks.

“Hah.” I say in agreement rolling a new spliff. It’s a little after 2pm. “Can I show you one of my new recordings?” I ask. The man agrees and I play him my song I Can Be What I Want.

“Oh, it’s nice. Is that your voice? I like it. Now let me play you something. People always write songs from the point of view of the human to the god. Well Raul Seixas did it from the point of view of God talking to the humans. Gita is a great song.” he puts it on and translates the entire thing into English as we sit there on the patio.

”Why do you ask me?
Questions won't show you
That I'm made from earth
From fire, from water and from air

You have me everyday
But don't know if it's good or bad
But know that I'm in you
But you're not in me”

This particular part hits me hard. It’s what Tolle is saying. Even the pain and suffering stories we tell ourselves are a part of God. Everything is God. God is everywhere, yet we question if it’s good or bad. Tolle describes a fish being asked, “What is water?” and being totally incapable of responding. What is oneness? What is God? The very question is unanswerable as we cannot distinguish our very reality from God.

“I’m in you, but you are not in me.” the man repeats to me more forcefully. It seems he wants me to feel it. That this false sense of being with God and being a believer must be stricken from me.

“That’s deep isn’t it,” he probes, “I mean. He is you, but you are not him.”

Somehow, I thought of a local songwriter, Scott Copeland, and how he’d say, “I chose my God because he loves me and that’s why I chose him.” I felt uneasy. This man seemed to want to run at me a little. I couldn’t tell what his intentions were. I was glad he had a cart and wouldn’t be able to take any trails. I ended the conversation and invited him to his coffee, paid and went on my way.

The afternoon was still early, and I was sure I could do the whole stage. Johnny, Maga and Cici were all staying in Soto de Luina, the end of the stage and I pushed onward. I listened to Osteen’s book and around 5pm I arrived to the albergue. It was the first one to offer everything on a donation basis. Vegetarian dinner would be served at 8pm. Johnny was in his bunk when I arrived and said he’d been there nursing his foot a little. He seemed in good spirits but declined the invitation to walk into town and have a drink with Maga and Cici, who were staying in a private hotel up the road.

They were both in high spirits and we continued on laughing it up and singing songs. Cici and I were sounding pretty good on a couple of Beatles tunes, now that we’d done them a few times. We sang, Don’t Let Me Down and Hey Jude. The guitar was passed around the table and everyone enjoyed each other’s company. The barmaid even warmed up to us after she realized we didn’t completely suck at music and after three or four more songs - Hallelujah and The Boxer, even the random bystanders were singing along with us on the choruses. I felt good. Like I was part of something bigger than me. We were sharing joy. Music is joyous. It is good for people to sing together and dance and be. I felt good.

A man came in. Large and a little pushy and after ordering came right over to our table.

“So yall are musicians, or what? Why not sing something Spanish?”

“I know some Vicente Fernandez or Tigres Del Norte,” I chime in with guitar in hand, happy to initiate this newcomer into our joyous band of jolly walkers.

“Ah nah, tio, those are Mexicans. Not Spanish. Algo Espanol.” he demands rudely.

I play the opening notes to Juaquin Sabinas’ 19 Days & 500 Nights and at first, he is satiated, but then notices his palm clapping isn’t going with my beat.

“Cono! Tio, you’re playing it with a Mexican beat. That’s not it. It’s supposed to be 1,2,3,-1,2,3,-1,2-1,2”

I stop playing and just kind of look at him. I realize he’s just here to fuck with us.

“Here, you seem to know something. Why don’t you play it.” I offer him the guitar. He won’t take it.

“If you were a real musician, you could play anything I asked for. Are you a musico real?” he leans in close to me for intimidation.

“I played you what you asked for. You just didn’t like it.” I sat the guitar down. “I’m going out for a smoke. Anyone wanna join?” No one follows.

I step out and let the energy go. My heart is racing a little. I wanted to hit that guy in the face. But then what? I ruin my trip. I ruin these people’s evening? No, I would just let it go. He’s an asshole. I breathed in deep. I looked around at the beauty to the Spanish town. The plaza, the families, the same little tobacco shop, the same little cafes with the same Spanish Omelets and tap beers. What a relief. I went back in and ordered an orujo with ice, paid my tab and as I was going to sit, the man approaches me.

“Hey chico, lo siento. You need to lighten up a little though.” he extended his hand out for a shake. I extended mine and when we shook hands I looked him in the eyes and from deep within, I said,

“Soy un puto animal, no me jodes.”

His eyes got big, and he let go of my hand. I sat back down and enjoyed my last drink with the girls. They were uneasy. Apparently, he’d made some jokes against women while I was outside. He’d catch some shit from the owners or bartender for running off the first of the pilgrims in over two years.

“Fucking pilgrims,” he’d say, “I was only having some fun. There are millions of them.” And there were millions of us. But it had been a while. Everyone needed the money. The man went outside and sat sullenly by himself sipping his drink and smoking his smoke. There was no more music in the cafe. The solemn air of disappointment and monotony had returned.

I gave hugs to Maga and Cici and left. On the way back to the hostel, I stopped and bought a couple bottles of cider to share with the group. There were about eight of us staying there. The food was all homemade and so delicious and healthy. While we sipped the red table wine and had dessert, everyone told stories of how they came to be where they are. The owners of this place had given up everything and moved here just before the pandemic started. This would be their first official money-making season. They were so diligent and delighted us with their stories of resilience. They’d waited so long to make money when they’d invested everything, and yet were still willing to stick by the Christian principles that drove them to start the albergue. It was completely donation based. They had total faith. Faith is belief in things unseen. El Cepedo - La Reguera Cudillero is the kindest place I’ve ever stayed. They never once asked us for money, and only in the morning during breakfast mentioned a box where we could leave our donation. I left a 20.

After supper, I played guitar and the group sang along to Country Roads, Imagine and a second rendition of Hallelujah. After the guitar playing, we stepped outside, and the owners took turns pouring the sider for all of us. She was a very happy lady. Her husband was quiet and smiled and stayed in the background. After the sider and a spliff and the wonderful meal, I was dead tired. I waited outside and smoked for a bit so I could be the last one to lay down. I’d be asleep in no time. I hoped Johnny and I would walk together the following day. I felt lighter and more at peace. More in tune with me and nature. The leafy soup rumbled through me, and I caught myself snoring a couple times before falling asleep. I felt bad for those around who’d have to listen to me. I checked my phone. 28 miles.

“Holy shit,” I thought to myself. “A marathon. I did it.” I let the phone fall to my chest in my clasped hand and fell asleep feeling all of those miles in my legs. The extra 2 miles from going into town and back seemed like nothing. “I’m a champ.” I said to myself in some midway dream state on the set of a Rocky movie. The signage that said the stage was only 32km or 20 miles, was clearly wrong. I felt relieved I didn’t know it would actually be 42km, or 26 miles, because I would have likely stopped much earlier in the day.