I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to imagine what the plaza I was standing in might have looked like in the 12th century when the Knights Templar set about building the magnificent castle that towers above Ponferrada. It's as imposing as it is attractive, and that was probably more so the case almost a millennium ago when it wasn't surrounded by restaurants and clothing shops. I was upright and moving, though not 100%. By the end of the day I'd end up in Villafranca del Bierzo taking a rest day, doctor's orders. But the walk out of Ponferrada was beautiful and encouraging, and I stopped along the way to talk to the caretakers of the small chapels I passed (as well as admire some of the cool graffiti I saw).
The highway underpass leading out of the city was full of signatures and quotes from pilgrims who've passed through before, and one scribbled message in particular caught my attention as I leaned heavy on my left leg to pull the rest of my body forward.
"When your feet hurt, walk with your heart."
While I was understandably worried about my injury, I'd temporarily lost sight of why I was walking in the first place. I wasn't here to walk with my feet, I was here to walk with my heart. I was carrying the prayers and intentions of my hometown church in my satchel. I was carrying my wish to be a better and more patient husband. I was carrying my desire to be a more present and attentive father. I was carrying the burden of forgiving those who had hardened my heart over the years. I was walking in silence, shedding the layers of a beautiful childhood interrupted by separations and storms. I was looking for healing, happiness, and hope. I needed to stop walking with my feet and start walking with my heart.
While in the cab to Villafranca, I resolved to head on to Sarria and press ahead from there, with a renewed vigor for completing the walk. I would go as far as I could go on my own, and I would then lean on others for help to reach Santiago and keep my promise - to myself, my family, and my community.
I was grateful for the scribbled words of the pilgrim who had long since passed under that bridge, and thanked them, whoever and wherever they are.
The pilgrim hostel in Villafranca was small and comfortable, with 10 bunks arranged in a Tetris-like pattern in the main hall upstairs. I claimed a bottom bunk near a window and set about the daily washing ritual, before slowly making my way down to the main church for the nightly pilgrim's blessing. It felt a lot like the old world I always imagined my grandparents and great-grandparents grew up in. Chickens roamed freely in the backyard, the rooster strutting about and checking on pilgrims as they ate their evening meal. There were lush mountains in the background, with drying clothes wafting in gentle evening breezes in the foreground. Everything was being done by hand - food was being cooked over a fire, clothes were being washed under a hand-pumped spigot, and a small group was playing cards on a picnic table illuminated by two kerosene lanterns. There were sounds, but there was no noise.
As the sun began to set, I laid in my bunk and closed my eyes, and I thought of my days growing up at my great-grandparent's house in South Miami, where dishes were washed by hand, the chickens roamed freely, and day-old bread was crushed and rasped for homemade croquettes - the ham stuffed into a hand-cranked meat grinder that looked like it had a few stories to tell.
Something in my memory had come full-circle, and there was a moment of peaceful satisfaction that felt as close to heaven as anything on earth can. I put my leg up and fell asleep, and I woke the next morning to find it in fighting form. I was ready, and it seemed all I needed was a little bit of home.
When your feet are tired, walk with your heart. It will take you where you need to go.
My dedication on the route to Sarria is for my fathers. Yes, plural. Not many people are fortunate enough to have 2 fathers in their life, but I'm happy to be in their company. Despite the circumstances that brought them into this unique configuration in my life, I'm grateful for them both. My stepfather Julio had little obligation to take on the challenges of raising yet another young man, but he did so with grace and ease. I was never his stepson, and I'm indebted to him for many of the lessons I carry with me into my walk.
My father William taught me as a young man that honesty is alway the best policy, and I've been ever mindful of living my life in a way that lives up to that early childhood lesson. While I don't always appreciate the suffix at the end of my name (too many AARP mailings), I am grateful for his presence, and for his prayers on my journey.
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall
- Unknown
100km to Santiago. Thank you for walking with me.
Will