The Way

The Way

We arrive early so that we can get a seat, and sit facing the highly elaborate alter. After a while, a nun in full length black garb appears and leads us all through a practice for the sung responses. Her maudlin attire belies the beauty of her pure, clear voice. She smiles and encourages the congregation, conducting us through each piece, congratulating us after each response with ‘ muy bueno’.  There is something about her that makes me want to do my best for her.  Of course she is just the support act, the warm up, and once we, the extras, have been taken through our paces, the main event can begin.

There are six priests celebrating mass. Whilst sections are delivered in Italian, German and English, it’s obviously mostly in Spanish. I can vaguely follow where we are and close my eyes and allow the murmuring to soothe me. I try to feel something; I want to feel moved, emotional, absolved, but instead I’m just conscious that my nose and hands are cold. I don’t deserve to be here, that’s the problem.  I haven’t done enough to warrant the flood of peace that I’ve heard others experience at this last stage of the Camino. My shoulders don’t ache enough; my feet aren’t blistered enough; my body, my hips, my knees, don’t hurt enough.  My bones haven’t given up the ghost, my boots did withstand the pace and I would appear to be physically far fitter than I should be. I know my argument is a flawed one, that I don’t believe in a vengeful god who requires punishment before absolution, but rather one who readily and unconditionally offers forgiveness.  And yet, I’m sure I haven’t earned the sense of deep contentment that I had hoped would emerge.

But then again, haven’t I already done my penance? Haven’t I experienced enough heart ache and hurt? Enough grief and emptiness? Enough disbelief and betrayal? Yes, I conclude. This journey isn’t about the pain I feel now, or the fact that I’ve survived with no blisters. It’s about acknowledging what it’s taken to get me here to this point in my life; recognising where I’ve been and where I am; knowing what I am able to do and what I have done.

There is a lull in the murmuring from the priest and I look up as he asks us to offer each other the sign of peace. Mir and I turn and grin to each other and as we shake hands with those around us, I observe families hugging, people clinging onto their loved ones, tears flowing. And then it begins.  I feel my heart constrict and my throat tighten; I feel my stomach turn and my chest thump and then the creeping and almost unbearable gratitude for being here and for the peace this has given me. The scene has me recalling the first mass I attended after my Dad died. 18 years ago, almost to the day, and we are all there in the pew; my siblings, mum, partners/ husbands. We are not a demonstrative family but at the sign of peace, we instinctively hug each other, silently letting each other know that we share the loss, that we are in this together. It’s my turn to hug Mum and I bend down towards her as she puts her arms around me. ‘I love you Marian’ she whispers. I can’t say it back, I can’t speak, I can hardly breath. I just nod and squeeze her shoulders, and allow her to move onto the next one in the row.

Until now I had forgotten that moment, that incredible, unique one and only time my mother spoke those words to me.  I let the memory sink into my heart and don’t worry about brushing the tears away. Here on the Camino, anything can happen.

There is a distinct collective gasp around the church and I look up to see that the vast Botafumeiro has been dropped and the alter servers, in their blood red velvet cloaks are gathered with the ropes to swing the incense laden container. I have heard about this tradition but nevertheless, as the rope swingers get going, and the glowing, shiny receptacle moves in a great arc across the breadth of the cathedral at an incredible pace, I gasp at the drama of it. Cameras, iPhones and other paraphernalia are whipped out as people rush to capture the moment. I breath in the scent of childhood mass and early Sunday rising, and smile at the memories conjured for me.

And now they’ve gone. I’m standing waving off a taxi with Mir, Claire and Ciaran as they head to the airport. My companion for the next three days has had to cancel so I’m here solo. I don’t know how that’s going to be. It might be a new adventure or a disastrous experience! More importantly, without Miriam, my muse, my material, my meaning, I may have nothing to say.