Jo's Camino

Yesterday was one of those days that make the camino a pilgrimage and not simply a long-distance walk. I'm not going to go into details, because it's my thoughts and contemplations and they can't really be shared, but I worked some things out, thought some things through, contemplating the whole idea of why I was here, what I was doing and what I had achieved after almost three weeks and 500km of walking. I guess it was time for something to happen on an emotional-spiritual level. 

And today I'm happy. The sun is shining even though the temperatures are in the minuses and the streams have been encased in a good centimeter or more of ice, the albergue is decorated with pilgrim drawings, sketchs and quotes all over the walls in a wild, free, organic, creative mosaic of people and nationalities and lives (although the computer room isn't heated!), and we're cooking potato goulash together for dinner. I'm happy, really happy. Nothing can get me down today, because I'm completely and utterly at peace with everything: myself, the camino, the place of here.

After my contemplations (the teary part of them), I discovered at dinner that Attila had photos of the whole pilgrim poem that was written on the wall along the camino between Logroño and Najera - if you recall, the day where I was completely finished with the camino. As I walked past the wall I only managed to read a couple of sentences before I began to cry in frustration and pain and anger at the camino. Yet yesterday, the day in which I am confronted with questions of purpose and meaning and motivation, Attila shows me his photos and I find the whole poem in German (it was only written in German, Spanish and French). This is the way the camino works.

The poem in German:

Staub, Schlamm, Sonne und Regen
das ist der Weg nach Santiago.
Tausende von Pilgern
und mehr als tausend Jahr.


Wer ruft dich, Pilger?
Welch' geheime macht lockt dich an?
Weder ist es der Sternenhimmel,
noch sind es die grossen Kathedralen.


Weder die Tapferkeit Navarras,
noch der Rioja Wein.
Nicht die Meeresfruechte Galiziens
und auch nicht die Felder Kastiliens.


Pilger, wer ruft dich?
Welch' geheime macht lockt dich an?
Weder sind es die Leute unterwegs,
noch sind es die unendlichen Tradizionen.


Weder Kultur und Geschichte,
noch der Hahn Santo Domingos.
Nicht der Palast von Gaudi
und auch nicht das Schloss Ponferradas.


All'dies'sehe ich in Vorbeigehen,
und dies' zu sehen, ist Genuss;
doch die Stimme die mich ruft
fuehl ich viel tiefer in mir.


Die Kraft, die mich vorantreibt;
die Macht, die mich anlockt;
auch ich kann sie mir nicht erklaeren:
Dies kann allein nur Er dort oben!

My Translation:

Dust, mud, sun and rain,
that is the way to Santiago.
Thousands of pilgrims
and more than thousand year.

Who call you,pilgrim? 
What power calls you forwards?
It is not the starry sky,
nor the giant Cathedrals.

It's not the bravery of Navarra,
nor the wine of la Rioja,
not the seafood of Galicia,
and not the fields of Castilla.

Pilgrim, who calls you?
What power calls you forwards?
It is not the people travelling,
nor the unending traditions.

It is not culture or history,
nor the cockerel of Santo Domingo,
not the palace of Gaudi
or the castle of Ponferrada.

All this I see in passing,
and to see it, is bliss.
But the voice that calls me
comes from much deeper inside me.

The strength that pushes me onwards,
the power that calls me forwards,
even I cannot explain it - 
only He above can do that.

You know how people always say that it's the intention that counts? It's not. It's just doing it.