Many thoughts kept me company last year while walking alone on the Camino de Santiago. Some were friendly:
“Hey, good job getting over that hill!”
“Wow, look at this gorgeous vista.”
“This is the best day ever.”
Others were less so:
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You know you’re not sporty, right?”
“I think I feel a blister coming. Oh god. A blister. I knew this would happen.”
Outside all this chatter came an epiphany.
A blister and a Spanish angel
The epiphany dawned on me after my tenth day of walking. I was staying at a crappy hotel in Arcade, Spain. It was the kind of place where you got the sense your long-standing streak of never encountering bed bugs was about to come to an end.
One-star accommodations aside, there was something else to contend with during my one-night stay in Arcade and that was the increasingly painful blister building between my toes on my right foot. It had doubled in size over the course of the day which I suppose was inevitable but not at all what I was hoping for when I’d gently rolled back the tape to check on it that evening. I’d made it ten glorious days without a blister and was pissed to have finally fallen to the cries of my poor feet.
Blisters were a common topic of conversation on the trail. I’d encountered several pilgrims who were dealing with them - some heroically, and some who had to go to the hospital. I suspected I would end up in the latter camp if I didn’t sort myself out.
I hobbled to the pharmacy which was along a small street of shops in the quiet fishing village. On any other occasion this would have been a treat. Everyone knows European pharmacies are the best. All the fancy French creams and lotions. You have the sense that you might be about to find the secret fountain of youth in one of those beautiful bottles. When you walk through the door you feel comforted and confident that here lie all the answers to whatever ails you.
Anyway, I made my way to the pharmacy. It seemed like the longest walk ever, which was ridiculous because I’d already walked at least ten miles that day. The pharmacy couldn’t have been more than seven minutes on foot from the hostel. When I arrived I realized I’d forgotten my face mask which was required to enter the shop. A wonderful angel in the form of a handsome Spanish man who spoke English came outside to greet and treat me.
He was kind but firm as he instructed that I HAD to pop the ever-growing blister that had made a home in the canyon between my toes. I’d known that was the recommended course of action but was dragging my feet. I was disgusted by the thought of the ooze that would ensue, and I was terrified this would lead to an infection that would prevent me from finishing my journey. I still had four days and 77 kilometers to go.
The kindness of the stranger pharmacist was not lost on me but I was down and depleted as I trudged back to my crappy room carrying new bandages and treatment. I was too tired, and worried about my feet, to walk a single step more so I bought the saddest dinner possible from the hotel vending machine.
The epiphany
It was over the bag of Lays potato chips and the cold can of Coca Cola (which was pretty damn comforting in the end) that the epiphany appeared.
Touched by the help and care I received outside the pharmacy that evening, I realized how simple and striking it is when someone has the time and the capacity to care for others.
What I’d learned over the course of 180 kilometers was that, whether you’re walking a pilgrimage or not, we all have this one task in this life - to take care of ourselves. And it’s really fucking hard sometimes.
It struck me that the past ten days had been the most I’d actively cared for myself in my entire life. It was a luxury, this time when all I had to do was walk and take care of myself. My days were full. I was aware when I was hungry, or when I needed water. A significant portion of my mind was constantly preoccupied with whether my socks needed to be changed. (Damn blisters still got me anyway.) I planned ahead for when I might need to negotiate a bathroom. I knew when I needed rest. I knew when I needed company, and when I needed to be alone.
Alongside all the taking care and walking was a ton of joy. I met people from all over the world. I had a picnic alone somewhere along the coast of Portugal - no one around for miles, the sun shining on me and my strong, bare feet as I gave them the break they so deserved. I ate a juicy, delicious Spanish tortilla that brought me to tears. I spent a magical misty day walking through the forest, somewhere between two northern Portuguese towns whose names I can’t pronounce. I enjoyed a free glass of Cava when I stopped at a restaurant in Baiona and was served by the manager who had walked 14 caminos himself.
In the midst of all that came the epiphany. That we all have this one job to take care of ourselves - mind, body, and soul. That job comes with varying degrees of difficulty depending on the day. Whether it’s a day of walking 20 miles, or a day of working 12 hours, or a day of taking care of family - in between all that we also have to:
Make sure we’re fed properly
Move our bodies
Pay bills, run errands, do appointments
Take care of our households
Learn how to live more sustainably
Make sure our minds are well
Foster our dreams, creativity, and work towards our goals
The fact that we then at times have capacity leftover to also care for others suddenly seemed like a total miracle.
Better than the chimps (I think)
The human mind is more advanced than ever. We have incredible capacity for creativity and problem-solving and empathy and more. It’s what separates us from the neanderthals and the chimps.
With all of this advancement also comes overload and overcomplication. Some of it distracts us from our number one task of taking care.
It’s harder to care for ourselves when we are bombarded with messages of how others are “taking care” of themselves: the workouts they do, the health products they use. There are endless ways we can improve ourselves and millions of companies making millions of dollars preying on this belief that we are never enough and can always be better.
It’s harder to take care of ourselves when our mental health is suffering. When we lack community and social connection. When we are burned out. When we feel like we have to do it all alone.
Instead of measuring our days by tasks completed, calories counted, steps taken— what if we took stock of how cared for we are? Instead of by salaries and productivity —what if we measured our lives by how we cared for others?
If we’re lucky, we wake up tomorrow and start all over again. Maybe we’ll manage to make a salad. Go for a walk. See a friend. Chase a dream. Help someone else.
It’s all a freaking miracle.
Epilogue
I made it to Santiago de Compostela. I took care of my feet, and they took care of me back.
👍🏻😎