I had no intention of climbing a mountain when I went to Montserrat. I certainly wasn't dressed appropriately for such a trek. I had a ticket to take the funicular up the hill. Plans were set. And then I found a path...
In my last blog post, I mentioned that I had bought two rosaries to take to the Pope to be blessed; one for my dogsitter's mom (Graciela) and one for myself. Because there's no such thing as going too far in my world, I thought I'd take these rosaries all the way. I touched them each with the holy water from the Montserrat Cathedral, and figured I'd do the same on any other churches that I visited while on this visit. And again, as you all know, that's a thing for me. I visit churches.
So, rosaries in my pocket, I wandered the grounds of Montserrat, trying to get a bit away from the tourists. I wanted quiet, to meditate a bit while I walked. Toward the back of the courtyard, there was a flight of stairs with a sign saying Via de la Cruz. Way of the Cross.... must be the stations of the cross, yes? Sure. Let's see where it goes.
I climbed the stairs and turned right along the path. At the top of the slope, I could go right (Iglesia de Jeroni - 1 hr 30m) or left (Via de la Cruz - 15 m). I chose left because, again, I wasn't prepared for a long hike. I just wanted a quiet stroll along a gentle path where I could contemplate life, the universe, and everything. Plus, I've always loved the stations of the cross. Twelve movements that tell the story of the end of a man's life, a man who earned the right to be revered in life and death by his actions of kindness and acceptance of those around him. (I may no longer be Christian, but I still believe that Christ is worth being worshiped.) To the left I went.
Clever me. This path did, indeed, lead one along the stations of the cross. I had an idea, then. I took Graciela's rosary from my pocket and placed it at the feet of the first statue and took a picture. It was a bit much to take a picture at each station - plus at some point the stations changed from stone statues to these weird modern renditions that I wasn't overly keen on. So, I walked the path, in awe at the world around me that is so different than my own. When I finally got to Christ on the cross, I put my own rosary at his feet and said a little prayer. Then I picked it up, and continued up the path.
That's when I saw a cross on the end of a rocky outcrop. I thought it would be interesting to see if I could actually get out to it.
On I went, rosaries in my pocket, a spring in my step. It was chilly but not cold. My boots weren't great for hiking, but they weren't awful. The hill wasn't that far away.
The view along this path was awe-inspiring. Every chance that I got, I looked out over the mountainside, at the valley below, at the monastery shrinking below. Every step, I felt more alive. It's hard to explain, but I always feel most like myself when I'm walking alone. The stillness, the solitude, the movement. I began to sweat a bit, and there was definitely puffing involved. The path inclined much steeper than it had, but by then I was committed. I was going to make it to that cross. I'd passed a sign that said that it was only 20 minutes away.
For most of this trek, I'd run into very few people. If I'm honest, that's a big part of why I kept going. I loved the solitude. The path was obvious - no chance of being lost - and safe - no chance of falling off the edge unless I was stupid. This was the perfect solo hike for me. So, on I walked.
Eventually, I came to the path off to the left that led to the big cross I'd seen. I was a little out of breathe, but not horribly so. There were suddenly a bunch of people - tourists - but now I had to go to the cross. I was right there, after all. So, I did. And the tourists hung back, taking a bunch of pictures of the cathedral, while I went on to the Crux de San Miguel. It was beautiful.
I admit to being a little disappointed that it had graffiti on it but it's so ubiquitous here that I wasn't surprised. Sad, still, but not surprised. And the view from that cross was breathtaking... and not just because of the hike. The views from that outcrop struck my soul with their beauty. The sky hung low, the valley was misty, and the rocky mountains all around me felt like they were the only thing solid in the entire world. Those rocks and that iron cross. I took a deep breathe and turned around to leave.
When I got to the main path again, I had a choice, but it was like I didn't. Without thought, I turned to the left and continued up the road I'd unconsciously set for myself. My camino... my personal trek.
From the cross, things got a bit more difficult. The path became steeper and the air thinner. I started hearing my son Jackson's voice in my head. "Mom, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you already have the ticket to the funicular. I'm worried that this is too much for you." I kept walking. Then I heard Jeremy's voice in my head, "You've already come this far. It can't be that much further, right? It's not like you haven't done something like this before." Back-and-forth, the kids both questioned and pushed me. Riley's voice, "Look at that view, Mom. I think you can go a bit further." Then Carter's voice, "You doing okay, Mom? You didn't bring water. Be careful up here." And I kept putting one foot in front of the other, stopping to breath when things got rough, wondering what the hell I was doing - and why.
Then I'd put my hand in my pocket and I'd feel those rosaries, and I knew what I was doing - and why.
Over 700 years ago, monks made this trek to build a monastery. They walked a road far less safe. And let's be real. I've worn 14th century shoes. They walked this road in far less comfortable shoes. That day, I was following in their footsteps. I was walking their walk. I was on the path that they'd set hundreds of years ago, and I was going to go the entire way, awful boots and no water be damned. So, I trudged on.
Here's the part where I'm going to be perfectly honest with all of you. I got to a point where I seriously questioned my sanity. I wondered what in the hell I was doing. Come Friday, I was going to be 50 years old. I'm diabetic, I have high blood pressure, and I have fibromyalgia. I'm not just old, I'm damn sick on top of it. Most people - with their brains fully intact - would have turned around once they hit St Michael's Cross. Me? No, I'm an idiot. I turned left instead of right, and there were many many times that I berated my stupidity while I was on that trek further and further up that mountain. There comes a time when one really has to judge themselves, and I was there. This was a gentle walk gone awry.
I came upon a small house, obviously build as a way-station back in the day. That day it was closed up. The wind had picked up and I was cold and thirsty. I walked around the building as a way to escape the wind and hoping there might be water nearby. I ran into two young men setting up dome tents. I pardoned myself and headed back to the path, but on the way, I saw a rock garden. It's hard to describe this garden unless you've already seen something like it. I had. People had taken rocks and stacked them one on top of another to build a tower. There were dozens of these towers all around the space, the red rocks dull in the sunlight. I had come across something similar when my friend Jeff and I had climbed the path to the top of Multnomah Falls. Then, I'd simply marveled at the stone stacks. This time, I chose to build one.
Looking nearby, I saw a tower that had fallen, and I decided that my stack would be a rebuild of someone else's. I wasn't sure what the stacking meant, but I knew it meant something, and I wanted to help whomever had built that first stack by making sure that it went back up and stayed up. So, rock by rock, I rebuilt that person's tower. Six rocks in, I'd gone as far as I could, but it was steady and I knew it would withstand the wind gusting through. I smiled and moved on up the path.
I was only 30 minutes away, according to the most recent sign I'd come across. It would take longer than that to go back down the mountain and take the funicular up to the abbey. I mean, seriously, what were my options? I had no choice at that point but to keep moving forward.
So I did. One foot in front of the other, up and up and up. The only sound was the crunch of my insufficient boots on the crushed rock. Until finally, I saw a small building around a corner. A modern building, with a lot of cables and wires leading to it. The funicular landing. I admit it. I nearly cried at that point. There was a point in that trek when I wondered if I'd make it. My breath was shallow, my stomach heaving, my head throbbing. I'm a hiker, but damn... that was one rough walk.
Here's where I can prove to you all that I'm a complete and total moron. I walked past that little building... and on up the path. Because while the building marked the top of the funicular ride, it didn't get one all the way up to the Abbey of Sant Joan. That was up the path another 20 minutes.
On I went. Up the hill. The very steep hill. I met more people here, as they'd come up the funicular. One gentleman, however, stopped me and asked me in Spanish if I knew where the Abbey de Sant Magdalena was. In patchy Spanish - through deep breaths - I told him another hour up the path, as I'd seen a sign recently that said as much. He asked if I knew where, and I said that I didn't, but there should be signs as he went. He wanted to chat. I wanted to breath. He offered me water, so I let him chat while I breathed and drank his water.
The man was from Valencia, and had come specifically to walk this Camino to Sant Magdalena. He asked me if I was from Barcelona, and I said no, Portland. He looked surprised and in English asked me how long I'd been in Spain. I thanked every god that ever was that he'd switched to English because walking, breathing, and trying to remember Spanish was all just too damn much for me just then.
We walked together up the hill to the entrance to Sant Joan, and then I had to stop to breath. He wished me well, and continued on his way. I stepped off the path and into a small little courtyard near the stairs up into the spaces above. I had to gather myself - and honestly, get away from the man's chatter. He was a delightful guy, but at this point I'd determined that this was my space, my time. His presence disrupted that for me. I wanted to meet people - to hear their stories - but this was neither the time nor the place. I hadn't walked two hours up a mountain to have my peace messed up by a backpacker from Valencia.
Once I'd caught my breath, I climbed the stairs to the odd little spaces above. I learned later that this was by no means where the Abbey had been, but rather the "basement" with catacombs in the rocks. Campers had obviously used these spaces fairly recently as there were ashes deep into the carve-outs, and one could see how the spaces may have been used when the abbey was functional. It was interesting, but just that. Interesting. Odd. Different. But for the most part, it was just an empty space to be filled with one's own imagination. There wasn't enough to show you what was. Rather just enough to show you the potential of what could have been.
The point wasn't the space that I arrived at. The point was the trek to get there. The Camino. The fight within myself to climb that path in those awful boots with the voices of concern in my head. It wasn't a big revelation for me to see the comparison to my life in that bit of a walk. Do I keep going, or do I stop and turn around? Do I listen to the pain in my feet, my back, my heart, and just give in? Or do I feel that pain and keep going?
Those of you who know me don't need to wonder what I do, either. I take that next step. I move on up the path. Because it's the only way that I know. It's my only option. So climbing that mountain in inappropriate footwear and poorly dressed for such a trek? That's my life in metaphor. And I make it up the mountain. Because that's what one does when faced with a mountain.
In my last blog post, I mentioned that I had bought two rosaries to take to the Pope to be blessed; one for my dogsitter's mom (Graciela) and one for myself. Because there's no such thing as going too far in my world, I thought I'd take these rosaries all the way. I touched them each with the holy water from the Montserrat Cathedral, and figured I'd do the same on any other churches that I visited while on this visit. And again, as you all know, that's a thing for me. I visit churches.
So, rosaries in my pocket, I wandered the grounds of Montserrat, trying to get a bit away from the tourists. I wanted quiet, to meditate a bit while I walked. Toward the back of the courtyard, there was a flight of stairs with a sign saying Via de la Cruz. Way of the Cross.... must be the stations of the cross, yes? Sure. Let's see where it goes.
I climbed the stairs and turned right along the path. At the top of the slope, I could go right (Iglesia de Jeroni - 1 hr 30m) or left (Via de la Cruz - 15 m). I chose left because, again, I wasn't prepared for a long hike. I just wanted a quiet stroll along a gentle path where I could contemplate life, the universe, and everything. Plus, I've always loved the stations of the cross. Twelve movements that tell the story of the end of a man's life, a man who earned the right to be revered in life and death by his actions of kindness and acceptance of those around him. (I may no longer be Christian, but I still believe that Christ is worth being worshiped.) To the left I went.
Clever me. This path did, indeed, lead one along the stations of the cross. I had an idea, then. I took Graciela's rosary from my pocket and placed it at the feet of the first statue and took a picture. It was a bit much to take a picture at each station - plus at some point the stations changed from stone statues to these weird modern renditions that I wasn't overly keen on. So, I walked the path, in awe at the world around me that is so different than my own. When I finally got to Christ on the cross, I put my own rosary at his feet and said a little prayer. Then I picked it up, and continued up the path.
 |
| Graciela's rosary |
 |
| My rosary |
That's when I saw a cross on the end of a rocky outcrop. I thought it would be interesting to see if I could actually get out to it.
On I went, rosaries in my pocket, a spring in my step. It was chilly but not cold. My boots weren't great for hiking, but they weren't awful. The hill wasn't that far away.
The view along this path was awe-inspiring. Every chance that I got, I looked out over the mountainside, at the valley below, at the monastery shrinking below. Every step, I felt more alive. It's hard to explain, but I always feel most like myself when I'm walking alone. The stillness, the solitude, the movement. I began to sweat a bit, and there was definitely puffing involved. The path inclined much steeper than it had, but by then I was committed. I was going to make it to that cross. I'd passed a sign that said that it was only 20 minutes away.
For most of this trek, I'd run into very few people. If I'm honest, that's a big part of why I kept going. I loved the solitude. The path was obvious - no chance of being lost - and safe - no chance of falling off the edge unless I was stupid. This was the perfect solo hike for me. So, on I walked.
Eventually, I came to the path off to the left that led to the big cross I'd seen. I was a little out of breathe, but not horribly so. There were suddenly a bunch of people - tourists - but now I had to go to the cross. I was right there, after all. So, I did. And the tourists hung back, taking a bunch of pictures of the cathedral, while I went on to the Crux de San Miguel. It was beautiful.
I admit to being a little disappointed that it had graffiti on it but it's so ubiquitous here that I wasn't surprised. Sad, still, but not surprised. And the view from that cross was breathtaking... and not just because of the hike. The views from that outcrop struck my soul with their beauty. The sky hung low, the valley was misty, and the rocky mountains all around me felt like they were the only thing solid in the entire world. Those rocks and that iron cross. I took a deep breathe and turned around to leave.
When I got to the main path again, I had a choice, but it was like I didn't. Without thought, I turned to the left and continued up the road I'd unconsciously set for myself. My camino... my personal trek.
From the cross, things got a bit more difficult. The path became steeper and the air thinner. I started hearing my son Jackson's voice in my head. "Mom, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you already have the ticket to the funicular. I'm worried that this is too much for you." I kept walking. Then I heard Jeremy's voice in my head, "You've already come this far. It can't be that much further, right? It's not like you haven't done something like this before." Back-and-forth, the kids both questioned and pushed me. Riley's voice, "Look at that view, Mom. I think you can go a bit further." Then Carter's voice, "You doing okay, Mom? You didn't bring water. Be careful up here." And I kept putting one foot in front of the other, stopping to breath when things got rough, wondering what the hell I was doing - and why.
Then I'd put my hand in my pocket and I'd feel those rosaries, and I knew what I was doing - and why.
Over 700 years ago, monks made this trek to build a monastery. They walked a road far less safe. And let's be real. I've worn 14th century shoes. They walked this road in far less comfortable shoes. That day, I was following in their footsteps. I was walking their walk. I was on the path that they'd set hundreds of years ago, and I was going to go the entire way, awful boots and no water be damned. So, I trudged on.
Here's the part where I'm going to be perfectly honest with all of you. I got to a point where I seriously questioned my sanity. I wondered what in the hell I was doing. Come Friday, I was going to be 50 years old. I'm diabetic, I have high blood pressure, and I have fibromyalgia. I'm not just old, I'm damn sick on top of it. Most people - with their brains fully intact - would have turned around once they hit St Michael's Cross. Me? No, I'm an idiot. I turned left instead of right, and there were many many times that I berated my stupidity while I was on that trek further and further up that mountain. There comes a time when one really has to judge themselves, and I was there. This was a gentle walk gone awry.
I came upon a small house, obviously build as a way-station back in the day. That day it was closed up. The wind had picked up and I was cold and thirsty. I walked around the building as a way to escape the wind and hoping there might be water nearby. I ran into two young men setting up dome tents. I pardoned myself and headed back to the path, but on the way, I saw a rock garden. It's hard to describe this garden unless you've already seen something like it. I had. People had taken rocks and stacked them one on top of another to build a tower. There were dozens of these towers all around the space, the red rocks dull in the sunlight. I had come across something similar when my friend Jeff and I had climbed the path to the top of Multnomah Falls. Then, I'd simply marveled at the stone stacks. This time, I chose to build one.
Looking nearby, I saw a tower that had fallen, and I decided that my stack would be a rebuild of someone else's. I wasn't sure what the stacking meant, but I knew it meant something, and I wanted to help whomever had built that first stack by making sure that it went back up and stayed up. So, rock by rock, I rebuilt that person's tower. Six rocks in, I'd gone as far as I could, but it was steady and I knew it would withstand the wind gusting through. I smiled and moved on up the path.
I was only 30 minutes away, according to the most recent sign I'd come across. It would take longer than that to go back down the mountain and take the funicular up to the abbey. I mean, seriously, what were my options? I had no choice at that point but to keep moving forward.
So I did. One foot in front of the other, up and up and up. The only sound was the crunch of my insufficient boots on the crushed rock. Until finally, I saw a small building around a corner. A modern building, with a lot of cables and wires leading to it. The funicular landing. I admit it. I nearly cried at that point. There was a point in that trek when I wondered if I'd make it. My breath was shallow, my stomach heaving, my head throbbing. I'm a hiker, but damn... that was one rough walk.
Here's where I can prove to you all that I'm a complete and total moron. I walked past that little building... and on up the path. Because while the building marked the top of the funicular ride, it didn't get one all the way up to the Abbey of Sant Joan. That was up the path another 20 minutes.
On I went. Up the hill. The very steep hill. I met more people here, as they'd come up the funicular. One gentleman, however, stopped me and asked me in Spanish if I knew where the Abbey de Sant Magdalena was. In patchy Spanish - through deep breaths - I told him another hour up the path, as I'd seen a sign recently that said as much. He asked if I knew where, and I said that I didn't, but there should be signs as he went. He wanted to chat. I wanted to breath. He offered me water, so I let him chat while I breathed and drank his water.
The man was from Valencia, and had come specifically to walk this Camino to Sant Magdalena. He asked me if I was from Barcelona, and I said no, Portland. He looked surprised and in English asked me how long I'd been in Spain. I thanked every god that ever was that he'd switched to English because walking, breathing, and trying to remember Spanish was all just too damn much for me just then.
We walked together up the hill to the entrance to Sant Joan, and then I had to stop to breath. He wished me well, and continued on his way. I stepped off the path and into a small little courtyard near the stairs up into the spaces above. I had to gather myself - and honestly, get away from the man's chatter. He was a delightful guy, but at this point I'd determined that this was my space, my time. His presence disrupted that for me. I wanted to meet people - to hear their stories - but this was neither the time nor the place. I hadn't walked two hours up a mountain to have my peace messed up by a backpacker from Valencia.
Once I'd caught my breath, I climbed the stairs to the odd little spaces above. I learned later that this was by no means where the Abbey had been, but rather the "basement" with catacombs in the rocks. Campers had obviously used these spaces fairly recently as there were ashes deep into the carve-outs, and one could see how the spaces may have been used when the abbey was functional. It was interesting, but just that. Interesting. Odd. Different. But for the most part, it was just an empty space to be filled with one's own imagination. There wasn't enough to show you what was. Rather just enough to show you the potential of what could have been.
The point wasn't the space that I arrived at. The point was the trek to get there. The Camino. The fight within myself to climb that path in those awful boots with the voices of concern in my head. It wasn't a big revelation for me to see the comparison to my life in that bit of a walk. Do I keep going, or do I stop and turn around? Do I listen to the pain in my feet, my back, my heart, and just give in? Or do I feel that pain and keep going?
Those of you who know me don't need to wonder what I do, either. I take that next step. I move on up the path. Because it's the only way that I know. It's my only option. So climbing that mountain in inappropriate footwear and poorly dressed for such a trek? That's my life in metaphor. And I make it up the mountain. Because that's what one does when faced with a mountain.
YOU ARE AMAZING!!!!!
ReplyDeleteVery nicely written!
ReplyDelete