Today, I was supposed to be getting ready: packing and repacking my one bag, making last minute arrangements for the house and the pets, charging electronics, double and triple checking travel schedules, saying goodbyes.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to board a plane and start the long-awaited trip with my husband and two dear friends.
I was supposed to be heading to Spain, for a month-long walk called El Camino de Santiago: a walk to the end of the world. Thirty days, hundreds of miles, one backpack with two changes of clothes--a time of introspection and reflection, a spiritual pilgrimage, a test of mental endurance.
Of course... it's not happening.
I went through something like the stages of grief when I finally admitted this to myself a few weeks ago. But this is a petty concern in the grand scheme of things--I know that, too. Spain has suffered unbearable losses during this pandemic, and here in the United States, the death toll climbs, the economics are in a mess, and right now so many are suffering the effects of racial injustice. I watched CNN last night with my heart in my throat. The world is not how I imagined it would be on this date, when I thought the biggest concerns would be whether I was packing too much or not enough.
The Camino was supposed to be a challenge for me--physical, mental, spiritual. Now it's likely I'll be spending the month at home and in my neighborhood and mostly, in my head.
I've decided to do a different kind of pilgrimage, one that will play out right here--30 days of blogging (and maybe vlogging, should the long-awaited haircut materialize), a different kind of journey.
You're invited to come along.
Paula Treick DeBoard