Blisters
There is a rhythmic pace while walking a pilgrimage. The
steps seem to melt into one another and a trance-like state permeates the
experience. The weight of the pack becomes non-existent yet in an odd way
palpably obvious with vacillating thoughts of, “Oh, dear God take this weight
from my body, “ to “I don’t feel the heaviness of the pack. I must be getting
used to it.” Evidence that each side of my personality was trying to make sense
of the experience.
As in life the pain of walking the path was mixed with the
comfort of healing. On the second day of the walk my feet began to blister and
I was blessed with healers. Those sores on my heels developed unexpectedly
given my boots were well broken-in and I had completed many a practice hike. Each
morning on the pilgrimage, a sort of make shift triage area was set to address
the aches, sprains, bruises and scrapes of the group. Healers emerged to assist
those other travelers with their weak spots. The rawness that had developed on
the backs of my feet were prepped, bandaged and wrapped. A couple of days into
this morning routine I began to realize the process of dressing my wounds was
really a ritual. Hands were washed, supplies were gathered and a mere glance
signaled to me it was time to start. The space felt sacred despite the milling
about of others. And at times the odd body mechanics involved in getting my
foot in the proper position was awkward to say the least. As the ritual unfolded, I would focus on the
healer’s hands; slow, confident and calming. It became a sort of morning
meditation or prayer for healing and hope for another day of safe walking.
I accepted the healer’s
healing.
I have worked hard over the last several years to heal not
from wounds developed from too many miles on the trail but wounds that have
been collected over the course of my life. Some of these wounds were inflected
deeply and needed time to heal and still leave significant scarring. Others
were more like flesh wounds, superficial yet wide and at times equally as
painful as the deep ones. The trouble with these sorts of wounds is if you
don’t bandage them correctly they begin to fester and compound. Sooner or later
the ignored or mishandled emotional injuries take their toll and a systemic
infection takes over. And so it was with me, years of not tending to my
feelings netted a sort of emotional sepsis leaving me in a stupor of outbursts,
anger, and depression.
It was at this point that I reached out for healing. My
triage area was set up, healers emerged, sacred space was created, and rituals developed.
Just as when my feet were getting tended to, the process of emotional healing
was at times uncomfortable, even painful and almost always awkward but I tried
to stay focused on the slow, confident calmness of the healers.
While walking the pilgrimage I realized healing and
wholeness has arrived. And perhaps more importantly that I need to accept the
healthy me and honor the work I have done to get here. At times the seductive nature of my wounds
creep up and I find myself with the temptation to hold onto old hurts or, more
damaging, the role of martyr, wallowing in my own brokenness. In so many ways I
can see myself in other people who define themselves by their victimhood. The
pilgrimage allowed me to acknowledge reliving hurts and reopening wounds is not
a space I want to get stuck in and more significantly it is okay to let it go.
I’ve accepted the healer’s healing.
My feet are nearly back to their pre-pilgrimage condition. I
don’t miss that pack or the incessant walking but on occasion I notice I drop
into that trance-like state and I am back on the trail feeling the rhythm of
the pilgrimage. A sense of raw calmness remains along with a tender wholeness
that I will need to continue to nurture as I try to make a little more sense of
the experience.
