Blisters

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.