Day 7 or The Shepherd on the Road

Notes on Day 7, March 2, Estella to Los Arcos

This morning on the way out of Estella, I tried to make up for not seeing the town yesterday by stopping in the square to take pictures of the Hall of Justice and the Royal palace, but I forgot to walk up to the cloisters I wanted to see before I headed out of town. The track today was all graceful farmland, vineyards, olive groves, rolling hills.



Early on I took a short detour to a monastery at Irache that supposedly had a Fuente de Vino. A literal fountain of wine. I had to see this miracle for myself, and indeed, there was a fountain of wine. If I had been brave, or it had not been 8:45 in the morning, I would have dumped out my water bottle and filled it with wine for the day, but I was still fortified (or hungover rather) from last night´s Pacharan, so I declined more than a few sips from the Fuente.



As I walked I remembered my dreams from the night before. I slept deeply, but my dreams were full of disconcerting images of my ex and his family. The fitful impressions from the night before of yelling, screaming, and desiring to cause the ex-es bodily harm in all manor of ingenious and creative ways came flooding back to me in the morning light rising over the mountains.



And it did not take long for the feet to start in again with their incessant complaining. And oppressed by the recollection of my dreams and the insistent contrariness of my feet, I began to whimper.

So then came the big ugly. Naturally. And this time it was because of my ex and that whole hot ugly mess. That little meltdown in the field a few days ago? That was nothing.

Past mountains and sandstone cliffs I sobbed, over mud puddles and gravel paths I balled, past cow barns and olive trees I wailed. For 3.1km from Irache to Azqueta I cried. Every vile, hateful feeling from the past two years came vomiting up from my heart, my gut. The anger, the incredulity over how my divorce had unfolded (all spite and controlling games and manipulations) came flooding up to my mind. Every wretched memory of feeling overexposed, violated, humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed, abandoned and guilty came spewing out of my eyes like the snot from my nose. Every moment of doubt that I was indeed a good person and not just a selfish, self indulgent asshole reintroduced itself, forced its ugly acquaintance back into my life. Every scene of helpless subjugation and defeat pressed on my mind, every indignity and breach of trust, of privacy, of sacrosanct marital communication swelled to the surface. Every cruel deprivation, calculated denial, manufactured recollection, and intentionally warped misrepresentation overwhelmed me until I was powerless in their grip and forced to release the tension and pain they brought with them. The damn could no longer hold these tumultuous waters and they rushed forth in a howl of grief and sorrow.



So often, when this mess touched friends and family in a way that reflected unflatteringly on me and I felt like an imposition on them, I felt like such a colossal fuck up. But something my dear, dear friend Sam said to me helped with that discomfort: ¨Kristin,¨ she said, ¨you´re in a storm, and those of us who love you, we´re gonna get wet.¨ But that was OK because these people loved me, and they knew that and accepted that. And I was so grateful for my friends and family for sticking with my sorry ass through this insanity, this storm that soaked them too.

Yes, I cried the entire 3.1km from the Fuente de Vino at Irache to Azqueta. I walked, my head down like a workhorse pulling against the weight of her load, crying and looking up only every once in a while to at least acknowledge a beautiful vista, and with a trembling, watery voice, mutter, ¨that´s lovely,¨and continue on.



I puzzled over the Christian mantra that reminds us ¨we are all God´s Children,¨ we are all his sheep. I wondered how this could be so? How could I, and they (meaning my ex in-laws) all be so favored? I could not reconcile the notion that ¨God doesn´t make junk¨ and the distinct fact that I thought my ex and his entire family are, in tangible reality, junk. How exactly does one make that jive? How can I get from here to a place where I can even begin to understand their words and actions towards me over the last two years? Have I been perfect? No, not by a long shot, but I have at least tried hard not to be mean.

I begged the universe to take this poison, this venom of ire out of me. I pleaded for this unrelenting anger to end, soon, so that my life would be free of it and the space in my heart it occupies will be open to other wonders.

Yes, for 3.1km I cried and whimpered like a child. But you know, I didn´t hardly notice the pain in my feet at all.

Later that afternoon, my companions on the road for 1/3 km were about 200 head of sheep, with a few goats thrown in for good measure, three herding dogs, and a Spanish shepherd.



The sheep did their best to sneak a munch of grass, but desperately tried not to attract the attention of the herding dogs, whose enthusiasm for nipping the sheep back onto the road was uncontainable.



I did, in the end, make it to Los Arcos in pretty good time, and was happily installed, along with blue-eyed Italian Eddie, Spanish Geuntar, Elena, Sonjia and Ladio and Anchenka in the albergue, the owner of which gave massages for a small donation.

In the evening I took myself to a grassy knoll outside the 12th century Iglesia de Santa Maria de los Arcos, sat on the ground, removed my shoes and socks and let my feet and blisters breathe in the sun for two hours. Ahhh