The first day of school pictures we have all seen capture a moment of transition. None of these are quite as remarkable as the first, first day of school, when a child leaves the comfort of home, embarking on the adventure of their academic career. As an aside, I don’t have a photo of my first day of school, but I’m sure I was crying my eyes out and hiding from the camera, so reluctant was I to leave home. At least I didn’t wet my pants as another boy did.
The last first day of school is also memorable, as it signifies the beginning of an end, or at least a transition. The feeling is a mix of elation and apprehension. Elation for the new adventure, but equal parts apprehension for the next major chapter after finishing what is known. By the time a senior in High School gets their last first day of school picture, they are so ready to move on, but you can almost see the fear of what comes after. The unknown. The vastness of possibilities. The “not knowing” how they’ll adapt to the world post-high school.
While sorting through my Camino photos, I saw the one attached to this post, and all the telltale signs of the first day of school are evident. I had just traveled on three flights and a long taxi ride, with maybe an hour of fitful sleep in the previous 2 days. I am exhausted yet exhilarated. For some unknown reason, I asked the taxi driver to capture this image, and she obliged.
I had planned for this trip, this journey, for over a year. I had thought about it for more than 25. I was alone in the Pyrenees Mountains in the historic village of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the starting point of the Camino Francés (the French Way). I was disoriented and jet-lagged, but all of the preparations were about to be put to the test. Even though it is the traditional starting point, only about 4% of the Pilgrims begin here. I also read somewhere that only about 40% of the pilgrims complete their journey in its entirety. Anecdotally, my first two walking partners never made it past a week before they had to return home for injury and illness.
I wear my “nice clothes,” meaning the only collared shirt and pants I brought with me. I promptly washed it and stored it, only to bring it out again for the occasional dinner with friends I had yet to make or Mass.
I had no idea what lay ahead, and truth be told, I had niggling doubts about whether I would finish. I was as ready as I could be, and that would have to be good enough. I dropped off my stuff and headed to the outfitters’ store I’d contacted during the winter to get my walking poles, which became like appendages. I never worried about leaving them behind, since they proved necessary from day one.
I look at this photo with the same sort of nostalgia I do when I look at the first day of school photos we have been taking for 29 years. With our first child, almost three decades ago, the photo has become one of my son’s (my grandson’s) from their child’s first day. As I write these words, I see this picture next to the computer, and it makes me smile.
In many ways, the person in this post’s photo doesn’t exist. Without leaning into the dramatics too much, I see my life at a pivot point of sorts from before the Camino and after. I have also learned this isn’t necessarily unusual, as many pilgrims have a similar experience. I embrace this new me; as I have written in For Now the Beard Stays, I like him. But all outward appearances seem the same. Anyone who sees me sees the same person, but I can honestly tell you that guy doesn’t live here anymore.
My wife bought me a welcome-back present: a book titled Returning from Camino, by Alexander John Shaia. But in the whirlwind of activities that hit us on my return, this book was not presented to me until yesterday. Yep, 4 months after I got back. I read it cover to cover the same day (much to her surprise). The author describes almost exactly the feeling that I have of isolation, of not having a way to process everything that happened, as there are so few who have had the same experience. My Camino buddies live in Taiwan, Australia, Sweden, and the Philippines. They understand what I experienced, but communication via WhatsApp or email can only go so far. So, I am left to sort through my feelings and process them here, with you.
I’m not looking for sympathy by any stretch of the imagination; it’s not what I need or even want, but I am working through the changes I have experienced in my own way. I feel almost like I am a new person who dropped into the life and body of a guy who looks very much like me. Which, as I write that, sounds totally crazy, and I am not crazy.
The author suggests some next steps for acclimating to these very real changes, and I plan to follow them over the course of Autumn and Winter. My gear has been unpacked for months, but the lessons, experiences, and emotions I’ve learned take longer to unpack and will require much more effort.