Wednesday, November 13, to Friday, November 15
Langebaan to Cape Town to Doha to Seattle to home
Hanli and I started the day with a walk in surprisingly cool air. We walked above the bay, and past the restaurant of yesterday’s lunch. She pointed out where she and her group swam across big water to a sand bar. I marveled again at the magical color of the water. The conversation flowed, even as we were climbing the very steep hill given the name Mamba, one last South African snake. I was grateful to be walking, knowing it would be a couple of days before I had another chance to really stretch my legs, except in airports.
When we got back to Pumpkin House, Caroline, who had spent that time resting and enjoying solitude, was ready to go swimming with us. I had agreed I’d get in the very cold Atlantic with them. Both women were committed ocean swimmers. Hanli just off the beach we’d walked the day before. Caroline in the tide pools around Cape Town. I figured the shock might help my transition from walking pilgrim to processing pilgrim to living back in the regular world.
We arrived at the beach to find a group beginning to gather. Neither Caroline nor I had registered that this swim was Hanli’s regular morning dip with her friends. We were welcomed without question. It was windy and cold and people were talking about a shorter swim than usual given the waves and the strength of the current that morning. Hanli had decided she’d stay with Caroline and me, and just get in the water off shore.
When we waded out, shivering, Hanli went under quickly and paddled around. Caroline followed with only a little hesitation. I stood in water up to my knees and thought about going under. I was still thinking about it when they both were ready to go back to shore. While I was a little disappointed to have let an opportunity to challenge myself go by, I was mostly relieved to be off the hook.
Once back at the house, we went to our rooms to shower, and Hanli made us breakfast. Once I was showered and dressed, I zipped and locked my suitcase. It was much lighter than when I arrived all those weeks before because I’d given so much away, and I was happy for that. The symbolism of that ready-to-go suitcase made me emotional and a little teary. It was the first of many times that day when tears would brim for no apparent reason, my entire being tender, my heart right on the surface.
Breakfast, served in the studio, was happy, simple, and delicious. When we were done, Hanli took us back into the main part of her studio and we admired her work together, listening to her talk about different pieces. She led me to a shelf that held a number of smaller pieces and invited me to take one as a gift. The night before when I’d wandered on my own, I noticed a particular painting and fell in love with it. It just happened to be one of the choices on the shelf, and so in that way it became a treasured gift, a brilliant memento of my last magical pilgrimage day.
Saying goodbye to Hanli didn’t feel like an ending, but held the possibility of future travels together. I was feeling like, even though I would be leaving the country, I was taking home connections that enriched my life in ways I could never have anticipated. I was also leaving behind connections between people that started with me. Caroline and Cynthia made one such connection, and made plans to work together.
Caroline wanted to stop at the guest house where Cynthia was staying on our way out of town to say hi to her. The memory of our dinner together at the very beginning of the pilgrimage was strong and that dinner was the foundation of what would come next for them. When we pulled into the driveway, Caroline asked me if I wanted to join her inside. I said I’d wait in the car so she and Cynthia could have time just for them. Cynthia came out and waved at me when we pulled away, and I was sorry then I hadn’t gone in for one last hug. I’m still sorry about that.
Our drive to Cape Town was scenic and full of a conversation that never seemed to run out of richness and depth. We went back along the Langebaan waterfront to absorb the blues and purples of the sea there. We enjoyed kite boarders zipping around under bright colors in the distance. We took a road that provided an iconic view of Table Mountain looming over Cape Town harbor, a perfect last look of that magical rock.
We were stopped twice at road blocks. Once they checked all Caroline’s papers before letting us go through. The second time we weren’t stopped but there were police cars, motorcycles, and horses everywhere. It looked very serious. Caroline thought perhaps it was a search for drugs or gang activity, or perhaps related to the recent killing of a prominent gang leader.
Our first destination was a highly secure gated retirement community where Caroline’s parents lived. We were picking up Andrea, her sister, my Table Mountain adventure companion all those weeks before. The three of us were to go to lunch together. We spent some time visiting with their parents. I felt honored to meet these two lovely people who were committed activists in their day, who had raised these two women who were continuing to work to make their world a better place.
We drove a distance to a restaurant that was also a rose farm with an incredible view of the surrounding hills. It was comfortable, if a little seedy. A place that had outlived its glory days, but was still the perfect spot for the three of us to enjoy our last hours together. By the end of lunch, I was getting a little antsy about the time, worried about how long it would take to get to the airport, and traffic that might impact that time. Andrea and Caroline wanted to show me the extensive rose gardens, but I realized I couldn’t absorb one more thing.
My whole being was now leaning toward home. Caroline got it. The three of us drove toward the airport, running into some traffic, but nothing serious. We arrived much more quickly than I thought possible, so the goodbyes came sooner than I was ready for. As with Hanli, though, I hugged both women fully believing that we’d somehow see each other again. I knew we’d at least stay connected through words across the miles.
I strolled, no hurry, through the check-in process, in part because I had so much time, and in part because I’d been there before. There were multiple passport and boarding pass checks, and two full body pat-downs. I arrived at my gate, recognizing the concourse and the gift shops from two years before. Wandering the shops, searching for the perfect souvenirs to take home as gifts, I found nothing appealed to me. For the first time in my traveling life, I was going home without gifts for everyone. I found snacks and sat watching people and then reading.
While I was waiting in the Cape Town airport, just as was getting ready to reach out to him, I finally heard from Shawn. He asked when I was going home. When I explained where I was, he apologized sincerely, and we were both really sorry to have lost the chance to see each other again. His family situation had kept his focus close to home, which I understood. But still, I felt sad to be leaving without at least a last hug.
Caroline messaged me that she was home and reflecting on our remarkable journey. When we were together before the walk started, I saw a bowl of sea glass in her home and commented on it. She talked about collecting it and her intention to create a mosaic with her collection at some point. I had picked up some sea glass on the beach walks of the pilgrimage, and gave her my favorite piece: a tiny green heart. In her message she sent a picture showing the little heart resting on top of her collection. She also sent a copy of a poem about sea glass that offered the perfect words for me to reflect on as I began my transition home.
All those weeks before, I had expected this would be the time I returned to Facebook. I was sitting, waiting, with nothing else to do. It was time to begin re-entry and I had all those messages waiting for me. I had the opportunity to do a first post announcing my return.
I decided to wait.
Maybe until my first morning home, the next day. Or until some as yet undetermined time when it felt right. It just didn’t feel right that afternoon. I was so full of feeling and still really unsure about what had just happened to me and I didn’t want to do anything to make me lose access to any of that. I knew something important had happened on this pilgrimage, something that was still happening, and I knew taking it to Facebook before it had had a chance to incubate would ruin it.
As the time for my flight departure grew closer, I realized I wasn’t seeing many people at the gate. It turned out I needed to go past the gate number down a long aisle to get to the actual gate. People were seated by boarding groups. I joined my group and sat quietly, simply watching and waiting until we were called to board.
For the 9 ½ hours to Doha, from my aisle seat, I settled into that cocoon, coma-like state that makes being there bearable. I listened to my Scottish seat mates talk, enjoying the lilt of their conversation. I ate what was put in front of me, choosing vegetarian when it was an option, and enjoying at least some of it. I watched movie after movie, dozing off and on, not really caring about the stories, but glad for the distraction.
We landed on time, and I figured I had plenty of time to catch my next flight with a 2 ½ hour layover. I hadn’t counted on having to wait for the busses that took us to the terminal, the very long drive there, the shuffling behind slow people to get inside, or the long walk to my departure gate. When I found the departures board, it already said go to the gate. I managed a stop in the bathroom, but didn’t stop for drink or snack. Once I got to the gate, I discovered we all had to go through another security check. Once through we again sat in our assigned zones, and couldn’t leave unless we wanted to go through security again.
That security check turned out to be an interesting experience. As I stood in line, waiting my turn, the official at the kiosk kept calling people ahead of me. Some families, some businessmen, but all Arabic. There was no explanation or apology, and no smile when he ran out of other people and finally beckoned me forward.
The next leg was 15 hours to Seattle. The plane wasn’t completely full so the two middle seats next to me were empty. I had also organized myself so my pack could go in the overhead instead of at my feet, so I had plenty of space forward and sideways. Again, lots of movies and food, on and off dozing. I was especially grateful for the aisle seat because I needed to get up to pee a lot. It was unusual, and I decided perhaps my body was beginning to shed the pilgrimage time. I was happy for the need to get up and walk and stretch, which made the time less uncomfortable.
The guy sitting directly in front of me was a pain. He reclined his seat fully back, then pulled it up when food arrived, then reclined it again. Over and over. Once he reclined so quickly and violently, my stuff was knocked from my tray to the floor. When he stood up, he grabbed the seat back, messing up my screen every time. I noticed his wife sitting across the aisle from him. I assumed it was his wife at least when I watched her hand over a spoonful of rice to him across the aisle. She was so bundled up in blankets and scarves, she overflowed into the aisle. It was a cold flight, and I was grateful for my extra layers, so I appreciated her creativity. And while I found him immensely irritating, I didn’t mind the distraction their dynamic provided me.
I had a three-hour layover in Seattle, way longer than I needed, but leaving plenty of space for customs and all that goes with re-entering the country. The worst part of these re-entries is waiting for luggage to arrive, and there is no way to skip that step unless you don’t check luggage. I was one of the first to arrive at the carousel, so positioned myself close enough to see when the bags came out. The longer I stood there, the farther back I got pushed. One woman in particular edged her luggage cart next to me and gradually pushed in front of me. I had to stand on tip-toes to see the carousel, but wasn’t really concerned because I had plenty of time.
I was mostly curious and amused by the pushing and shoving going on all around me, no one speaking or getting angry, just determined to get to the front. At one point I watched another woman move the cart of the woman who’d pushed in front of me so she could get in front. I watched expressions, one indignant, the other determined, still no words exchanged, and expected things might escalate. I might have been a little disappointed when they didn’t. When my bag finally came out, I was several people back from the carousel. I tried to move forward, pointing out my bag moving ever closer. A man, who was standing directly in front, grabbed my bag and set it at the back of the crowd without once looking at me or speaking. Problem solved.
Generally, after baggage claim, there is a long line waiting to go through passport control. This time, with my shiny new Global Entry card, I walked toward that sign. A man in uniform pointed me toward a kiosk where I stood and had my picture taken. I looked up to see what was next and he said, “You’re good to go, Deborah,” waving me forward. It happened so fast I had a hard time believing I was really back in my country. As happy as I was with the ease and speed, I did miss a little being welcomed home.
I was so early that the gate for my flight was not yet listed. I found a Starbucks, had my first cold brew since the day I left for South Africa, and a cookie. I sat savoring the familiar flavors, absorbing and enjoying being surrounded by the English language and all the familiar things of home. I took the train to what I knew was the correct concourse and eventually found my gate. I wandered shops, still not finding anything to buy. I sat, still not ready for Facebook, and read.
The last leg of my trip into Portland was fast and easy. I was a little amazed that the entire trip had been problem-free, and I was actually now standing on very familiar ground. The iconic carpet of PDX and the familiar shops and restaurants flew past as I sped toward baggage claim and Walt and home.
Homecoming was nice. Walt was glad to see me and drove me home in a newly washed car. Birdie and the cats were glad to see me, for once not punishing me by ignoring me for abandoning them. The house was pretty much as I’d left it and food was stocked for my return. I knew that Walt had worked hard all day to make things just right for me. We watched an episode of Survivor, a show we’ve enjoyed together for years. I kept falling asleep, not just drifting off, but out cold, head snapping back.
If there is anything more disorienting than being away from home for 40 days, then flying for more than 24 hours plus layovers, then arriving the next day less than 24 hours from the time you left because of time zones, I haven’t experienced it. This arrival was complicated by the season change. I’d left Africa in late spring and arrived home in late fall. I’d gone from sunny and blue and warm to cloudy and gray and cold. And while I was full of the fun and love of my last day, I was also struggling to absorb the whole of the pilgrimage.
The next morning, Friday, I was up late for me, but after a night of broken sleep. Severe muscle cramps kept waking me. And then I just couldn’t sleep, so spent time messaging friends and reading until I drifted off again. I fell back into my morning routine as though no time had passed. Feed Birdie, then the cats. Get my coffee (real brewed coffee with real half and half), settle onto the couch with my journal and the animals.
From the outside, it looked like nothing had changed. But between the jet lag that would stalk me for the next week, and continuing to avoid Facebook, and the strangeness of what I’d just been through, I felt like everything had changed. I hated the weather, and was upset to not get a softer entry into fall. I was restless and exhausted. I couldn’t quite figure out how to get back into my life, or if I even wanted to. I certainly didn’t want to go back to that pilgrimage, but I did want to go back to the simplicity of the pilgrim life. And the sunshine. And the freedom.
Walt asked for stories. Unlike previous trips, because I wasn’t posting on Facebook, he didn’t really know what had happened. We’d been in touch frequently, but there was no way to explain anything clearly on WhatsApp. I tried to give him highlights, good stories, easy flashes of color. He knew some of the social issues and I summarized as best I could without going deep. I couldn’t go deep because I didn’t really understand what had happened or how I felt about it, or what it really meant.
It was the same with friends as I slowly renewed those connections. I told the same stories over and over, keeping them as light as I could. I was grateful for the love that made people reach out, and struggled with, for the first time in my pilgrimage life, not wanting to talk about it.
The first week back was tough. I clung to what routine I could manage. I unpacked and did laundry and put pilgrimage gear away. I settled back into being a wife and tried to be supportive as Walt was dealing with his own things. I reached out to friends. I walked Birdie, grateful to be walking, but missing the openness and freedom of pilgrim walking. I found my way back to yoga class slowly, also grateful for what it offered: the heat and meditation and stretch.
I journaled intensely every morning. Every entry for that first week was full of questions and went on for pages. They were the same questions I’d been asking all through the pilgrimage, but with more urgency. I was home and it was time for answers, or at least new questions, but there was no epiphany or even a glimmer of revelation.
I read a ton, seeking comfort in the place that had saved me since childhood. Caroline had suggested I re-enter with Katherine May’s book Wintering. “Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, side-lined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. . .. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition and have temporarily fallen between two worlds.”
It turned out to be the perfect medicine, so much so that I read all three of her books back-to-back in the following weeks. I had actually read her books before. However, this time through, in the daily immersion into her world from a world I was finding untenable, I found whole new wisdoms that wrapped around my pain like warm blankets. Katherine May didn’t solve me, but she did offer companionship and understanding.
In that first week home, people continued to post on the group WhatsApp site. I enjoyed seeing where my fellow pilgrims were. There was a lot of friendly chatter as people moved forward in their lives. Anna-marie and N. were walking the Peninsula and posted pictures of their adventures. We celebrated Cynthia completing 40 days and being the third person to do so. We also congratulated Anna-marie on being the 4th person to complete the entire Cape Camino in one go. (I was first. An Australian named Frank was second. I was the first to complete it twice.) Ina and Frikkie were camping. Clare commented positively on other people’s posts. Clare (see above photo) and Anna-marie both posted inspirational messages. A. demanded that none of her photos be used by anyone else.
Cape Camino was mostly quiet. They answered questions Anna-marie and N. had about the Peninsula, and it did sound like that was not going smoothly. Peggy did confirm when asked that Anna-marie was number 4. There were no congratulations or recognitions for any of us. They did abruptly end the group just a week after I’d returned home, with no explanation, and no time to respond. I went to bed one night with access to an active group, and woke up the next morning kicked off of the group.
Cape Camino didn’t delete the group, for which I’m very grateful. Because they left a handful of members in the group, it still exists as a time capsule that I’ve relied on quite a bit. I figured out later that the abrupt ending was a response to being questioned on the group about their treatment of Anna-marie and N. on the Peninsula.
I had decided to put off my decision about returning to Facebook until I had a chance to talk to Pat, my counselor. I saw her within that first week home, beyond grateful for the comfort and safety of her. Since doing the pilgrimage without Facebook had been her suggestion initially, I knew she’d understand my uncertainty about returning. I left her that day with nothing decided for certain. Only that I wasn’t yet ready to return, and for the very first time I held the possibility that I might never go back.
I arrived home two weeks before Thanksgiving. We were hosting at our house and it was a special year. My brother had just gotten married and it was a chance to introduce his bride, who was from Thailand, to other family members. That meant I had to get off the couch and focus and plan and cook. It turned out to be the just right thing to begin to lift me out of the darkness I was trying so hard not to sink into.
Focusing on Thanksgiving also gave me some time and space to decide how, and why, I was going to tell the pilgrimage stories. I considered, briefly, not telling them at all. I considered telling them on Facebook, only with more depth than before. Blogging was an option, and one that called to me more and more during those two weeks. I had blogged before and found it to be a satisfying forum for going deep, for discovery.
I suppose it makes sense that I’ve written myself to this place and have no idea how to end this post. Maybe because I’m still in transition, although aren’t we always in transition from one place or state to another? Maybe because there is no neat way to wrap up those three days, that first week home, the two weeks until Thanksgiving? My memories of this time are fuzzy and I’ve had to work hard to drag them out of the dark. My journals, the few photos, the WhatsApp group, all helped, but much of that time feels blurred.
Today is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year, where there is the most light a day can hold. I read just this morning that there are a few days now before we begin slipping back toward darkness. Like slack tide. The wrack line again. I started these stories just before the winter solstice, so it seems fitting that I’m now at a turning point. A new transition. New possibilities. And the maximum light possible with which to see what’s emerged.
I can’t quite believe I’ve finished writing the stories of what actually happened. These months of writing have been their own journey, and brought about their own insights and questions. The next stories will be what came next, and what is yet to come, but that telling doesn’t feel as urgent. There is still so much I don’t know about what happened to me on that pilgrimage, about how it’s changing me, and I want to be careful that the next stories shape a truth that enlightens and heals. Finding meaning and finding the words for the found meaning is a delicate task. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to pull it off, but I am determined to try.
As I see it now, I have two more stories to tell directly connected to the pilgrimage. After that, I’ll go back and read what I’ve written so far and let what emerges from that determine where I go next. The time I spend here writing nourishes me as much as it unsettles me, and I hunger for it now more than I hunger for the easy connections of social media.
I will end this post, and the actual pilgrimage stories themselves, with a thank you. Blogger lets me see how many people read each post. There are a couple dozen of you who have read every post, and I am grateful for your silent company. To the small handful who wrote me directly, your words were always gifts in the darkness, the timing always a perfect pat on the back when I needed it most. I hope you’ll stay with me, and that these stories add some light to your lives in return.
‘I want to age like sea glass’
By Bernadette Noll
I want to age like sea glass. Smoothed by tides, not broken. I want the currents of life to toss me around, shake me up and leave me feeling washed clean. I want my hard edges to soften as the years pass — made not weak, but supple. I want to ride the waves, go with the flow, feel the impact of the surging tides rolling in and out.
When I am thrown against the shore and caught between the rocks and a hard place, I want to rest there until I can find the strength to do what is next. Not stuck — just waiting, pondering, feeling what it feels like to pause. And when I am ready, I will catch a wave and let it carry me along to the next place that I am supposed to be.
I want to be picked up on occasion by an unsuspected soul and carried along — just for the connection, just for the sake of appreciation and wonder. And with each encounter, new possibilities of collaboration are presented, and new ideas are born.
I want to age like sea glass so that when people see the old woman I’ll become, they’ll embrace all that I am. They’ll marvel at my exquisite nature, hold me gently in their hands and be awed by my well-earned patina. Neither flashy nor dull, just the right luster. And they’ll wonder, if just for a second, what it is exactly I am made of and how I got to be in this very here and now. And we’ll both feel lucky to realize, once again, that we have landed in that perfectly right place at that profoundly right time.
I want to age like sea glass. I want to enjoy the journey and let my preciousness be, not in spite of the impacts of life, but because of them.”
No comments:
Post a Comment