There is something about a cat. There's something about a cat's fur when you brush over it, the way it can stand up or stiffly caress your calloused fingers, your white nails, your dirty nails, the kind of dirt from walking sticks and from zipping up weathered rain jackets and putting on faded, turquoise trucker caps. There's something about a cat that's missing an eye, that has a broken leg, all deformed and curled up, that flicks around when it tries to scratch it's ear. Ignacio knelt down beside me, his hand on its head, the cat leaning into his palm. "Where are you from?" I asked. He smiled as he looked up and told me about Madrid in perfect English. I told him about my week there. He told me about his American school and how many of his friends are from California and how he wanted to visit. We walked into a church, our words hushed by the ornate Catholic gold cascading in front of the eldery wooden pews. He told me what the old Spanish ladies were saying as they arranged the flowers and I told him how good his English was. I thought it was the last I would see him. It wasn't. I saw him again in San Juan de Ortega when we stayed the night at the same hostel. He smiled when the wind blew my hair into my eyelashes as I cradled my hammock while I sized up the trees rationalizing themselves as planter decorations. "El gato!" I half laughed, half sputtered through my hammock thoughts when I saw him. We started to talk about the Camino and spirituality and traveling and life pursuits. Of guitars and favorite animals and about learning in college that we actually don't know anything. He laughed when I over-pronounced his last name, trying to say it correctly. We left the last shards of sunset as we ran inside when we saw the nuns locking the doors for the night. Ignacio and I are the same age. He is the first pilgrim I've met who is in the same place in life as I am. Meeting him was a visual reminder that while I am living in my self-absorbed life at home, people just like me are living in Spain, in France, in God-knows-where in Iceland. They are living with the same aspirations that are staring at them just as straight in the face as me. My conversation with him was like looking in a mirror but seeing the background behind the tiny spek of a face I so often can't see past.
In my experiences in hostels I've only found one universal language: snoring. It can actually be beautiful... the different pitched choruses sighing together... It's like being suffocated in a room of multi-cultured murmers with no breath of silence. The earplugs I stole from the library have helped a bit. The headphones from the plane have been nice too. Who knew public facilities and transportation systems could actually be useful? The other day I sat under the stairwell of a hostel run by nuns. Ha. Run by nuns. Nuns on the run. I hadn't seen a real live nun before this trip. I guess they don't like the idea of massages, or being asked if they want one. I never thought I would participate in a nun sing along, but I found myself facing them sitting indian style wearing a grey beanie I found. It was incredible. The room was chorused with the accented voices of Germans and Dutchmen and Spaniards and Californians. We sang songs in each of our languages, one of the nuns passionately strumming an old Classical guitar. It was Amazing Grace that got to me. Some people didn't even know English, but they sang anyway, reading the words off their crumpled song sheets marred by their sweaty, dirty hands. I love how God can see past our sweat and dirt and language barrier to give us that Amazing Grace. The nuns were leading strangers in songs they didn't know to put the focus back on the thing they've committed their entire life to... that Amazing Grace. Nuns are some of the most beautiful people I know.
A few days ago I was listening to Counting Song by Denae Templeton. I tried to look it up on YouTube to post the link, but I guess it's just too hipster. So, here's some lyrics.
I was busy counting 1, 2, 3.
I forgot, forgot, forgot, forget to see.
Remember, remember, remember, I forgot to remember...
God above I know You love me,
God of love You're closer than above me.
We walk but we don't run one step then two steps three four not three nine ten and we
glory in each one two three four five six seven eight nine then
we forget to count, make me forget to count, to count, cause You're the fountain.
I was busy playing games for three and four and keeping score
oh when will my heart be silent?
Holding up my fingers once more,
You ask why and said there's no game and there's no score,
just You love me.
It's one thing to listen to music with the intention of escaping from the world, but it's another to listen to it with the intention of making the world seem more picturesque. I don't either are bad, but walking with the second mindset was like living in a movie or like getting to be an artist's brush stroke in a painting. Milage and hours have no relevance or power in my life anymore. I have been freed from society's conception of time... of keeping score. I forgot to remember that time and the trap of sizing myself up to my surroundings was actually only me creating barriers for myself. I tell myself I'm too busy to spend time with God or pursue Him further but I'm only limiting myself to human's conceptions of how life should be. Please don't misread this, I definitely think the conception of time and calculating it correctly is crucial to maintain an organized society, but when it becomes an excuse to not revolve our day around the things we deem important, I believe it has started to control our lives.
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