Día Veintiséis / Day Twenty Six

Three hours.

I sat in a cafe for three hours Becka.

I told you I’d give you a buzz for your birthday, I found a place with semi-decent wifi, I sat down and called you at your 6:00PM. And again, and again. And again.

Three hours.

I am glad you had a good party though! You deserve to be adored and loved on; you are amazing. You are fabulous. You certainly are one of a kind!

Happy birthday cutie. I love you 🎈

Today was another day of green.

There were two paths; one a little more scenic, but at the price of an extra five kilometres.

Jack Reacher taught me, ‘If in doubt, go left’.

So I went left: the road less travelled, complete with an extra five kilometres of goodness.

I heard from others that the shorter route was along the road, under the sun, not much shade, but still ‘nice’.

Mine was so much nicer than ‘nice’.

I followed the river, where the light had to filter through a canopy of leaves to finally reach the ground.

The air was cool all day as well. It was damp, fresh – I walked through a forest and I loved it.

When I came across houses wedged down little stone (or dirt) roads, often they were in danger of being taken over by nature.

Town was ‘nice’ too 😉

Sarria is where a lot of people start – where most start, actually. To get your ‘compostela’, the official document that says you walked the Camino, you need to do a minimum of 100km of the track, which is basically from here. So, there are a lot of newcomers.

Beds get full quickly, shop keepers jack up their prices, and there are a lot of … different mentalities.

The track keeps changing. From mountains, to endless fields, to highways and rivers and mountains again. Now though, it seems to be the company that is changing .

It’s weird that I just keep walking – keep doing the same thing day in, day out, and yet every day is unique. No moment can be replicated or relived.

It certainly is a funny feeling, but I kinda like it. Kinda.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right? Better off embracing change than fighting it.

I was listening to Joel McKerrow’s brilliant piece, We Tell Stories, as I walked this afternoon.

It lit a fire inside me.

As I walk amongst new faces and fresh souls, may I remember to help pull out those pens and do what I can to show each passerby – or person I pass by – how to write.

We Tell Stories, by Joel McKerrow and the Mysterious Few
We tell stories; we do not wrap them around our fingers, controlled and ordered – we are wrapped and rolled by them.
Let the world light us up, take a drag, breathe us in. 

I can promise you it will be worth it in the end, for inside your minds are a thousand empty lightbulbs and a million sleeping thoughts and a billion masterpieces and a trillion tiny moments that creep into our souls.
Whether we are willing or not, they pry us open; open our mouths, for we tell stories. 

Look around you; there are pens in the hands of every passerby.
And if they’re not in their palms then they are in breast pockets close to heart spaces.
And if they are not in their chest then you dive into side pockets, pull their pens from dark places and you,
You offer to be the first paper that they write upon. 

A Thought of Your Own?

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