12/09/2025 - The way he held my sight.

I’m on the bed in the hostel where I’m staying tonight, and there are cheap firecrackers going off outside because, of course, there’s a village party the only night of the year I'm sleeping there lol... And the albergue happens to be right on the central place. The hostel's volunteers warned us, even offered earplugs, for the noise we’d have tonight. Apparently, the party starts around 8pm; at 10pm there’s a metal bull with fireworks going around town, then everyone goes home to eat. You’d think it’s over. Well, it’s only the beginning, because at 1am it all starts again until 6am... Spanish culture is wild, and so late lol.

I hope I’ll be deeply asleep by then, and if the angels are around, I’m gently asking for help to keep me far from my bed for the night so I can be rested for the 20 km awaiting me tomorrow. I need to get back on track and find my energy again. Today was okay, I walked only 8 km and really took my time. First, because my toes still hurt (though the silicone caps helped), and second, because I see everything that’s happening as a lesson to slow down again.

Yesterday was a release. I finally touched the child-emotions behind my need for speed, action, and grand accomplishment. I knew it already, but hadn’t had the chance to tap into it and let it out. Now I need to embody the lesson: slow down, prioritize my well-being, and stay present. And let me just say, it was NOT my mood this morning.

I woke up, lingered in bed, and after thirty minutes of scrolling finally got ready. My feet stinging with pain, annoyed for not feeling already great again. I saw the walk as a challenge, but not the kind that excites me; the kind that involves pain. So I was reluctant. I started walking and quickly realized the only way I’d make it was with baby steps and by managing the weight I put on each leg; more on the right, because the left toe had the sharpest pain.

I called my dad and sister. I've been doing it every day since I started the Camino, but this time, unconsciously, I wanted support without saying so. I kept a straight face even when my dad tried to lighten the conversation with jokes. I was determined to make them understand that I was suffering. I wanted to play the victim without taking the obvious role; I just wanted a little pity. But that’s not my dad’s style, nor my sister’s, and I knew it.

It triggered me for a moment. I wanted to tell them it costed them nothing to acknowledge how hard this is for me, that I’ve endured and deserve comfort. At least that’s what my ego wanted. But I dropped it quickly and chose vulnerability instead, because I know it’s the better path in those moments. The one that can actually help me feel better. I shared yesterday’s realization with my dad, who was deeply understanding. He recognized how he used to push me, us, maybe sometimes too far.

I told him that I had only felt seen when I accomplished something or went on adventures with him, never when I was playing in my room or creating. He admitted it was true, that he hadn’t been interested, and then he added, almost casually, that “it’s normal,” before moving on. That phrase stuck with me. Normal? A voice inside me protested: Why should it be normal? Why wasn’t my inner world worth your attention? When I think about it, I realize we’d need to look at how his own inner world was received when he was a child. I suspect no one truly acknowledged it, and so it makes sense he didn't care about mine.

We stayed on the phone for more than an hour, and by the end I felt lighter. I stopped at a café on the road and ordered a pan con tomate, my favorite. While I was biting into it, a cute guy walked in with his parents and brother. I’d seen him in Roncesvalles, my first stop, where we had only exchanged glances there. Now he sat in a way we could see each other. And we did. A few times here and there. And then once, with a lot of insistence. The kind of look that means something. Where eyes meet each other even through distance. I couldn’t help but smile inside, until it actually reached my lips, and I sat there smiling for real. I thought of what I could say as I left the bakery, but nothing came out. I simply said, “Have a nice walk,” to him, and his family.

This encounter was pure. A shyness emanated from him, the one that envelops my heart with poetry. But the way he held my sight was so blatantly fierce, with intent, it took me by surprise. Soft but strong. And I hope our path can cross again along the Camino. Even only just to get to know the man behind the sight.

The rest of my walk went well. I passed by a free wine fountain, and got a taste of the Rioja selection. I forced myself to stop often, listen to my body, drink when I needed, take off my jumper when cold, put it back when warm, and go to the bathroom when needed. So many steps I tend to skip, through dissociation, because I can handle discomfort in order to arrive. It’s crazy when I think of it, as if nothing matters except arriving as fast as possible.

Is it competition? I’m not sure. I thought competition meant having an adversary, and there isn’t one. I don’t want to arrive before others. Most of the time I even arrive too early and can’t check in, which is annoying. No, I just want to arrive so it’s done, so I can cross an “unpleasant” task off the list. Yet I usually love walking. But because I must do it now, it became a task, not a hobby, and that changed the meaning. I can almost hear a part of myself saying : "Tasks must be done, not enjoyed". Interesting… So what would you call this trait? Freaking virgo trait for real.

When I arrived at the albergue, no one was there. A sign said pilgrims would be admitted at 2pm, so I went to the bar next door for lunch. I had a small altercation with the owner, an older Spanish man with bad manners and a taste for crazy prices since he knows he has a bar on the camino's path. He kept calling me guapa while I was talking to a woman and charged me 9€ for a sandwich and a bottle of water. I told him calmly that he was rude, and the price too expensive; he started shouting. And I simply walked out while he was jumping around infuriated.

Back at the hostel, other people were waiting. We got our rooms, showered, and I finally laid down. I spent most of the afternoon scrolling (I know, it annoys me too), but also annotating my dad’s book, and working for Robert. At 7:00, a bell rang to announce dinner. A beautiful table was set outside on the patio, and people were already sitting. At first I felt socially tired and didn’t want to connect.

We passed around huge bowls of salad, and slowly everyone relaxed. By the time the delicious bolognese arrived, I poured myself a tiny glass of red wine and was fully comfortable. I was surrounded by older women with different backstories, one from Portugal, two from Canada, a French woman, and the chef from the Netherlands. The table continued on the other side with more men, but I instinctively chose this spot.

Philippe was in between, a cute American guy volunteering here for the second time. We glanced at each other a few times, not flirty, just gentle curiosity. I thanked the kitchen team, and we received little chocolate puddings. And as you know by now, chocolate and I are a love story. I finished mine in two minutes and headed back upstairs, ready for sleep, but someone came to invite those who wanted to join for a Jesus meditation.

I said yes without thinking too much, knowing I always feel better after any kind of meditation. We gathered around a large table in the living room with a low ceiling and a big old fireplace. The owner sat at one end. He put on relaxing music, and we drifted. I thought about the last two days, the feeling of lack, of being low compared to the first joyful days on the Camino. I reminded myself my hormones are low, and that in a few days I’ll have a burst of energy again, as I do every month.

From time to time, he lowered the music to read Bible verses in hesitant English, stumbling over words. It wasn’t easy to follow, but I let it wash over me and stayed with my own experience. My attention turned to Jesus, not as a religious figure, but as an aware man who, in his time, dared to think for himself in a world with little sense of the Self. For me, he embodies the divine masculine: grounded, safe, steady enough to hold me without demand. I don’t need to belong to a religion to feel that. I don’t have to accept every text or doctrine to honor the essence of certain figures. What matters is the inspiration they carried, visions so bright they still move people centuries later. With Jesus, I don’t see dogma, I see presence. Awareness. A man whose essence speaks to something timeless in us all.

We went around in a circle to share our experience of the meditation, and of the Camino. Some stayed silent; others spoke in their own language. Philippe said he was surrendering his doubts and fears into God’s hands, trusting He might have other plans for him. When it was my turn, I shared that I’ve been too focused on accomplishing the steps and forgot to appreciate the journey. That I got my period yesterday and it’s an introspective phase for me. That I was raised by a father who valued accomplishments, which shaped this pattern. And that I focused on Jesus energy, a masculine figure who loves me without expecting anything.

All eyes were on me; I felt their attentiveness and their wish for me to keep talking. I was in my element, comfortable, honest, eloquent. It was a beautiful moment because I let myself shine, even after feeling in the shadows all day. Holding attention is a power I used to reject; now I choose to embrace it.

When the circle ended, some people left, but I stayed. The owner asked about my life and why I chose the Camino. We spoke casually until the conversation drifted to the Bible. I said I’d never read it, but was open. Philippe jumped up to fetch a passage for me, Joan’s interpretation, to be precise. They were so appreciative, almost pushy, about me getting into it, about finally joining the faith. But along the years I’ve slowly and surely developed my own faith. I didn’t follow the text; I cultivated it inside. I asked questions, some more inquisitive than others, but all from genuine curiosity.

What stayed with me most was how they dissociated themselves from divinity and placed it in His hands: He created the world, He created us, He loved us so much… He wants us to imitate Him. My resistance lies there, in that ladder of superiority and inferiority. For me, the divine isn’t an external “He” above us, but the act itself; the impulse of consciousness to expand, to explore the infinite ways it can take form. Like a cell that divides, not to diminish itself, but to multiply and see itself from new angles. Like a star scattering its light into countless sparks, each one still carrying the original fire. In order for consciousness to recognize there was a “self,” it had to divide, to create mirrors through which it could observe its own reflection.

In that sense, no form is superior or more divine than another; all are fragments of the same wholeness, playing out different perspectives. There is no ladder, no single road chosen by a distant God. There is only this vast experiment of being, where what we call “God” is simply everything that once chose to exist, the endless dance of awareness multiplying itself to know itself. And all of us are a mirror of it. This is simply how I see it, my way of making sense of what spirituality means for me.

We had a beautiful exchange nonetheless, and I felt grateful to experience and share it with them. I stood up and thanked them, those beautiful souls, before going to bed, where I find myself now. And I am tired, so I’ll say good night and see you tomorrow.

With love, Loune.