Most, if not all, of our dreams remain in a dreamsphere forever. (How lovely to write words one has never seen before.)
Majority of humans put off fulfillment of their dreams. It is always later, when I have this, when I have done that, when things are less hectic (are they ever?), when I am older, when I have more time, when the kids grow up, when I retire, on and on and on and on. Excuses. Why do we make them? Is the fear of one's dreams greater than any other?
It does happen, quite often too, that our dreams fulfilled disappoint us. We were wrong, that was not what would make us happy. Constant pursuit of happiness is a constant disappointment. All life is liquid like a river, like a mountain stream, and if looking for happiness in the future we will never ever find it. Life is not BAD NOW, and will not be GOOD LATER. Life is always joy and suffering, and therein we must find peace and happiness.
Most certainly it was like that with my dream of walking the Camino: always in the back of my mind since seeing the pilgrims on Camino del Norte, always knowing that "one day I will do it". Except the day came and went away, every day came and went away, and it was always "one day".
A catalyst came unexpectedly:
I came back from living for a year in Rome, had neighbor problems (!), got pregnant (!!), could not, for the longest time, come to terms with my pregnancy, and then, when I finally did, I lost my baby. With a loving husband, family, superb friends, I should have been all right, right? But I was not. Nothing was helping. I was angry, and I was hurt, and I was in a bad place. I sat (like in "meditate") more than ever, and I was still angry and hurt.
During one sitting, it suddenly came over me that it must be now. Now is the time to walk the Camino. Move from the back burner straight into the furnace. It was April 29th, 2003. I told Richard. I bought a ticket to fly to Bilbao in September. I packed my backpack with few bottles of water, and begun training. Adding a half-liter bottle each day, until the pack weighed what I thought it would weigh packed for the Camino.
By September I have lost 24 pounds. I bought new Vasques a month before leaving. They were tight, but Justin from the store insisted they were the way they should be. I went back couple of times, and he still insisted I will walk them in (even though I walked at least an hour every day, and they were still tight). I packed my pack. Richard drove me to Phoenix, and I flew to London. One hour lunch with Leah and Geoff, and off to Stanstead to catch my plane to Bilbo.

I stayed there for a few days, and never figured out Spanish eating times. Good that I took so many Zone bars! I remember only once someone opened the store for me to sell me some jamon (I started eating meat while living in Rome 2001/2002). Otherwise it was just Zone bars. Except for breakfasts of cafe con leche y croissant everyday at Cafe Boulevard. I love Bilbo! If you say Egun On instead of Buenos Dias, you are good.  They will always be nice to you.  I guess otherwise, they might just ignore you.

On the morning of September 19th, 2003, I packed up, checked out of Hostal Gurea, took Eurskaltren to Hendaia/Hendaye via Donostia/San Sebastian, then switched to a French train to Baiona/Bayonne, and then took a lovely train to Donibane Garazi/St.Jean-Pied-de-Port. The beginning of my walk! I found an albergue para peregrinos, then went to an office of Les Amis du Chemin de Saint-Jacques to register and get my credencial. Basically, ready to go! Hurray!
On the main walking street of St.Jean (must be Chemin de Santiago?; that is where the pilgrims walk since time immemorial towards Santiago) I bought myself some delicious handmade macaroons, and a bottle of cidra. Then went up to the ruins of an old castle, and drank it whole, along with lovely chewy macaroons, in order to celebrate the new beginning, and to calm my misgivings about my capabilities. Then off to bed.
I thought I would sleep.
And it was not my nerves that kept me awake.
It was the Incredible Snoring Brazilians.
My apologies to that nation. My tough luck though. The Incredible Snoring Brazilians happened to sleep in my room.
By 3 a.m. I have given up all hope of falling asleep, and so I packed my sleeping bag as quietly as I possibly could, and - I promise, without waking anyone up - sort of sneaked out into the dark.
Down the hill, over the bridge, up, and I found a bench. Until about 6 a.m. I did fall in and out of sleep, then at about 6:30 I put on my pack, and went on my way.

I was so afraid I will not be able to walk up that mountain and down to Roncesvalles on the other side in one day, that I pushed myself too forcibly. Really, beyond not just my comfort, but my abilities. I came to Roncesvalles just past noon, long before the opening of the albergue de peregrinos there. With feet sore, full of blisters, shaking legs, a headache, hunger, and nausea. I have just gotten fed up with my Zone bars. The bar was closed, I think. The restaurant looked full and too expensive. So I did some basic foot care, and some sightseeing. Then went back to wait for the opening of the albergue.
Pilgrims begun pouring in long after. By the time monks opened the ckeck-in, the waiting room was full. Thankful, I got my bed assigned, and did what I would be doing many more times before coming to Santiago; arrange the bed, take a shower, do laundry, rest, write, read, meditate. I also attended a mass for the blessing of the pilgrims. I was exhausted. What kept me going? Fear. What if I don't make it?
The long Way awaits, it does not ask if you can, it calmly just IS. Decision is yours. Every moment is a decision. You decide if you want to live.
By 8:30 p.m. most pilgrims are asleep, or at least quiet in their sleeping bags. By 10 p.m. all is quiet. I must learn to sleep with so many in one room again.
At 8 a.m. it is still dark outside, but I begin my walk. How will I make it?, I don't know. My feet are really, really killing me. I decide I must walk. I must live. Yes, it does sound melodramatic, but the decision to walk became my decision to live. At long last the fighting brought results.

I have never ever heard of Camino de Santiago until, in 1992 I, Richard, and all four girls went on a road trip to Spain. Unknowingly, we followed what is roughly Camino del Norte. We saw some backpackers along the way, and found out the are on peregrinacion verso Santiago.

Contrary to what many people think they know of life in a communist state, we were quite free in Poland. Comparatively free. In particular during "my times": under First Secretary of the Party, Edward Gierek. We were somehow free, sometimes more, sometimes less, to express - at least a little - our rebellion against the regime, and we were free to worship. Catholic Church held so much sway in the hearts and minds and spirits and lives in general, that it basically had to be left alone. It must have been with some kind of approval from the Soviets, they must have known the power of Polish faith, that must have been the only thing they were afraid of. Otherwise, why would the have permitted it to go on right under their noses, and why only in Poland to such a degree.

That was not a question. Just a statement.

Yes, you could meet members of the Party regularly every Sunday at a mass at your local church. And every one of them pretended they do not see their Party colleagues there. On so it went on for great many years. Don't see and don't tell. And most Party members, even high up in the hierarchy, got married at a church, baptized their children, their children went to First Communion, they held funerals there for members of their families. Not all, but most. Probably army officers were the ones who with most discipline stayed away from Church, and kept their families from it.

Here was our Great Chance: catholic or not, christian or not, believer or not. We were all united under the Church's security blanket. That was where we were free. We all knew, which priest will help us, to which seminarium can we go for our clandestine meetings, what monastery will welcome us without asking any, any questions. We can do as we please, we will know beforehand when it is not safe to stay anymore. And the annual meeting of like-minded was held always on the same date, August 15, in Czestochowa, the holiest shrine in Poland, on the holy day of Mother Mary, protectoress of Polish nation since at least Swedish wars, the Deluge. Very significant for a Polish mind. So significant, that there was never ever any interference from the "wladze", or government forces of any kind. Even policemen (milicjant) were nice to us. It was not that we were safe on the grounds of the shrine. We were free in the whole city. Yes, officially we were pilgrims come to Czestochowa, but it was an open secret that those in tents are not ordidnary pilgrims but rebellious youth and those who sympatize with their cause. "Hippies", is what we were called, but you could be not slightly mistaken if you thought we were what hippies were, much earlier of course, in the West. That form of the movement was particular only to Poland. It never happened to exist anywhere else, apparently. es, I should definitely write more on that in the future. Sure, some got in trouble, but only some of those who took drugs, went into poppy fields to harvest opium milk, or got caught for some other "regular" offence. There was some scum there, like everywhere else. There were some runaways, some deserters, orphans, there were always some East Germans, Hungarians, and Czechoslovakians who came to feel the freedom, sometimes some famous band came all the way to Czestochowa just to play for us (the last summer I was there it was SBB, or Szukaj(Search)Burz(Destroy)i Buduj (and Build), with Antymos Apostolis, Jerzy Piotrowski, and Jerzy Skrzek - check them out on YouTube). Most of all, however, it was us, what we thought "regular" kids, and some sympathetic priest, like Fr.Andrzej, a nun, Jacek Kuron, a Jesuit monk whose name it was better not to know, just in case, who introduced us to Zen (I think Phillip Kapleau came a year after that, but then perhaps it was in Warsaw that I met him; I know he was told he was the first one to bring Zen to Poland), someone or the other. And they did not ask about our religious affiliation, our faith, lack of it, our morality. They lived for us, for our generation, they lived to save us, and not in a religious sense at all. We learned our rights as put down in Polish Constitution, we plotted step by step our plan to stop communism, we signed petitions to free Vaclav Havel, to allow more freedom in other satellites. I wonder, if those petitions were ever delivered for the purpose of freeing Vaclav Havel, or was it a clever government way of obtaining names and addresses of those naive kids that we were.

To be continued