No words – a story

A beautiful piece from Cyrus Copeland

The black anger found me again.

Found and followed me through the forested hills of Asturia, hunted down and devoured entire days, and compelled me to admit my interior terrain is a mystery. Once again, I am deeply angry on one of the holiest paths on earth. Never mind why—what is important is that 300 miles later, I can’t shake my rage.

Outside the Cathedral in Avilles, a beggar stands guard. Bearded and dark-eyed, he motions for me to remove my hat. When I hand him a euro he indicates that I should remove my earbuds too. Stripped of hat, euro and earbuds, I wait for him to speak, but he just looks at me. Camino beggars are so mysterious and bossy! Come to think of it, he looks a bit like Rasputin.

And then two realizations: He is deaf/mute. And he is blessing me. I don’t know how I know this but I do. The little pocket of silence between us grows larger––as does a sense of awkwardness.

“We done?” I indicate with a thumbs-up, but still he says nothing.

And then all at once, I fall into his blessing.

For a good minute he holds me in his gaze and I fall deeper, then deeper, into a pocket of silence. It’s a bit like falling in love—that sense of communion that defies explanation or resistance. You just fall. And it is a lot like what I imagine grace to be. I’ve never been looked at so long without words. Outside a Camino cathedral, I’m falling in grace with a beggar.

And since it’s Sunday and I’m adjacent a house of God, I might as well confess: I’ve struggled with my anger, fought, accepted, and lost all control over its artillery. But standing before him, silence blossoms. It’s the exact opposite of those Christian revival meetings you see on TV––possessed people flailing. Dispossessed of my fury, I feel only a deepening sense of marvel and a silence that falls like snow on scorched earth.

Had he seen all the hot anger I’d dragged to his cathedral? I’ve been blessed by priests before, men who lay a soft hand and intone a few words, but don’t hold a candle to the power of this wordless man. You’ve heard of the peace that surpasses all understanding? Here it is.

Finally and deeply, here it is.

A minute or so later he’s finished and for the next hour, I wander through town, from café to café, trying to understand what just happened. He’s too powerful and proud to be a beggar, this guy. Too mystical. With his beard and piercing eyes, he even looks biblical. Here’s what I’m wondering––was it James returned to aid his failing pilgrim? James who’s known to appear on the path and lend a hand to the dispossessed, the unjustly accused, the betrayed? Camino lore is full of such stories.

The following day on the road to Villaviciosa, I can’t locate the heat in my head. I look for it––out of pattern, boredom, curiosity––but no matter how hard I try to access my rage, I can’t. It’s gone. In its place I find myself weeping. Whether from relief or the spiritual contact high, or the wonder of it all, I can’t say. Fortunately the Camino Norte is a sparsely traveled path because for the next two weeks, I basically weep my way to Santiago.

* * *

Two hundred miles later, I’m standing at doorstep of St. James’s cathedral––bright in the morning sun. Its Romanesque exterior has been recently restored and its gargoyles and statuary refreshed. It’s breathtaking. But inside, a cacophony of scaffolding, netting and plastic rolls obscures the cathedral’s treasures. For the first time in 900 years, there will be no mass here because the interior is under renovation.

Today I am one of over 3000 pilgrims arriving in Santiago, carrying broken love stories and overheated minds and pre-chemo bodies across continents to lay at James’s doorstep. Our interiors are under repair too. We are our own cathedrals of stripped-down beauty. I’ve walked 500 miles––half in anger, half in grace. We drag all our messy humanity with us across the miles.

When no one is looking, I descend a flight of stone steps into St. James’s burial chamber and lay my walking stick before him. My thanks for delivering me through the most difficult terrain of my life. James himself was a terrible proselytizer. Words failed him when it came to spreading the Word, but he walked across continents. He had anger issues––Jesus dubbed him “Son of Thunder”––but he walked through those too. Having stolen his thunder and spent it all over Spain, I can attest: you just keep walking.

Above, the clamor of renovation continues. Here in the tiny crypt silence reigns. I could spend hours in the dark, cool holiness of this cave. Having lain down my walking stick, I wing a few prayers skyward and fall back into silence.

Words failed James. They failed the deaf-mute. They fail me now.

Nothing will equal the ineffable beauty of this moment.

And this one.

And this one.

I’m thinking about the beggar and the gift he bequeathed. Grace is like love, see? (Or maybe it is love?) You don’t get it because you deserve it––the reasons, delivery and form are up to a power much greater and more mysterious than anything we can fathom. You can’t rationalize it. It turns up when you least expect it. It’s God’s magic trick. The quarter behind the ear. The rope trick. And no one who receives it will ever be the same. But having traveled 500 miles, I’ve learned a thing or two––or three––to get you started.

Take off your hat. Take out your earbuds. Fish out a euro.

Open yourself to the world and its infinite paths, and see what happens.

The real magic is never where you think. It’s not here inside this glorious cathedral, in this loveliest of cities, built around the bones of a beloved saint. It’s at the threshold of another far less impressive one, guarded by wordless men of unimaginable power. It’s always that way.