I pause to catch my breath and to enjoy the smooth mahogany roundness of an abundance of “conkers”, scattered in the shade of the broad horse-chestnut tree under which I stand. To my left, on the neighbouring hill, stands the Iglesia de Santiago with its famous “Holy Door of Forgiveness”. Pilgrims too sick to continue their onward journey to the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela could be granted absolution here in days gone by.
Today, we were fortunate – the church was open. In the cool, quiet interior, I stood for a long time, gazing at a statue of Mary, tenderly holding Jesus, after his crucifixion. For me, this image spoke of the time between seasons – one beloved form passing away, to make space for something new, something more. Mixed with a profound sadness, I felt a palpable sense of peace and ease in the passing of one season to the next.
I have come to expect powerful emotions to arrive, seemingly from nowhere as I walk the Camino. Days of walking, away from usual routines and distractions create a sort of trance state. As I walk, I begin see familiar things a little differently.
Today, the autumn colours and the last grapes of the year remind me that I am walking towards winter.
When the pilgrims and I left in early September, the weather was hot and dry, the land parched. Our walk took us through closely cropped fields of wheat and of sunflowers, with their seed-laden heads bowed, waiting for harvest.
As I enjoyed the warmth and pushed down my annual dread of winter’s cold dampness, I reflected two things.
Nature does not resist seasonal change.
Nature fiercely protects its next generation and then lets it go.
Flowers bloom, fade, and then peel away revealing pods of extraordinary beauty and strength.
Then, at the point of perfect ripeness, seeds are released, and entrusted to the earth.
The plant does not hold onto one form but expresses its essence in a progression of beautiful and radically different forms through the natural flow of seasonal change. Bud becomes flower; flower becomes seed; and seed eventually becomes a new plant.
I hear the words of David Whyte, “Winter Grief”, I wonder if I can, if we can trust the seasons to do their work in us?
Can we
“ . . . give up
and give in
and be given back to.
Can we
“. . . let
winter
come and live
fully inside . . .
I wonder then, why do I hold so tightly to an identity, a form, when it has ripened and is ready to pass to something new?
Can I truly trust the seasons to do their work in me?
Can I trust that there is a seed of something new, something more in me?
Can I trust that the seed in me needs winter before its new growth can be revealed?
I wonder, not only for myself, but for all of us. Can we so trust nature and the seasons?