Author: colleen arnold

Colleen Arnold is a family physician, widow, mom and freelance writer living in Lexington, Va.

The Camino Trail Part 1: What is it and Why Did I Do It?

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Last month I had the incredible experience of hiking the Camino de Santiago in Spain. I know it will take weeks to process the whole experience, but in the meantime, here’s the first installment!

On the Camino

“What is it?” is easier to answer. The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of Saint James, is a Catholic pilgrimage to the city of Santiago de Compostela in the Galicia region of Spain. The Apostle St James, one of the two sons of Zebedee and brother to the “Beloved Apostle” John, is traditionally thought to be buried there. He is the patron saint of Spain since he evangelized the country and according to legend, interceded on its behalf in battle against the Moors.

People have walked the trail for over 1200 years, and it now attracts more than 300,000 pilgrims annually. Those who walk at least 100 km receive the Compostela, a colorful handwritten certificate authenticating their accomplishment (though in my case, the handwriting proclaimed my name as Mr. Arnold Colleen). Pilgrims carry a Camino passport booklet, which is stamped at least once or twice a day in various towns, chapels, and post offices along the way, to validate the distance and time walked.  

My Compostela

For a lot of modern walkers, the Camino provides simply a vacation – a chance to exercise, get away from technology, eat well, and explore the stunning countryside. For others, it is a pilgrimage of challenge and achievement, celebrating a landmark birthday or event like retirement. For many, though, the pilgrimage is still a quest for prayer, faith and spiritual growth.

So why did I do it?

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How Do I Get Through This?

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“How am I going to get through this?” my friend asked, as quiet tears slid down her weary-eyed face. There was no easy answer for her question, so I just reached across the table and held her hand.

The odd thing was that she was the fourth person lately who asked that same question. My guess is that each of us has asked it before, probably more than once. Between the grief of a husband’s sudden death, the loss of a miscarriage, a terrifying health diagnosis, and unexpected marital separations, it seems I know a lot of people who are struggling. I have been thinking about how I survived when Neil died. Here’s some thoughts.

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Help! I’m Drowning!

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Although we lived on a lake in my early childhood and I knew how to ice skate, I never learned then how to swim. I loved the water; I just didn’t feel any overwhelming desire to be under it.

Then came third grade swimming lessons at the community pool. I tried to love the lessons, really, I did, but there was nothing fun about being cold and wet. My tense paper-weight-like body refused to float and instead I reliably sank. While the other beginner students jumped in and out with joyful abandon, I gently lowered myself inch by chilly inch into the water. Instead of graceful arms and fluttering feet my strokes looked like a flapping chicken hit the water. So, when the day came for everyone to jump off the diving board, I was not enthusiastic. 

My mom wisely stayed home that day, and my dad came instead. I had no intention of going off the board, but he gradually talked me into it. After watching everyone else have their turn, and noting no near-death experiences, I decided I could at least try. Here is a key detail though: I still couldn’t really swim. Everyone thought that as soon as I jumped into the deep end, weeks of lessons would suddenly click, and I would paddle proudly over to the edge and climb out. That most definitely did not happen.

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On the Love of a Puppy

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Last summer I babysat my best friend’s ten-week-old German Shepherd.  I had forgotten how hard it is to take care of a puppy, and if you have too, let me remind you.

He was not yet housebroken, so I was careful not to trip in any wayward puddles. At any sign of an impending squat I quickly snatched him up and raced outside to the grass.  His sharp little puppy teeth innocently found their way to every single drawer knob and rocker bottom in my house, despite my attempts to guide them to things less dangerous to chew. He raced like a victorious bull through the screen door that eventually fell in surrender around him. He shredded not only the newspaper that was supposed to help him learn housetraining, but every single toy that his owner sent with him. My floors looked like cotton fields with all the white fluff scattered across them.

And yet, he was so darn cute. My voice was strong in the moments when I scolded him, “No!” but he was quickly forgiven as he breathed puppy breath into my face and licked me with his happy tongue. He chewed my flip flop then looked at me with soulful apologetic eyes that melted my heart. Who cares about flip flops? I thought to myself. His clumsy paws got tangled in my feet, and before I could even reprimand him, I laughed as we ended up on the floor. And when he finally fell asleep and snuggled at the foot of the bed, I smiled at the sound of gentle snoring and little legs prancing in happy puppy dreams.  I fell in love with this dog – and he wasn’t even mine. Imagine how I’d feel if I was the one who chose him out of the litter to call my own.

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