Morning blues lodged within my bones
as we left Caldas de Reis.
The sky was overcast, the air cold,
and the Galician rain grew heavier.
Then three companions brought their sunshine
into the grey morning.
Their lively voices lifted me
like wings beneath a tired bird.
Ahead of us, a stream of diverse pilgrims
flowed out of the city like the River Umia.
We shared one destination: Santiago.
I imagined the Magi setting out,
trusting the star they had been given,
though the road ahead was still unknown.
For several kilometres, I listened
to conversations around me.
Some moved quickly from words to quick replies,
one thought meeting another
until both moved on without reaching an end.
Others made room for what was heard:
a thought received, spoken back with care,
then offered a new perspective.
The Camino held them all
beneath the same wide sky.
“I listen in order to grow,”
one pilgrim said.
The words stayed with me.
I wondered what kind of listener
I had been that morning,
and what might grow in me,
if I received another’s words
before reaching for my own.
Other stories came with sharper edges.
Pilgrims spoke frankly of prejudice and racism
on the path and in the cities we passed through.
I listened without smoothing over their hurt.
The Camino bears our human story,
sacred and profane moments together.
Still, they did not surrender their trust
that God was present among us,
even here, where welcome had failed.
At a church along the way, I paused
to gather the morning’s graces:
the companions who had lifted my spirits,
the pilgrims setting out together,
and that small invitation to listen.
Without such pauses, I might walk past
the gifts the day had already given.
Bright yellow flowers appeared beside the path.
Their petals echoed the yellow arrows
we had come to trust.
Even the earth seemed to be pointing us onward.
I gave thanks for these humble signs,
and for the eyes to notice them.
In the final stretch, pain gripped my ankle.
Each step was an effort.
I kept Padrón in sight,
but could no longer pretend
I had all the strength or direction I needed.
I asked my companions to guide us
to the hotel using their GPS.
Surrender that day took the simple shape
of accepting their help.
Entering Padrón, we crossed the Ulla River.
Its waters moved downstream,
drawing my thoughts once more upstream
toward their hidden source.
The yellow arrows led me through the landscape;
the river called me toward the cave of my heart,
where I still hope to find the treasure of grace.
Padrón takes its name from a great stone,
linked by tradition to the arrival
of the Apostle James.
That evening, I thought less of its ancient journey
than of our own.
We Caribbean pilgrims had reached
a place to lay down our weary bodies.
For one night, Padrón was our stone:
firm beneath our aching feet,
a resting place by the river.
Tomorrow the arrows would call again.
For now, I was grateful to have arrived.
