Seven years ago I walked the Camino, a 500 mile pilgrimage across northern rural Spain, for the first time. I walked it with my then boyfriend. We were on a year long holiday around the world. The Camino seemed like a great way to see Spain. 

The Cruz de Ferro marks one of the highest points on The Way. Traditionally you bring a stone from home and place it at the base of the cross, leaving with it your troubles, sadness, and worries.

Over half-way into our walk, we reached Rabanal, one of the last towns before the Cruz de Ferro. I tossed and turned all through the night, wondering what I would leave behind. In the early hours of the morning, I had an epiphany. If I left a grievance behind, I would have to come back every year to absolve whatever else had come up in my life. I had been listening to a lot of Alanis Morissette, and her song thank u had been on heavy replay. I decided instead of pain/sorrow/anger, I would leave something that I would carry with me from that day forward: gratitude. 

I wrote a note - 

We passed through Foncebadon, a once abandoned town, now with a thriving hippy albergue decked out with prayer flags and offering homemade granola. We stopped for breakfast, charmed by the quaintness of the albergue and the remoteness of the tiny pueblo. 

Less than an hour later, we arrived at the famed cross. It looked like a rubbish dump. Bits of ribbon and remnants of flags, t-shirts, rags, letters and notes, Jesus cards, and candy wrappers littered the base. A tourist bus pulled up. We decided to keep walking. 

Our guidebook had mentioned a point about a kilometer on from the cross that was the true highest point of the Camino. It was off the path a little way, and marked by a large cairn. We reached the cairn. No one was there except for us. I mailed my note to the universe through a crack in the cairn. 

My gratitude prayer became my mantra. Each line meant different things to me at different times in the following years. I often wrote out all the things and people I was grateful for. All the things I was glad I knew. It became a personal meditation. 

Two years ago, I returned to El Camino. It had kept calling me in the intervening five years. I frequently dreamt about it. Waiting for my visa to move to the US and be with my new love, I quit my job in London, packed my backpack, and once again donned my walking boots. My whole world had changed since I had last walked most of the width of northern Spain. My heart had been broken, but I had healed and moved on. I had moved to London, gone to drama school, fallen in love, and I was about to move to America. I thought about Alanis and how her music had been with me through it all. 

I made a friend along the way. We ended up walking the rest of the way together. In Rabanal, I once again thought about what I would leave at the cross, or at my cairn. I realized I still wanted to leave behind, and bring with me, gratitude.

We reached Foncebadon. A new albergue had sprung up. We stopped to use the facilities. As we were leaving the pueblo, I decided to pop into the “old” albergue to see if it had retained its hippy vibe. The layout had changed, but they were still offering granola and herbal tea. I noticed music was playing. 

Of all the songs that exist in the world, of all the songs that could have been playing in that moment, as I happened to be passing through unannounced, the one song playing on the radio, I absolutely kid you not, was Alanis Morrissette’s thank u. I burst into tears. 

The Cruz de Ferro had been tidied up. It felt less touristy somehow. I stood and watched as a woman quietly prayed and sobbed at the base. The cairn took a little hunting. We found it. Still sitting perched on top of the mountain as it had been five years ago. And for how many years before that. I spoke my prayer this time. Thank you for letting me be here. 

Now it is two years later, and today is the anniversary of walking through Foncebadon, hearing thank u, reaching the Cruz de Ferro, and re-visiting the cairn. 

My world view has completely changed again in those intervening two years. I’m married. I’m living in New York. I have survived leukemia. I no longer believe in “the universe”. I no longer believe in karma or fairness (though I still think we should be nice to each other, because the alternative is just awful). My gratitude prayer no longer holds resonance in the way that it did. I still believe in musicals. 

There have been days in the past year when I have not felt lucky to be alive. I have wished that I had refused treatment. I have wished that I could just fall asleep and never wake up again. I have felt trapped, angry, sad, frustrated, and everything in between. 

I have also felt deeply loved. Deeply held. Deeply supported. It is an awful cliche, but there is no denying it: cancer, particularly in the brutal form of leukemia, is life changing. It has taken my life away. It has given me a whole new one.

El Camino no longer calls me. But a new journey is about to start. I just don’t know what it is yet.