The name “Aidan” in the original Gaelic language means “warmth of the hearth” or “fiery.” My name is Aiden, but despite my hipster parents the meaning remains the same.
It’s tempting to write a cop-out paper for this self evaluation. I learned so much on the camino that I feel I could write a paper on each aspect. I could write about my Spanish companions who taught me to speak their language, on my feelings of elation at learning I can walk across Spain without using a bus, on arriving lonely in France and gathering a group of friends, or even on watching my classmates – learning from their victories and their struggles. But none of that would be my most important lesson.
“Why is it so hard to be honest?” Is something I feel like I’ve been praying often on this trip. When Maddie told me she was having nightmares I wanted to help. “Pray for her” I heard the voice in my head say, “show her that you care.”
To be vulnerable is the biggest challenge of the Camino. Even as I walk exposed to the wind, rain and sun, as I pound my feet into the rocks and dirt, sleep in public albergues, and purposefully leave the comfort of my home, why is it still hard to ask someone to walk beside me? Or to tell someone that I want to be friends?
Walking with many different people has shown me that I’m not alone. We are tempted to complain, to talk about our aching feet, or television, or other people and their problems – anything to not talk about our own selves. I learned that if I wanted anyone to be vulnerable with me then I had to first be vulnerable with them.
To talk about my life, what has made me me, my dreams, my fear of failure, my triumphs, my struggles with my mother, my struggles with sex, my faith in a God I’ve never seen, took courage. But when I was down in the thick, tar-like topic of my own crap I began to observe a change in others.
It was like things got warm. If I’m jacked up then they’re allowed to be too. They can tell me their story because they’ve heard mine. I’m taking my mask off so they can too.
After I prayed with Maddie, weeks after she told me about her nightmares the first time, not a lot changed. She kept having nightmares, but it was different: we could talk openly now, and we had shared something beyond “How’s it going?” “Good!”
Other opportunities came. I prayed with Roció for her sick uncle, I prayed with Annie, I wrote back and forth to August sharing writing pieces, I walked and talked with anyone who would let me. I began to practice being the warmth of the hearth – if someone was around me I just wanted to make them feel warm, to feel heard. I journaled what I saw as I practiced.
The challenges of the Camino – the loneliness, the need to survive, the homework, the sheer distance of the thing, etc. taught me that I can survive, and handle more than I thought I could. But If all I learned how to do was smile, to really listen to someone, to show that I cared, to make them feel warm in a cold environment, then I would gladly take that as my prize.
The logs of my vulnerability stoked a fire and when others joined in the fire got bigger and warmer. It’s awkward to be vulnerable and I’m still learning how to do it well, but I want to be someone who people can be themselves with. With practice and time I hope to learn to change the temperature of a room and be the warmth of the hearth.