Falling Awake: Opening our souls rather than our eyes.

One behalf of my family and me, I wanted to thank you all for the generous and kind condolences following yesterday’s loss my my beloved 92 yo mother.  While body was weak, and her dementia advanced, I was comforted to hear how my brother Enrique was with her, and that she passed painless.   The loss of a parent is always a shock, particularly for those of us who are separated by many miles and an ocean from our parents.  But feeling blessed to have spent a few weeks in Lima with her just last month.  I look back on those days as a gift, a gift which I will cherish for many years.   When my father passed away just 13 months ago, we all reunited in Lima to grieve as one. And while we are all clearly grieving following her loss, my travel to Lima has been complicated; not by distance, time or cost, but by a calling.   Perhaps I should explain.   While I was walking solo on El Camino yesterday, before the fateful news of my mother’s departure...

Second week finished, with three more to go.  And of my calculations are right, am in my second third of El Camino.  I only mention this as I heard a wonderful description earlier.  They said how the first third is one of physical exhaustion, or getting our bodies into its rhythm.  The second third is about “letting go”, while the final third is about understanding what El Camino has taught us.  I like this, not because I look forward to the final third, but because I too am learning to let go of certain things.  Perhaps I should explain.  As many of you know already, however, I found these two days in bed excruciating inasmuch sitting-still was never my thing.  Use to annoy the hell out of my parents and teachers when they sent me to my room/corner as punishment given I’d annoy them more than for the reason I was being punished in the first place.  My frustration was all the worse given my room in the Albergue would overlook El Camino, ...

My dear friend and El Camino coach forewarned me, Gerald, that the first week I’d be too physically exhausted to do any self introspection.  Man was he right, as other than wondering if Goofy was a dog or human, my mind has pretty much been mush.  But sorry, I’ve pushed ahead without giving you some background.  So let me try again.   Today marked my seventh day on El Camino.  Hard to believe that it was that long since Gerald and Eliane generously drove me to St Jean Pied de Port (FR), the start of El Camino Frances, an 800 km walk to Santiago de Campostela.  Am hoping this walk will take me five weeks.  With my first week out of the way, I have another 655 kms (406 miles) to cover over the next four.   Speaking to others who’ve done this walk, they’ve all said same as Gerald; the walk can be broken into thirds. The first third is physical exhaustion, second mental, and last is where the spiritual enlightening happens, or runners high. E...

Q:  Why did the chicken cross the Road? A:  Because Prugue decided to walk the full 800 kms of El Camino to supposedly find himself.  So this chicken figured crossing the road would be an easy alternative. One question I’m regularly asked is, “Why El Camino?”  For some the answer is religious, while others it’s, while other’s is the physical challenge and endurance of walking 800 kms/500 miles.  My answer once was to challenge myself as part of MY own journey of self discovery. Being one who’s always erred on walking with purpose, releasing myself into a directionless state of vulnerability was never an option. But somehow, the further into the direction I planned, the more lost I felt.  And reading stories from others who’ve done El Camino, their trip sounded perfect trifecta.  Ironically, losing yourself in this state of vulnerability was a path in itself. This last month away from home, however, opened doors previously left unseen or unnotice...

Perhaps its a sign that I grew up in the States, but during St Patrick’s day I use to wonder if I had any Irish in me. While we knew more about my mother’s side (Salkeld is from the north of England), we knew very little about the Prugue’s. All we knew was that Emilio Prugue (or Emile before Spanish legal translation) migrated from Bayonne France to Lima Peru back in the mid 1800s. Seems there was a thriving French artist community in Peru at the time, even Paul Gaugin lived in Peru (before Tahiti of course). And in my family, having access to his lithographs (printed in 1853 and ‘54) are treasured items in my family. While we knew relatively little about Emile, we all appreciated that he was the first Prugue in Peru, and that it was he who’d signed these works himself. The fact that we knew so little about the Prugue’s in France, however, would frustrate my father immensely. He would recollect how his grandfather, son of Emile Prugue, would speak to him in French. Or how his paterna...

What we believe of ourselves, and what we actually do, can often be two different outcomes.  I mean, we all like to think that under extreme pressure, we will still front up and fight head on.  But it isn’t until we ourselves are faced with this that we can truly say if indeed we have that underlying brave spirit which we aspire to have.   Well, for my sister in law, such a test hasn’t come just once, but three times!  You see, my sister in law was diagnosed with breast cancer over ten years ago, fought it, and won.  Sadly, however, the cancer hasn’t come back just once, but two more times!  Guess they’re right that we’re all tested three times; as my sister in law has been.  Each time, she endured long painful chemo sessions, now immunotherapy.  While I would like to think I possessed her courage and heart, have to sincerely admit that I cannot say if I really do.  Instead, what I can say is if I am ever tested, she will be my role mod...

My father was known for many sayings, some I’ve forgotten, many I’ve remembered.  “All poodles are dogs, but not all dogs are poodles”, for when I would generalise.  But my favourite, one which I’ve loved and lived was, “The only thing we take to our graves are the songs we’ve danced and the places we’ve visited”.  Stated differently, memories are the only thing we take to our graves; so we might as well make them memorable as well as cherished.   My father passed away last 12th April, at 94 years and months shy of his 70th wedding anniversary.   His love of laughter, jokes (however corny), music, and dance was legendary.   My father’s Joie de Vivre is something I often reflect on whenever I find myself needing encouragement or when/if I’m low.  And as his one year anniversary quickly approaches, however, I am equally saddened by his epic mantra.   You see, my 92 yo mother has been living and fighting dementia for some time now. While...