Beneath and between

Halfway.

Suspended between two points. The place where we started and the (imagined) place where we end.

Yesterday we crossed the mountains, falling down the broken shale of the western side into the sun, into the haze of light that drew out the shape of the next range, across the valley. We slept that night in a five star peregrino resort. Bunk beds with a side order of swimming pool, valley views, communal dinner, lawn chairs. 12 euros only. Was it a front? A dream? At least that when we dragged ourselves over its threshold, the dust still settling from our suffering shoes, dirtying the pristine terracotta tiles.

Today we’re slowing down. A short walk to a medieval town with a swimming hole of fallen rainwater collected by an ancient weir at the foot of a stone bridge. It’s a beautiful town, a real star of the Camino, a place to stop and rest. To collect thoughts the way the weir collects water. Drop by drop as they run down the valley.

Springs and streams.

Runnels and puddles.

Collecting into something vaster and deeper.

I can’t see the bottom but after an awkward towel change into my togs, I dive in, hands ahead of me, reaching into the blackness, into the unreadability of what I am experiencing.

Halfway.

Caught between.

For this moment there is no need to surface, to take stock.

No need to understand any of it, just to be immersed.

To dive deep.

Not seeking either the surface, where I re-emerge, or the bottom, where the fallen pebbles lie.

The water is cold.

Frio.

My skin thrums with it.

My fingers tingle.