Dualisms and Paradoxes

Oak leaf with water droplets.

We have arrived in Santiago de Compostela, the destination of the pilgrimage. We neglected to make any blog posts about our entire five days of walking in Spain, for various logistical reasons that don’t need to be detailed here (though the smoke-filled cafés throughout Spain that appear to have the only wi-fi around are certainly one). We’ve done the best we can to strike a balance between experiencing and processing the experience to share it, but I do wish I had been able to share a bit more, since our last post prompted so many interesting comments. Thanks for those, and I hope to be in touch with those of you who would clearly like to talk more, especially those I haven’t spoken to in a while. In the meantime, be warned that this is an especially long blog post.

Our first close view of the Cathedral of St. James
through the trees of Alameda Park.

A more traditional view of the cathedral, from the same park.

I’ll begin at the end. The city of Santiago de Compostela is dominated by the impressive Cathedral of St. James, at which we’ve spent a lot of time in the last 24 hours since arriving in the city and finishing our 10-day walk at the cathedral doors. Early in our journey, another pilgrim pointed out that if we kept to the walking schedule in our guidebook, we would arrive at Santiago on New Year’s Eve. 2010 was an especially auspicious year to do so because it’s some sort of holy year of St. James. When we entered Spain, the number of pilgrims on the camino increased drastically, especially Spaniards, in part because this was their last chance to make the pilgrimage to Santiago and arrive during the holy year. (This is in stark contrast to the other long treks we’ve made before, like the Appalachian Trail, where there is a significant decrease in the number of “thru-hikers” the closer you get to the end.) 
There’s a special door into the cathedral that is kept open only during holy years, and it turns out that there was a ceremony and mass to formally close the door for the year on Dec 31 at 4:30. Many of the other pilgrims left the last hostel well before dawn on that morning so that they could arrive at the cathedral and enter through the door of St. James before it closed.

Inside the Cathedral of Santiago, Dec 31, 2010.

One of the small chapels
inside the cathedral.

As we didn’t care that much about standing in the hour-long line to walk through St. James’ door, Old Bay and I first found an apartment to rent for two nights so we could drop off our bags and clean up a bit before walking the one block back to the cathedral to check it out. We staked out a good vantage point inside so we could see most of the ceremony. The portion involving the closing of the door of St. James was outside; it was broadcast on TV monitors for those waiting inside the cathedral. Then the Archbishop of Santiago and all of his various attendants as well as what appeared to be local politicians processed inside for mass. I confess that we didn’t make it the whole way through the mass, which was of course in Spanish. Sadly, this meant that we didn’t get to see one of the largest incense burners in the world being swung from the high cathedral ceiling at the end of mass.

After dinner and a nap back at the apartment, we returned to the cathedral just as the fireworks were starting at midnight. While the pyrotechnics themselves weren’t the best I’ve ever seen, the setting was absolutely surreal, with the spires of the cathedral backlit by the sparkle and glitter of colorful fire and the crowd packed into the ancient plaza on one side of the edifice. One wonders what St. James would think. I’d be hard-pressed to say which was the better show—the gold-gilded altar inside the cathedral or the fireworks without. Even though I thought I had my fill of Catholic liturgy the night before, we decided to attend the daily “pilgrim mass” at noon on New Year’s Day. So we returned to the cathedral yet again, this time standing in line after mass to walk up behind the statue of St. James overlooking the altar then descend into the crypt where his remains are interred. As usual, try as I might, the pomp and circumstance distracted me from the divine rather than bringing me closer.

We can't figure out how to rotate this video sideways, but seeing as how we just spent 20 minutes uploading it while sitting in a cafe drinking lots of tea, this is just how it's going to have to be. :) Notice, if you have the sound turned on, you can hear Corvid exclaiming in the background.

Many spiritual guides emphasize the role of paradox in spiritual understanding. John Brierley (author of our camino guide) writes,

With all the great discoveries made within the sense-perceptible world of science, we have never been able to see the super-sensible. Not even the most powerful telescope on earth has been able to glimpse even the tiniest fragment of God. Knowledge of Higher Worlds does not come from exploring the physical universe within the laboratory of the mind, but in diving into the mysteries. Paradox is at the heart of the spiritual quest, and so the top of the mountain becomes a symbol of the wisdom often found in the lowest point of the journey and within the humblest of hearts.

In the garden of a convent in the city of Tui,
on the Spanish side of the border with Portugal.

In many eastern philosophies, a similar theme regarding dualities can be found. Much has been written about the tendency of rationally-trained Western minds to over-emphasize dualities and the ability of Easterners to think more relatively and be more comfortable with paradox. Here are two passages from the two representative books I have been carrying.

Carvings on a fountain in the city of Tui.

While Lord Krishna is educating Arjuna in the Bhagavad-Gita, he explains that Arjuna should work to “become free from the pairs of opposites,” which the translator footnotes with examples—“Heat and cold, pleasure and pain, etc. The seeming contradictions of the relative world.”

The second verse of the Tao de Ching reads:

            When people see some things as beautiful,

            other things become ugly.

            When people see some things as good,

            other things become bad.

            Being and non-being create each other.

            Difficult and easy support each other.

            Long and short define each other.

            High and low depend on each other.

            Before and after follow each other.

As I understand it, this passage captures the essence of the yin-yang symbol. 

A traditional camino marker with bags of trash scattered
behind it. This was in one of the most industrial areas
through which we walked. Dualism or paradox?

So the challenge of reconciling dualisms, or becoming comfortable with the mystery of paradoxes, has been on my mind during this pilgrimage. My usual route to accomplishing this goal is to interpret phenomenon on a spectrum or gradient (a particular shade of gray rather than black or white) rather than to accept that two categories that appear mutually exclusive can actually exist simultaneously (paradox). In addition, my rational mind is on a ceaseless quest to categorize things, whether into two dualistic categories or into some other typology (such as the identification of species—what is that orange-breasted, sparrow-like, lovely-voiced bird that we’re seeing EVERYWHERE?). Clearly, I’ve made some obvious contrasts in regards to the Cathedral of St. James, especially regarding the sacred (altars and masses) and the profane (fireworks set off from the cathedral roof). What are some of the other apparent dualisms or categorizations that have been especially challenging for me to reconcile on this journey?

One of the most beautiful views we had along the camino.
This is an inlet of the ocean between Redondela and Pontevedra.

One of the others that I’ve already written about is the divide between “nature” and “human.” One of the comments on the last post I wrote about nature noted that wilderness can only exist when there is a contrasting understanding of civilization. I don’t actually think that pure “wilderness” exists, or that pure “nature” or “human” exists. Hence the quotation marks. These are labels that we use for the convenience of talking about something and having a mutual understanding about what the words symbolize. And yet I can’t seem to shake the feeling that “natural” is somehow “better.” I feel better when I am in a biodiverse area, and science tells me that in general, the ecosystem is healthier when it’s more biodiverse, which I find morally desirable. So as I’ve already noted, this is a duality that is particularly difficult for me to reconcile. I can intellectually accept that cities and countryside or wilderness are mutually interdependent, but my perception is that countryside and forests make me feel healthier. That’s certainly just been reinforced on this camino. I enjoy visiting the ancient centers in these European towns and cities, but leaving a rural area to walk through the suburbs to get to them is fairly torturous for me. I suppose that for me, this is the painful challenge that a pilgrimage is supposed to bring, since I haven’t had a single blister or really any other physical pain of which to complain.

Corvid walking with several other pilgrims (some on bikes)
on a particularly busy section of the camino.

More directly related to the last five days or our walk, we have experienced many changes in our transition from Portugal to Spain, separate from the increase in pilgrims. It’s rather shocking to realize what different countries these two are, even though they’re neighbors in the European Union. It’s quite clear they’re not like los Estados Unidos. Language seems to have a lot to do with that. Of course, anthropologists know that language and culture go hand-in-hand. But it’s not fair to say that there’s a totally abrupt change at the border. In the Spanish state of Galicia, where Santiago de Compostela is located, a particular dialect of Spanish is spoken, which, to my untrained ear, sounds a bit like it could be a blend of Portuguese and Spanish Castellano. Regardless, it has been slightly miraculous to feel as though I can communicate again and gratifying to re-discover that I get along quite well in Spanish. Words come out of my mouth that I had no idea that I remembered. Miraculous.

But besides the language, there are other visible differences. The types of narrow village roads that would have been cobblestoned in Portugal are paved in Spain. While this does make for slightly more comfortable walking, it’s much less aesthetically appealing. Also, as I mentioned in my last post, the environment has changed a bit. There’s no question that the climate is different, and I’d really like to know why. We’ve had nothing but gray weather, some days with full-on rain in Spain. Of course, this is largely influenced by weather patterns, but the ferns growing all over the place, including in the trees, around the coast of Spain bespeak a much damper climate overall, which our guidebook author confirms as well. The northwest coast of Spain resembles the Pacific Northwest in the US, with smaller trees, and only a few species—the ever-present eucalyptus and pine, and some sort of small, scraggly but very charming oak.

(You’re experiencing one of the almost insurmountable challenges which is one of the primary reasons we haven’t been blogging as much as we would have liked—I insist on writing something different from a “first we did this, then we did this” post, but writing a logical essay and captions for Old Bay’s photos that at least somewhat relate to the text, at 8 o’clock at night after walking for 14 or more miles, is a bit loco.)

There actually seem to be a larger number of
friendly dogs in Spain than in Portugal, but
this Spanish dog had no interest in making
friends with pilgrims.

But perhaps the most obvious duality and most challenging paradox to reconcile is that of a relationship between two individuals in a partnership like marriage. On this journey, not only have Old Bay and I celebrated Christmas and New Year’s together, but we have also marked our fourth wedding anniversary, and our 14^th year together as a couple. Our togetherness has been no small part of our pilgrimage. A question came to me several days ago that I think captures the nature of the paradox of marriage: “Can two people walk the same path, have two completely different perspectives on it, and still find fulfillment in sharing it?” Sorry, I’m not going to explore this question any more deeply for you. Suffice to say that this blog has been a representation of that question, in that Old Bay’s photos represent his perspective and my words represent mine (though both aspects only scratch the surface, claro). I’ll leave it to you to judge whether we’ve integrated our perspectives effectively and reconciled our own paradoxes.

Painted on a wall in Santiago.

We still have almost a week left in Spain, as our flight from Madrid home is on Jan 7, so stay tuned for another post or two… 

Images of St. James abounded the closer we got
to Santiago, and they're prolific in the city and
cathedral. He apparently helps many Catholics
on their quest to find God.