Walking in Grace

By Atman

Most trips are pre-planned and focus on the external the tediousness of the plane ride, the luxury of the ocean cruise, the quiet of the countryside, the mustiness of the old cathedral. Atmans previous travels were just like that. But her backpacking journey throughout Spain was much more. First, any previous backpacking had consisted of merely carrying a backpack from bus to hotel. Second, for this trip, she made no plans. She was called to be there.
Walking in Grace is Atmans day-to-day journal of her journey within, as she backpacks the Camino de Santiago. The book is filled with questions and answers, synchronicities, lessons learned, and healings carried out. For Atman is an empath she picks up others energies from their bodies and can sense what ails them whether physical or emotional. It doesnt always leap at her right away, but becomes known to her quietly or occasionally, after asking the Universe she will receive a sudden revelation. She can lay her hands on someone in physical pain or suffering from a disease and by working with their energy becomes the conduit for healing, yet, she is humble about it.
She is also humble about this book and only decided to publish it after several friends separately suggested she do so. She calls herself a pilgrim. This book is her truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9781425188788

Book preview

© Copyright 2008 Atman.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada at www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

Copy Editor: Sharon Crawford

Cover Design: Victor J. Crapnell of Art Department Design.

ISBN: 978-1-4251-1905-8

ISBN: 978-1-4251-8878-8 (ebook)

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HOW THIS BOOK CAME ABOUT, AND…

WHY STATE THE OBVIOUS? OR IS IT

I can’t imagine why this book is to be, but I know better to even try. The reality is always so much more than I could ever envision.

I have tried to keep a journal before. I have travelled here and there, but it was always a planned vacation with places to see and things to do. I have tried to chronicle the voyage only to find myself disinterested or too tired, and unable to keep up with what was becoming a chore. I have never before gone anywhere simply because I was called to be there. This was different. It was a first.

I brought a small and very light diary, just in case. For the first time, jotting things down along the way did not feel like a task. I actually started to enjoy it and it turned out to be a part of the journey.

When I returned home I did not talk about it as it was a very intimate, sacred experience, and because I am, after all, an introverted hermit who doesn’t like to share my internal life.

One of my closest friends intrigued by my mysterious silence about my recent trip did not give up, and questioned me constantly. I started to tell her a little bit every time we met as she wouldn’t let go, and the more I told her the more she wanted to know. One day on the phone I read her a small part of the journal. She became excited.

You should write a book! She said. Actually, you should just publish it, as it is already written.

I still did not consider it until the following week when six different people, for very different reasons, and none of them knowing anything about my journal, repeated the same statement in conversation with me.

You should write a book.

I started to transcribe my journal without changing or omitting anything. This book is not about ego, not about fulfilling a literary ambition or dream. It is about the truth.

In fact, if I knew this book was coming, I would not have made a statement I have made a few years ago. I was at Costco looking at books, as I always end up there, and couldn’t help but notice how many people put abbreviations after their names, even though the books they wrote have nothing to do with the field they were educated in. I observed how enslaved we have become to the so-called education and the titles, and how easily manipulated we are into thinking that the M.D. or Ph.D. after authors’ names makes them experts (especially when it has nothing to do with the subject of the book). For that is what we call them. I laughed and shared that observation with my friend and added: If I ever write a book I will write No M.D., No Ph.D. after my name.

Do that. She laughed, as neither of us took it seriously.

While I was transcribing my journal, I remembered that statement, I had made as a joke. This is why I am stating the obvious.

I believe in saying what I think and doing what I say. I said it, so here it is.

But I also hope to remind you that you already have a Ph.D. In what?

In…YOU. No one knows you better, or what is better for you. And if you think you don’t know, it is only because you stopped listening to your body. It has all the answers. It is the expert. The best you will ever encounter.

As I transcribed my journal, the only additions were the footnotes I chose to include in the text, explaining what/who I meant. After all, never dreaming of, or planning to publish my journal, I wrote it for myself only, and did not have to explain to me, for example, who Jane was. When I transcribed it for you, I added some notes to clarify a few things. That is all. Nothing in this book-except the names-has been altered. Not a thought, not an action, not one occurrence.

The only value of this book, if any, is in its truth. That is why I stand before you naked.

My name or my face doesn’t matter. They are of no consequence. The goal of this book-whatever it is-is not the recognition. In fact, my goal is to remain unidentified, so when you meet me on the street, you have a chance to meet me and not the author, and I have a chance to meet you and not the reader.

All of it happened, but I am of no importance. What I know-you know, what you know-I do.

For I am your sister; I am your mother; I am your daughter… I am you.

Where I am from does not matter either, for we all have one Mother.

I am a pilgrim.

Here is my truth.

I give my thanks to you

who have crossed my path

or have yet to cross it

To You

WALKING

IN

GRACE

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I got up long before 7 a.m.-the time set on the alarm clock, and was at the airport at around 11. The whole family came with me to see me off, as I’ll be gone for over six weeks. There is some confusion at the Air Canada counter with the poles. I bought a couple of trekking poles, and they are attached to my backpack, which I am determined to take as carry-on luggage aboard the plane. I bought the poles just yesterday. After two hikes with a friend who is an avid hiker, I decided that they would be helpful.

During the first hike a couple of weeks ago I noticed my hands getting swollen to the point of not being able to bend my fingers. I shared that observation with my friend, who said that it is a frequent occurrence and it happens when the hands just hang down and there is not enough movement. He suggested that I borrow his poles on the next hike, and see if I wanted to walk with them. I was skeptical, but grateful for the offer. The next time we went on a hike I walked with his poles and that solved the problem. No more swollen hands. So I decided that as I am going to be backpacking-which means carrying additional weight on my back and waist (heavy camera)-for a few weeks, it is an especially good idea to walk with the poles. I have a forty litre backpack, and everything I needed-except for my camera and poles-is in it. I have a strong feeling I shouldn’t get separated from my pack. I don’t want to risk having to stay in Madrid for a couple of days waiting for my pack which, I feel, is a strong possibility, so the pack is going with me on the plane. The poles are attached to the side of the pack as they are too long to fit inside.

The nice woman at the Air Canada counter advises me to check-in early, warning me that the airline may have a problem with the poles because they may consider them weapons, like the scissors, and I may have to come back to her and leave them behind, to go with the fragile stuff. I never considered them weapons, but as she is convinced that she will see me soon, I go through the gate early enough, just to have enough time in case I have to return. Before long, I am on the plane, no problem. I am on my way. Well, not exactly, as now we have to sit in the aircraft for 30 minutes. Some people start to be uneasy because of the delay. Some begin to sweat. Some are short of breath and fan themselves with the magazines; yet some keep asking, How long will it take? I am calm. It does not bother me in the least. Though, it reminds me of the trip to Europe I took with my friend a few years earlier.

When the plane on the way to Frankfurt started to shake; when the lights started to blink; and when the overhead compartments started to make strange noises caused by the strain this shaking and twisting was putting on the materials; when the tail of the plane started to go up and down very abruptly, as if driving on a very bumpy road-suddenly I felt my friend’s fingernails clenched into my right hand. In her right hand, I saw prayer beads. Her eyes squeezed shut and her lips moved fast, muttering until there was no breath left, and not wanting to waste even one second, muttering still on the inhale. I did not take my hand back. I let her have it for the time being, if it made her feel safer. I turned to the window. The sky was so beautiful and still. I was not fazed, because by then I was already a traveller in another dimension. By then I had experienced a separation from my body, which only confirmed what I always knew. I was not my body. Of course, I was aware of having a body. I acknowledged having a body but not being a body. And I never went as far as to see myself as a woman. My perception was limited to thinking of myself as a human being. I never thought myself a woman.

Naturally I am aware of being a woman. I never had a problem with it or denied it (not that I could have, even if I wanted-not with my shapes). But it was never my identity. This knowing was absolute; but having such a tangible experience of separating from my body, only affirmed my knowing. I also came to terms with my body, but what was most important I had my face-to-face with my own mortality.

I had no more fear of dying. Therefore I had no more fear of living. I had trust.

So now, I sit calmly knowing that we will take off exactly when we are supposed to do so, and I don’t mind any of it. I am calm, and sit patiently. We start at one thirty and I am surprised by a sudden wave of emotions when I find myself praying and setting the intention for my journey. It is not something I have planned or something that even crossed my mind while I prepared for the trip. It is much unexpected and it comes from the depth of me, which does not see the necessity to inform my brain on the way to manifestation. I have come to live like that for a while now, but it wasn’t always that way, and it wasn’t easy at first. I was always prove it to me-skeptical, analytical, cerebral, but when I went to the darkness of darkness, when I started to see, truly see, I had a choice. Either choose fear and deny it, and go on as if nothing had happened, trusting my brain, or trust and have the courage-and it does take a great courage when identification with one’s brain and IQ, and talents are reinforced by society-to remove my brain from the equation and take a tremendous leap of faith and trust the newfound eyes. The eyes of my heart. In the end, it turned out that really, there was no choice, but only one way. The way of the Truth. At first, though, I still had moments when my brain, my ego, wanted the power back and tried to convince me that I was going crazy. That what I saw was not logical, not real. But my heart’s voice grew stronger and stronger and the only way was to surrender to it. I also found out that my brain-even though judged very fast-slowed down the process of knowing greatly. For when I took my brain out of the equation I knew instantaneously. By now this is as natural and effortless to me as previously the way of logic was. I have learned to listen to and trust my body. So here it is. I am praying, even though my brain only notices it, when it is already happening. I am not religious, so I am not reciting any of the known prayers, I simply ask the Universe to show me the way, to let me see it and give me the wisdom and strength to follow it. I am grateful for the trip.

I am on my way to Madrid. I am excited. I don’t know where I will sleep tonight, but I know I will find a place and I will be fine.

Before that happens however, I have fun in London. London is my connection to Madrid, which means that I don’t have to officially land, go through customs, have a stamp in my passport, etc. but simply go through the transit area to the lounge and wait for my flight. This is true until the x-ray guy finds a pair of nail clippers, the one that look like mini-pliers. I tell him that I will need them as I will be backpacking for six weeks, but he cannot make a decision, so the supervisor comes and decides that it is a weapon! I have a tough time, though, figuring out how I would use clippers as a weapon. Would I sneak up on someone and cut their earlobe? Or… what? It almost makes me laugh. What a waste of time, money, resources. What a waste of energy.

He asks me to leave the transit area, get a landing card, and go to the British Airways counter-as it is my carrier-to talk to them. I am not told why I have to go, but am told repeatedly that I have to go. I don’t understand why I have to talk to the airlines, but thinking that maybe this is the procedure when a dangerous weapon like nail clippers (!) has been found, off I go. I find the British Airways counter and I try to talk to the woman there, but there is no talking because there is no listening. There are rules. I am shown a laminated card with the RULES and am told that I either part with my pack or I have to chuck the clippers. As there was no reasoning with the rules, I decide to part with my clippers and buy another pair in Spain. Too bad the x-ray guy didn’t give me that option in the first place.

I go through the motions of the bureaucratic rules in awe. It is hard to believe how frightened we have become.

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I arrive in Madrid at 1:20 p.m. Twelve hours in the air, three and a half hours at the Heathrow in London and nine hours time difference. I didn’t book a room in advance. All I know is that the first village of the French way in Spain-where I want to start-is Roncesvalles. In order to make it there from Madrid in one day I need to spend the night in Madrid, so I can take a bus to Pamplona the next morning to get the connection to Roncesvalles. This was the extent of planning or knowledge about The Way, and the added bonus in the adventure is the fact that I don’t speak Spanish.

I see a tourist information booth at the airport. I ask for an address of a hostel and I am given a map of the city, the map of the metro, and a few addresses. I pick the one near the Goya Metro Station, just because it feels right. I quickly figure out the metro and off I go, looking for my bed for tonight. The street I am looking for is not on my little and very general map of Madrid, but it can’t be far. I ask a few people, and they are pointing me in the right direction. I spoke Italian in a distant past, so some of what they say starts to make sense, and being an empath helps to know what they want to say. Soon I am at the right place. I press the buzzer, and the voice on the other end speaks English. The hostel is closed; they only open at 4 p.m.; but she will let me in. I get a single room with a shower and shared toilet for 26 euros. The room is very clean and quiet, as it faces the back alley.

I take a shower, unpack and think of lying down and resting. I lie down but can’t rest. Bus station. Bus station. Bus station, I hear in my mind. I am not sure why. I am tired and all I want to do is lie down and rest. I am sure I will be able to find it tomorrow. I am trying to reason with the internal voice, as I feel too tired to go, but the voice doesn’t give up and I find myself feeling that I have to go there. Once I am there I ask about the ticket, and it turns out I may buy the ticket for tomorrow morning already, which I do. Now I have the ticket and I know where I start tomorrow.

I walk a little more. I am in Madrid. It seems surreal. There is a harmony in Madrid. I don’t know what it is, but there is this flow. People cross the streets on the red light, and cars sometimes go through crosswalks when they have red, even though there are people crossing the street; but there is no anger. They negotiate their way through the traffic going sideways, as if there were no lights at all. It seems like a well-choreographed ballet.

I notice the choices and much smaller than North American sizes of portions in cafés, and I remember that it was like that when I was growing up. I don’t see overweight people anywhere, not to mention clinically obese. I find people very helpful and going out of their way to help me. I don’t speak Spanish and not many of them speak English, but they show willingness to make an effort to understand me and to be understood by me. I appreciate it and thank them in Spanish (that much I know), and with a small bow of my head that comes to me naturally; I don’t know where from. Finally, I go to the store and get my supper: bun, cheese, fruit