Mony Dojeiji
Pilgrim. Rome to Jerusalem.
- Time of past OR future Camino
- 2001
For those pilgrims who have already walked the Camino frances, Tomas in Manjarin is a well-known figure. If you are about to embark on your camino, chances are that you will pass by the mountain village of Manjarin where the Templar tradition of hosting pilgrims is alive and well.
Tomas played a crucial role in my final decision to embark on my pilgrimage from Rome to Jerusalem. I apologize that it can't all fit on this page, but I will start it here, with the hope that it inspires you on your personal camino, wherever it may lead you.
Buen camino!
~Mony
=================================
I arrived in Murias de Rechivaldo, hot and tired from the day’s long walk. I’m not sure why I didn’t stay in Astorga, a must on every pilgrim’s itinerary, four kilometers back. My feet seemed to have a life of their own, carrying me forward as my mind obsessed over words I had overheard only days earlier:
“This Camino to Santiago de Compostela is called the Way of the Sword. It’s where you fight your demons and find your strength. The path to Rome is called the Way of the Heart, the way of Divine love. And, finally, there is a path that leads to Jerusalem and it is called the Way of the Soul.”
The words seemed an omen, a message from the heavens that bypassed my mind and lodged themselves in my heart. Steps that were now leading me to Santiago seemed to hint at steps long forgotten that led to more ancient lands. I struggled to give meaning to the unexpected feelings of longing that seemed to emerge from depths unknown, and to quiet a heart that now beat with a knowing that transcended all reason. More than Rome or Santiago, it was the mention of Jerusalem - Yeru Shalom, the City of Peace - that stirred my imagination. Perhaps it was my Lebanese roots, or the peace that my own heart was seeking at that time, but Jerusalem conjured a powerful elixir that magnetically drew me to her.
The statues of two eagles – my totem – greeted my arrival at the municipal albergue, and heightened my anticipation. The place was modest, and offered the magnificent gift of a single bed, not a bunk bed, upon which I triumphantly placed my sleeping bag. By evening, every space was taken.
I settled into my bed, and began my daily ritual of writing in my diary, trying once again to bring order to the latest round of impetuous stirrings that the word Jerusalem had wrought. As I looked up, I noticed a man standing in the doorway of the albergue, casually glancing about. He appeared to be in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and beard. He wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses and sported white pants with a matching waist-length tunic. An air of the eccentric hovered about him.
I smiled at the array of characters that made up the pilgrims I was meeting on this camino, and continued writing. When I chanced to again look up, this man was standing by my bedside. He smiled at me with affection, all the while speaking in a rapid-fire Spanish I could not understand. I returned his smile and nodded, not so much at the words spoken, but at the feeling of care and encouragement he transmitted. I felt at ease.
In the setting sun, a ray of light momentarily flashed off a large medallion that hung around his neck. In that flicker, I saw emblazoned one word: Jerusalem. Every hair on my body stood on end, but before I could react or find a way to communicate with him, my mystery man moved on to other people in the albergue and left soon after.
I leaned back in my bed, trembling. Who was that? Why did he come straight to me? And that medallion – what does it mean? Surely, he is a connection to my Jerusalem omen. I must find him.
Those were the only thoughts that accompanied me the following days, as my steps led me higher into the mountains of Galicia. I passed Foncebadon and the iconic Cruz de Fero, and was rounding a corner on that majestic day when, suddenly, the sound of classical music filled the air. I stopped, just to make sure I wasn’t hearing things. This was, after all, the Camino and all manner of the unexpected was to be expected. The music played on, and as I continued ahead, began to make out the occasional clanging of a bell.
Finally, I saw it: a hobbled-together shelter bustling with pilgrims, ducks strolling the grounds, and the happy countenance of a bearded man dressed in white pants, a white tunic with a large Crusader-like cross stitched across the chest, a flowing white cape, and a sword in hand. A hand-painted sign indicated that I was a mere 222 kilometers from Santiago, 2475 kilometers from Rome, and, to my shock, 5000 kilometers from Jerusalem.
I had arrived in Manjarin, and the enigmatic man was Tomas, the Knight Templar who ran this refugio.
With barely-contained enthusiasm, I approached Tomas to introduce myself; but he hurried past me, leading a small group of pilgrims to a small cross near the entrance. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but joined the small group that now enfolded him before the cross. He spoke in solemn, confident tones, and with the few words that I could understand – ángeles, paz, Jerusalén – knew that he was praying for peace in Jerusalem. A rush of certainty, undefined by words but confirmed by tears, coursed through me, telling me that I had found my next steps.
Those steps would become more certain as I continued to Santiago de Compostela. By the time I arrived in Finisterre, and the end of my camino, I knew that I would be walking to Jerusalem, along this Way of the Soul, to know my own soul, and to know peace.
But I had so many questions, and couldn’t help but feel that my answers lay with Tomas. So, I returned to Manjarin to work as a hospitalera, a volunteer who helps serve the pilgrims, and decided to use that time to build my Spanish and find a way to communicate with the always-busy Tomas. Tomas gave me a knowing smile when he saw me and, in his warm embrace, only said that he was expecting me.
(The rest of the story can be found here - http://www.walkingforpeace.com/the-walk ... -walk.html. Simply click on "The Oracles")
Tomas played a crucial role in my final decision to embark on my pilgrimage from Rome to Jerusalem. I apologize that it can't all fit on this page, but I will start it here, with the hope that it inspires you on your personal camino, wherever it may lead you.
Buen camino!
~Mony
=================================
I arrived in Murias de Rechivaldo, hot and tired from the day’s long walk. I’m not sure why I didn’t stay in Astorga, a must on every pilgrim’s itinerary, four kilometers back. My feet seemed to have a life of their own, carrying me forward as my mind obsessed over words I had overheard only days earlier:
“This Camino to Santiago de Compostela is called the Way of the Sword. It’s where you fight your demons and find your strength. The path to Rome is called the Way of the Heart, the way of Divine love. And, finally, there is a path that leads to Jerusalem and it is called the Way of the Soul.”
The words seemed an omen, a message from the heavens that bypassed my mind and lodged themselves in my heart. Steps that were now leading me to Santiago seemed to hint at steps long forgotten that led to more ancient lands. I struggled to give meaning to the unexpected feelings of longing that seemed to emerge from depths unknown, and to quiet a heart that now beat with a knowing that transcended all reason. More than Rome or Santiago, it was the mention of Jerusalem - Yeru Shalom, the City of Peace - that stirred my imagination. Perhaps it was my Lebanese roots, or the peace that my own heart was seeking at that time, but Jerusalem conjured a powerful elixir that magnetically drew me to her.
The statues of two eagles – my totem – greeted my arrival at the municipal albergue, and heightened my anticipation. The place was modest, and offered the magnificent gift of a single bed, not a bunk bed, upon which I triumphantly placed my sleeping bag. By evening, every space was taken.
I settled into my bed, and began my daily ritual of writing in my diary, trying once again to bring order to the latest round of impetuous stirrings that the word Jerusalem had wrought. As I looked up, I noticed a man standing in the doorway of the albergue, casually glancing about. He appeared to be in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and beard. He wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses and sported white pants with a matching waist-length tunic. An air of the eccentric hovered about him.
I smiled at the array of characters that made up the pilgrims I was meeting on this camino, and continued writing. When I chanced to again look up, this man was standing by my bedside. He smiled at me with affection, all the while speaking in a rapid-fire Spanish I could not understand. I returned his smile and nodded, not so much at the words spoken, but at the feeling of care and encouragement he transmitted. I felt at ease.
In the setting sun, a ray of light momentarily flashed off a large medallion that hung around his neck. In that flicker, I saw emblazoned one word: Jerusalem. Every hair on my body stood on end, but before I could react or find a way to communicate with him, my mystery man moved on to other people in the albergue and left soon after.
I leaned back in my bed, trembling. Who was that? Why did he come straight to me? And that medallion – what does it mean? Surely, he is a connection to my Jerusalem omen. I must find him.
Those were the only thoughts that accompanied me the following days, as my steps led me higher into the mountains of Galicia. I passed Foncebadon and the iconic Cruz de Fero, and was rounding a corner on that majestic day when, suddenly, the sound of classical music filled the air. I stopped, just to make sure I wasn’t hearing things. This was, after all, the Camino and all manner of the unexpected was to be expected. The music played on, and as I continued ahead, began to make out the occasional clanging of a bell.
Finally, I saw it: a hobbled-together shelter bustling with pilgrims, ducks strolling the grounds, and the happy countenance of a bearded man dressed in white pants, a white tunic with a large Crusader-like cross stitched across the chest, a flowing white cape, and a sword in hand. A hand-painted sign indicated that I was a mere 222 kilometers from Santiago, 2475 kilometers from Rome, and, to my shock, 5000 kilometers from Jerusalem.
I had arrived in Manjarin, and the enigmatic man was Tomas, the Knight Templar who ran this refugio.
With barely-contained enthusiasm, I approached Tomas to introduce myself; but he hurried past me, leading a small group of pilgrims to a small cross near the entrance. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but joined the small group that now enfolded him before the cross. He spoke in solemn, confident tones, and with the few words that I could understand – ángeles, paz, Jerusalén – knew that he was praying for peace in Jerusalem. A rush of certainty, undefined by words but confirmed by tears, coursed through me, telling me that I had found my next steps.
Those steps would become more certain as I continued to Santiago de Compostela. By the time I arrived in Finisterre, and the end of my camino, I knew that I would be walking to Jerusalem, along this Way of the Soul, to know my own soul, and to know peace.
But I had so many questions, and couldn’t help but feel that my answers lay with Tomas. So, I returned to Manjarin to work as a hospitalera, a volunteer who helps serve the pilgrims, and decided to use that time to build my Spanish and find a way to communicate with the always-busy Tomas. Tomas gave me a knowing smile when he saw me and, in his warm embrace, only said that he was expecting me.
(The rest of the story can be found here - http://www.walkingforpeace.com/the-walk ... -walk.html. Simply click on "The Oracles")
