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“You need to go. You will go,” she proclaimed. “You’re already a pilgrim, Freddi.” Every time I spoke to her, she repeated it for years, including the last time I’d spoken with her, just a few days before I walked off the doorstep of that albergue in Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port. “Pilgrim.” She was the first to call me that, but not the last. Everyone became a pilgrim that first day. Our openness with one another created something. We surrounded ourselves with people of all generations and cultures and backgrounds; we were united in exhaustion from carrying our damaged, decaying spirits.” — Steven Keith Hunter
You need to go. You will go,” she proclaimed. “You’re already a pilgrim, Freddi.”
Every time I spoke to her, she repeated it for years, including the last time I’d spoken with her, just a few days before I walked off the doorstep of that albergue in Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port.
“Pilgrim.”
She was the first to call me that, but not the last. Everyone became a pilgrim that first day. Our openness with one another created something. We surrounded ourselves with people of all generations and cultures and backgrounds; we were united in exhaustion from carrying our damaged, decaying spirits.