The ancient pilgrims’ trail known as the Camino winds 1,000 kilometres over the Pyrenees to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. People have walked the Camino for centuries, each for their own reason – remembrance of loved ones, spiritual healing, remorse for past misdeeds, reconnecting to a sense of purpose, the sheer challenge of a long hike. I walk my own Camino every day – though, admittedly, it’s much shorter.
My son is a crossing guard, and the first leg of our walk is to his intersection. The sun, just risen, is at our backs as we head west. Pilgrims don’t use headphones, so while he listens to hip hop, I attend to the dawn chorus of birds mixed with the rumble of the streetcars. We pass the local bakery, where Lisa, the fierce, generous proprietress, waves from the window. She’s not open yet so we cross south and keep walking west to the coffee shop where we are regulars and all I need to say is, “The usual, please.” Sometimes, being an old English major, I get fancy with the order: “We’d like the customary,” “the habitual” or even “the quotidian.”
After we knock back our sharp jolt of espresso, we travel on, he to his first shift, the dog and I to the park. On the way, the dog and I stop in at Domenic’s corner store. Courtly and generous, he’s been there for 50 years. Like Lisa, he’s a neighbourhood hero. As soon as we arrive, he tosses the dog a slice of ham. She considers Dom the noblest of bipeds, but I suspect it may be a case of what we call “cupboard love.” I buy my banana, and we trade our favourite proverbs. “Caminando sur marcialpieve,” he tells me in his Barese dialect: “If you walk on the sidewalk and stop for every impediment, you’ll never reach your home.”
We usually look at the newspapers’ headlines and shake our heads ruefully at the state of the world. I use a Jewish proverb to comment on a certain American leader: “He’s such a liar that not only what he says isn’t true, even the opposite of what he says isn’t true.” Then we’re back on the street, the dog looking back with hopes of more charcuterie. We’ll be back tomorrow, I want to explain to her, but I know time works differently for dogs.
Dom’s proverb is true. The impediments you encounter on your “camino” can be daunting, heartbreaking even. Sometimes it’s hard to keep going. Sometimes they even make you forget you have a home to travel back to.
Our son has Prader-Willi Syndrome, a rare genetic condition that makes you hungry all the time. He’s hardwired to seek food, and I keep a lock on our fridge for safety. He’s also smart, creative, stylish, and excellent at his job. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all, based on his floppy birth and low vital signs. He fought his way through, with help from a dedicated, generous medical team and his own indomitable spirit. When it looked like he’d live after all, his great-grandmother said that he must have been put here for a purpose. I remembered that comment about a year ago, when he saved a toddler’s life in the middle of his busy intersection.
I once read an article about prenatal testing that had the headline: “Imagine a world without Down syndrome.” It was all about how, with our new scientific knowledge, we may be able to engineer a society without people with Down syndrome. As the proud father of a son with a disability, I would vote for a different headline: “Imagine a world that welcomes difference.” Our son is lucky. The impediment of Prader-Willi syndrome didn’t keep him from finding a good and useful role in society, and this is part of what I give thanks for on my small, daily Camino.
READ: ISLAMOPHOBIA CREATES UNLIKELY ALLIES
Then, three and a half years ago, long before getting his job, his life took a sharp turn into chaos and he required emergency hospitalization at a psychiatric facility. I wish I could say I kept fatherly faith with my son, but the truth is I began to lose hope for anything like a normal life. At that point, a life of hospital visits seemed far more likely than a job with the Toronto Police Service and a companionable walk to work each day. One day, in the middle of the crisis, our older son embraced his very sick little brother and pleaded with him to get treatment. That got his attention: he’d never seen his tough older brother weep for him. Shocked by this outpouring of love and grief, he finally chose to launch his journey of recovery.
Years later, here we are, walking through the neighbourhood on our miraculously ordinary circuit: to café, to work, to dog park, to home. We pass all our landmarks of chaos and recovery, of loss and triumph. Every morning we pass the intersection where a big brother’s hug and a younger brother’s determination changed everything. Every morning we wave cheerfully at our beloved Lisa in her bakery, who saw our family fall and rise again. Such a normal activity had once seemed a far-fetched dream.
The other day, Domenic told me, “Chi va piano va sano é lantano.” If you go slowly, you will go safely and far. I gave him my favourite West African proverb: If you want to walk fast, walk alone. If you want to walk far, walk with friends. Tomorrow morning, when we order our daily espressos, I’m planning to say, “We’d like the recurrent, please.”
Dan Yashinsky is a Toronto writer and storyteller.