A storm had blown through that morning, leaving a thin layer of snow on the ground and strange ice formations hanging from the brush along the path. And yet, the walk to the top of the mountain from Foncebadon was easier than expected. Still, the wind on my face was bitingly cold, and I was glad for Kim’s scarf and the hat she’d insisted I purchase.
The day was cold and clear, the sky a crystalline blue. I approached the mound of stones – a collection of centuries of pilgrim offerings – and gazed up at the thin wooden pole in front of me. Sometimes a stone is just a stone. And sometimes, it’s the metaphorical vessel of your suffering. I had now been walking for thirty days and I had finally reached the ultimate point of surrender. I fingered the stones in my pocket, trying to imprint the memory of their shapes in my hand one last time. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, holding the two stones in my hand.