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"I'm very tired," I answered.
"Don't worry. I am going to show you how to draw energy from everything around you."
And Petrus taught me the RAM Breathing Exercise.
I did the exercise for five minutes and felt better. I arose, dressed, and grabbed my knapsack.
"Come here," Petrus said. I went to the edge of the cliff. At my feet, the waterfall rushed by.
"Looking at it from here, it looks a lot easier than it did from down there," I said.
"Exactly. And if I had shown it to you from here before, you would have been misled. You would have made a poor analysis of your chances."
I still felt weak, and I repeated the exercise. Shortly, the entire universe about me fell into harmony with me and came into my heart. I asked Petrus why he had not taught me RAM breathing before, since many times I had felt lazy and tired on the Road to Santiago.
"Because you never looked like you felt that way," he said, laughing. Then he asked me if I still had any of the delicious butter cookies I had bought in Astorga.
The Ram Breathing Exercise
Expel all of the air from your lungs, emptying them as much as you can. Then, inhale slowly as you raise your arms as high as possible. As you inhale, concentrate on allowing love, peace, and harmony with the universe to enter into your body.
Hold the air you have taken in and keep your arms raised for as long as you can, enjoying the harmony between your inner sensations and the outer world. When you reach your limit, exhale all of the air rapidly, as you say the word, "RAM."
Repeat this process for five minutes each time you do the exercise.
Madness
For three days we had been making a kind of forced march. Petrus would wake me before daybreak, and we would not end our day's hike before nine in the evening. The only rest stops granted were for quick meals, since my guide had abolished our siesta. He gave the impression that he was keeping to some mysterious schedule that he hadn't shared with me.
What's more, his behavior had changed completely. At first, I thought it had something to do with my hesitation at the waterfall, but later I could see that it was not that. He was irritable with everyone, and he looked at his watch frequently during the day. I reminded him that it was he who had told me that we ourselves create the pace of time.
"You are becoming wiser every day," he answered. "Let's see if you can put all of this wisdom into play when it is needed."
On one afternoon, I was so tired from the pace of our hiking that I simply could not get up. Petrus told me to take my shirt off and settle my spine along the trunk of a nearby tree. I held that position for several minutes and felt much better. He began to explain to me that vegetation, and especially mature trees, are able to transmit harmony when one rests one's nerve centers against a tree trunk. For hours he discoursed on the physical, energetic, and spiritual properties of plants.
Since I had already read all of this somewhere, I didn't worry about taking notes. But Petrus's discourse helped to diminish my feeling that he was irritated with me. Afterward, I treated his silence with greater respect, and he, perhaps guessing correctly at my apprehension, tried to be friendlier whenever his constant bad mood allowed him to do so.
We arrived one morning at an immense bridge, totally out of proportion to the modest stream that coursed below it. It was early on a Sunday morning, and, since the bars and taverns nearby were all closed, we sat down there to eat our breakfast.
"People and nature are equally capricious," I said, trying to start a conversation. "We build beautiful bridges, and then Mother Nature changes the course of the rivers they cross."
"It's the drought," he said. "Finish your sandwich, because we have to move along."
I decided to ask him why we were in such a hurry.
"We have been on the Road to Santiago for a long time. I have already told you that I left a lot of things unattended in Italy, and I have got to get back."
I wasn't convinced. What he was saying might well be true, but it wasn't the only issue. When I started to question what he had said, he changed the subject.
"What do you know about this bridge?"
"Nothing," I answered. "But even with the drought, it's too big. I think the river must have changed its course."
"As far as that goes, I have no idea," he said. "But it is known along the Road to Santiago as the 'honorable passage.' These fields around us were the site of some bloody battles between the Suevians and the Visigoths, and later between Alphonse III's soldiers
and the Moors. Maybe the bridge is oversize to allow all that blood to run past without flooding the city."
He was making an attempt at macabre humor. I didn't laugh, and he was put off for a moment, but then he continued, "However, it wasn't the Visigoth hordes or the triumphant cries of Alphonse III that gave this bridge its name. It was another story of love and death.
