I’m not quite sure how to write this post. I want to tell you how amazing my Camino was and how beautiful the quiet hills of Galicia were and how interesting my fellow pilgrims were. I want to describe the quick, intense bonds I felt with complete strangers from completely opposite lives when we both stopped to shed jackets and re-apply sunscreen at the top of a hill while the morning mist still swirled over the sleeping red rooftops below us. I want to convey the sense of togetherness that dominated the trail and the hierarchy of basic needs that dominated my thoughts: water, food, bathroom, top-of-foot pain, right hip pain, calf pain, heat. I want to convey the serenity, the peace and the rediscovery I felt. I want to show you the pine forest where we did early-morning yoga and the bright flower-filled meadow above which we took a late-afternoon siesta. I want you to smell the pungent differences between cow manure and pig poo. I want you to feel the solitude of a Eucalyptus forest in the evening and the electricity of a pilgrim-filled albergue at daybreak.
But how can I do justice to an experience that was at once so profound and so simple? How can I properly share an experience so personal and yet so intrinsically shared?
My camino was exactly what I needed and everything I didn’t know I was looking for. The best part about my camino was that it was mine. While 200,000 pilgrims will trek down the same trail this year, each of us will experience it in massively different ways. Some will walk 800 kilometers from France and some, like me, will walk only 110 from Sarria.
The trail was an a paradise that exceeded my expectations. But the second it ended real life hit me square in the face. I was stunned by how many people poo-pooed my camino. ‘You started from Sarria?’ many said, ‘talk to me when you’ve walked from St. Jean (along the French border).’ ‘You didn’t walk for God? Or for the Church?’ the pilgrim office lady pityingly said, ‘Well, your camino doesn’t count then. You can’t have the true certificate because you are not a true pilgrim.’
With throbbing feet, exhausted legs and aching joints I felt my camino was just as valid as those who prayed their way into Santiago or those whose blisters had already come and gone. For two days as I wandered through the rain-drenched cobblestones of Santiago I tried to understand why I was there. On the trail where pretenses were erased and judgements suspended it all made sense. But in the reality of life among the bustle of the city I began to doubt my experience. I was shocked at how quickly the simplicity of the camino disappeared and the unnecessary stresses of life returned.
Then we went to Finisterra, the westernmost point of Spain which, before Colombus sailed, Spaniards believed was the end of the Earth. Standing on charred rock where pilgrims before me had burned their camino clothes as a symbol of starting anew, looking towards my country thousands of miles across that pearly blue ocean, that excited, enthusiastic-for-life peace of the camino returned. And it made every ache and pain and sacrifice 100 percent worth it.
Did I find the meaning of life along my five-day walk? No. Did I discover my purpose on Earth while looking out over the end of it? Not exactly. But I did learn that pain usually trumps hunger and that when people are working towards the same goal they are remarkably helpful and welcoming. I discovered that I don’t have to know why I’m doing something to love it and that I don’t have to have an end goal to have a plan. I learned that a well-timed joke from a best friend will get you through seriously un-sexy full-foot heat rash and that a smile from a stranger can propel you up the last hill of the day. I learned that usually a piece of paper means little but the dirt on my shoes means much. My camino was my camino and that’s all I need it to be.