Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (11 page)

I
have definitely prayed for purpose before. Quitting jobs where
everything seems right on the outside but everything seems wrong in
your soul is a hard thing to do. During these times, I have prayed.
Growing up, my church was nature. My mom would drag me into the
woods, find a tree, and make me sit in silence. She would tell me
that this is where you will find God. This is where you should pray.
I hated it at the time, but nature is still the place I feel closest
to something more, something out of this world, something spiritual.
I pray now, here in this small church, in the middle of nowhere in
Spain.
Why
am I here? What am I meant to do?

I
often wonder if I want too much out of life. Does anybody really love
their job? Does the perfect job even exist? I think about
my
current job back in the United States. It is OK. I work for a
nonprofit, which provides me with a small sense of purpose. Most days
I
feel
like a replaceable cog in a giant wheel. But the job is neither good
nor bad. I have had worse, and I have had better. I send up another
prayer in
hopes
that somebody is listening.
Should
I be happy with good enough? If so, please help me feel content.

Pilgrims
are intermixed with a handful of locals, most of whom appear to be in
their 80s. I glance around the small but beautiful church. Many of
the stained glass windows in the walls have images of pilgrims and
the symbolic scallop shells of the Camino de Santiago. The deep
colors lit by the late afternoon Spanish sun. The service is quite
moving as the priest eventually brings all of the pilgrims to the
front, places his hands on our little circle, and says a prayer for
us all. Wishing us a buen Camino and safe arrival to Santiago. It
really is quite powerful as I think of the thousands who have stood
in this very spot over the centuries.

After
mass, our stomachs lead us back to the albergue for an amazing feast
that we are told is paid for by the previous night
’
s
donations! The room is full of pilgrims dining communal style,
swapping stories, and making new international friends. I make
friends with a man sitting beside me named Tom
.

Tom
is bald with a silvery goatee and a sunburned face. He is slightly
overweight and has gentle, kind, gray eyes. We start with the polite
details of life. I learn that he
is retired, is from the United States, but currently calls France
home. As we talk about our motivation for this journey, he suddenly
opens up and tells me his reason for walking. I feel a flash of shame
as I think about my stupid
petty
problems.

He
and his 30-year-old daughter had traveled together while on vacation
a few years ago in Spain. During their trip, they spotted some people
walking the Camino de Santiago and made plans to do it together
someday
.
They
agreed it could be an amazing father and daughter bonding
experience. His daughter returned home, and only a few months after
making plans with her father, took her own life.

“
A
suicide I did not see coming. I can
’
t
understand why. The why. That is what is haunting me,” Tom says,
the words tumbling out from somewhere deep inside him.

I
don
’
t know what to say
as the people around us continue to talk and eat their food. Tears
try to fight their way out, but he successfully holds them at bay.
What an incredible amount of pain he must be carrying with him as he
walks. He is suffering a pain far greater than any physical ailment
any of us in the room have experienced thus far.

I
simply stare at my plate and poke my food. I make lame attempts at
finding words of comfort as so many do when they hear something so
raw.

“
This is my
second Camino.
I
plan to walk each year until I no longer am able,
”
his
voice cracks as he looks down at his plate, still fighting back
tears. I put my hand on his shoulder and say the only thing that
comes to mind,
“
I
am so sorry.
”
The words are inadequate.
I
truly hope he finds peace through this journey.

After
dinner, we all pitch in cleaning up and giving a donation so that
tomorrow
’
s
pilgrims can also enjoy a good meal. The night does not end as all of
us are invited to a group meditation in the back of the church. I
feel like Indiana Jones as we slip through
a
small hidden
door
and
find our seats in giant black carved
wooden
chairs
in the back of the church. The dim room is lit only by candles. Amy
and I are wide eyed and don
’
t
quite know what to expect. I look around the room and through the
candlelight see six or seven other pilgrims who have settled into
their seats.

The
hospitalero quiets everyone and speaks softly, holding a candle to
his face.
“
Why
are you here, peregrinos?
”
He slowly repeats the question as he scans the room, “
Why
…
are
…
you ... here?
”

We
are asked to think about our reasons for walking the Camino de
Santiago, and we all do so in silence
.
Then,
one by one, the
candle
is
passed around the room, and we can either share our reasons
out
loud
with
the group or simply keep it to ourselves. I keep my mouth closed and
pass it along. I feel foolish now after
hearing
Tom
’
s
story. What do I have to complain about? The silence is golden.

We
sit in silent candlelight in meditation and reflection for a while
before being led down into the church as the hospitalero points out
carved figures and stained glass renditions of the Camino shell.
Experiencing this level of intimate history is incredible.

After
this amazing session, I feel spiritually refreshed and physically
exhausted. My body still hurts as I fall to my mat on the floor back
in the albergue. Another surprise awaits. A man from Portugal, a
complete stranger, gestures for me to stay still and begins massaging
my aching legs with olive oil! He is part of a larger group from
Brazil that we have seen walking together for the past few days. He
knows what he is doing as his skilled rough hands try to loosen my
tired tendons and muscles. It hurts, a lot, but I trust him not to
break me.

At
first I am a bit nervous. This is a bit weird, right? Getting a
massage from a stranger? I glance at Amy who is bewildered, too, her
big brown eyes wide in stunned observation. A few other pilgrims have
whipped out their cameras and start to take pictures. As he works, I
am overcome with complete gratitude at such a kind act. I know he is
tired, too, and he is asking nothing in return. He does not know me.
Pure kindness. I am blown away as he spends 15 minutes rubbing my
legs. He doesn
’
t
speak English, and I just smile, clasping my hands to my chest and
say thank you over and over again.

This
has been an absolutely incredible night. I resolve to be like this
man and spread random acts of kindness. That is what life is all
about. I honestly can
’
t
remember the last time I did something nice for a complete stranger.
So caught up in my own life and too busy to give someone I don
’
t
know a second glance. Sleep doesn
’
t
come as I am a buzz with thoughts of the day. I promise my future
self that I will work to be more kind. The lights are shut off at 10
p.m., and the familiar chorus of snores slowly rises and echoes off
the walls. But who cares? This is the stuff of adventure!

In
the morning, my legs do feel a little bit better thanks to my
impromptu massage. It is 4:45 a.m., and I am still buzzing from last
night. I am surprised to see that most of the room in the albergue is
empty. The group of Brazilians and the Portuguese man who massaged my
legs are all gone. They got an early start. I peel myself off the
floor. My back creaks and pops. It hurts from using my backpack as a
pillow.

From
the get go early this morning, we are focusing on physically moving
forward as after a few hours my knee pain returns with a vengeance,
absolutely screaming with every step. It has begun to collapse
without warning.

As
I walk, if I step slightly wrong, it will simply give out, and I have
to catch myself with my walking stick. Sometimes almost falling to
the ground. This is not a good sign, and I know the fact that I no
longer use the leg normally can
’
t
be good. I am trying not to support my weight with my knee and keep
it as straight as possible when going up or down a hill. If I don
’
t,
a shock of electric pain causes an immediate uncontrollable protest.
I think over and over again,
Should
I stop? Is this the sign of a permanent injury?

The
serene Spanish morning unfolds as the typical early hour chill
quickly gives way to intense sunshine and heat. I am entering a sort
of delirium and after a few hours decide to listen to music for the
first time for some motivation. I cue up my iPhone with some upbeat
tunes and look around. We truly are in the middle of nowhere.

The
wind is spectacular today as it blows over the wheat fields,
magically making waves appear on land. The music acts as a sort of
real life movie soundtrack.
Hours
pass, putting one foot in front of the other as one wheat field
slowly melts into the next. We finally make it to a side of the road,
hole in the wall bar and stop for sustenance
.
We sit down as flies scatter from our table.

I
am in a lot of pain and for the first time vocalize to Amy, “This
is bullshit!
Let
’
s
quit, take a bus to Granada and eat tapas for the rest of our time in
Spain. Why are we doing this to ourselves?
”

She
smiles and takes a picture of me instead of responding to my little
fit. She shows the picture to me and says, “Stop taking yourself so
seriously.”

I
look pitiful. Toothpaste drippings stain my shirt right above the
right nipple. The sweat of the day has matted my hair like a feral
cat
’
s
coat. Every hair of my beard seems to point in a different di
rection.
I am not in the mood for a life lesson from Amy, so I don
’
t
respond.
She laughs, though, and focuses on the food. I am feeling down, and
my spirits are low.

After
a
bocadillo
de Jamón
,
cured
Spanish ham sandwich
,
we continue on. I have begun to notice memorials along the trail for
the many pilgrims who have died on the Camino de Santiago.
Unfortunately, every year a few pilgrims do die out here. Some years
are more brutal than others. The memorials range from pictures
fastened to trees to small stone monuments with messages from loved
ones. The Spanish Federation website keeps a list of those who have
died and the causes range from being hit by vehicles, having a heart
attack, or even getting caught in a snow storm while crossing the
Pyrenees and dying of hypothermia. A total of nine people died while
trying to complete the Camino de Santiago in 2013.
¹