Before walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela -- an ancient pilgrimage route through northern Spain -- I had been told I would likely encounter many pilgrims from around the globe and I could expect to quickly form friendships, close bonds, with people I met along the way. That proved to be true. We pilgrims, walked together for miles on end, sharing personal stories, complaining about the pain of blistered feet and cracking toenails, wondering when we would finally arrive at a distant summit or simply walking together in silent awe of the beauty of God's creation. A kind of love flows naturally in such circumstances.
Sometimes I walked with other pilgrims for only a few minutes or hours, and other times for a few days. I walked with a Norwegian diplomat, a retired Japanese engineer with a donkey in tow, a Belgian teacher, a German Special Forces officer, a French artist. I walked with those who were devoutly Christian and with confirmed atheists. All were seeking something from the journey -- although most were uncertain what they sought.
I walked with eager anticipation of whatever interesting encounter awaited me around each bend in the road. And I found delight in the variety of relationships I formed. Yet, I was completely unprepared for the inevitable moment when a natural parting occurs and a relationship that had formed quickly must just as quickly come to an end.
That was for me a moment of enlightenment -- a realization of a truth. It was a truth I needed to learn both personally -- with the loss of significant relationships -- and professionally -- as I've watched parishioners come and go during my 10-year tenure as vicar at All Saints'. Things change. And how to let go of relationships, with grace, was a lesson I needed to learn.
Sitting at a sidewalk table outside a bar in Santiago, having just completed the first of two 500-mile walks across Spain, I was talking with a very wise Irish woman, a former nun, with whom I had last broken bread a month earlier, on my very first evening on the Camino. Sitting down her glass of rioja, she turned to me and said, "Roger, you are different. You are not the same person you were when we first met."
I wasn't really sure what she meant, but I recognized her as a person with deep spiritual insight and I wasn't able to disregard her appraisal. Over the coming days, I began to take a self-inventory, seeking to understand how I might be different.
Some changes were obvious. For most of my adult life, if I didn't get seven or eight hours of sleep a night, I woke up grumpy and out of sorts and felt that I wouldn't be able to function well during the day. On the Camino, sleeping in hostels, surrounded by dozens of snorers, I often slept only a few hours. Yet, in the morning, I found I could be quite cheerful, willing and able to walk 15 to 20 miles. My diet changed. Despite having been a vegetarian for five years, I took pleasure in the Spanish obsession with jamon. I drank coffee instead of tea. And I accepted the occasional offer of a hand-rolled cigarette.
My backpack grew lighter as I discovered I needed fewer and fewer possessions. While my legs had grown stronger, my feet were covered in blisters and my toenails were blackened and cracked. Yet I found I had learned to acknowledge the pain and walk on. And despite the hardship of the trail, I had never known such a constant state of bliss.
But something more significant had shifted, something more meaningful than a change in life patterns or personal preferences. My relationship with God changed. I felt as much a part of creation as the root I stumbled over or the cloud overhead that shielded me from the burning sun. I had found my place in the world.
I can't really say if it was the magic that was kindled by walking a path pilgrims had trod for thousands of years. I don't know if the path itself holds mystical qualities, or if it is the traveler's expectation of receiving something life-changing that imparts some spiritual quality to the Camino. Perhaps it's just walking in the company of people who are different and allowing yourself to be changed by them. Maybe it's the meditation of the walk, the rhythm of breathing and walking and practicing mindfulness. Perhaps it is the sense of the transcendence that naturally flows when living in close proximity to spectacular natural beauty. I think the hardship of constant walking plays a role. Significant change rarely happens without passing through a period of hardship.
I don't pretend to have discovered enlightenment along the Camino. My very human post-Camino struggle -- to simply accept life as it is here and fulfill my everyday responsibilities -- has convinced me of my frailty and imperfection. Yet I do feel I have been granted a glimpse of what enlightenment might look like. It is as if I have awakened from a deep sleep, to discover upon rising that the world is not as it had seemed. Now, how to stay awake, that's the challenge.
NAN Religion on 11/26/2016