She was walking in the mountains, thousands of miles, to remember, to grieve, to honor her sister, who had died a year before. Her friends were contributing money, not for her costs, but for research seeking a cure.
He was trying to put his marriage back together. But somehow he needed to go far away before he could come home. A Brazilian, he was in northern Spain, thousands of miles from home. He had some walking to do, walking on an ancient pilgrim road.
We met at a shelter in Vermont, USA. A chef by trade, he got laid off midsummer. A Buddhist, he knew it was time for a journey to a mountain nearby.
It started because they heard that there was some good partying among the walkers, good cheap wine along the way. They skipped the shrines, that first time. But the next year, they came back again to Spain. And this time there was something more going on. The following year it happened again, and again. By now they might have said it was the old friendships that brought them. But they were utterly open to the new ones.
It was a birthday present to herself—a good camera, and a long walk far from home. After all, who wants to be with family on your fiftieth?
He was eighteen and had never really been away from his hometown or family. He was having trouble with his job, his life, his parents. He quit. He hit the road.
When she was in the forest, she knew for sure that she wasn’t alone. She needed to walk in solitude, to feel Someone close by.
They had survived cancer. A year later, this trip was what they needed, to say thank you, to celebrate being alive.
He was alcoholic. His wife left him. His children cut him off. He kept drinking. He got fired from his job at the phone company. With his last three hundred dollars, he bought a cheap backpack, boots and a tent. He started walking. I met him two thousand miles later. He was still walking. His eyes were clear. He didn’t know where his path was leading, once he got home to Georgia, or even if he would have a home. But he knew this long walk had fundamentally changed him.
I've met you in the mountains of the eastern US, on the streets of Mexico, and a few I've met were card-carrying perigrnxs in Spain. Speaking of you in Spain, I read an article once (I’d footnote it, but I no longer own a copy) that said most pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela didn’t know why they were there, weren’t religious, didn’t have a spiritual goal or purpose.
Two months later I was there, walking alongside others.
I visited with quite a few people on the road. Here’s what you taught me: Just maybe, not everyone is willing to share their reasons for pilgrimage with a reporter.
Despite the article's skepticism, in my experience, there actually are many people out there who pray at all the shrines. However, some of us who are hungriest for something holy never had a lesson in how to pray. We didn’t go to Sunday School. We don’t carry the brand label of religion(s). For others—yes even religious types, the holy isn’t found in the shrines or cathedrals—but in the spaces in between.
There’s another good reason for some coyness about the WHY of our wanderings. One’s reasons for beginning a pilgrimage may not be the reasons that keep one going. As we undertake our journey, the struggle we start with may not be the question we have after five hundred miles—or even five. And so the questions aren’t always easy to put in words. And the answer to an old question may be a new question.
If you walk with someone a little way, and you too are on a search for healing or light, you might just find they are forthcoming about their journey. If they feel like it. And listening you might discover something about your own pilgrimage.
What’s your story, friend?
He was trying to put his marriage back together. But somehow he needed to go far away before he could come home. A Brazilian, he was in northern Spain, thousands of miles from home. He had some walking to do, walking on an ancient pilgrim road.
We met at a shelter in Vermont, USA. A chef by trade, he got laid off midsummer. A Buddhist, he knew it was time for a journey to a mountain nearby.
It started because they heard that there was some good partying among the walkers, good cheap wine along the way. They skipped the shrines, that first time. But the next year, they came back again to Spain. And this time there was something more going on. The following year it happened again, and again. By now they might have said it was the old friendships that brought them. But they were utterly open to the new ones.
It was a birthday present to herself—a good camera, and a long walk far from home. After all, who wants to be with family on your fiftieth?
He was eighteen and had never really been away from his hometown or family. He was having trouble with his job, his life, his parents. He quit. He hit the road.
When she was in the forest, she knew for sure that she wasn’t alone. She needed to walk in solitude, to feel Someone close by.
They had survived cancer. A year later, this trip was what they needed, to say thank you, to celebrate being alive.
He was alcoholic. His wife left him. His children cut him off. He kept drinking. He got fired from his job at the phone company. With his last three hundred dollars, he bought a cheap backpack, boots and a tent. He started walking. I met him two thousand miles later. He was still walking. His eyes were clear. He didn’t know where his path was leading, once he got home to Georgia, or even if he would have a home. But he knew this long walk had fundamentally changed him.
I've met you in the mountains of the eastern US, on the streets of Mexico, and a few I've met were card-carrying perigrnxs in Spain. Speaking of you in Spain, I read an article once (I’d footnote it, but I no longer own a copy) that said most pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela didn’t know why they were there, weren’t religious, didn’t have a spiritual goal or purpose.
Two months later I was there, walking alongside others.
I visited with quite a few people on the road. Here’s what you taught me: Just maybe, not everyone is willing to share their reasons for pilgrimage with a reporter.
Despite the article's skepticism, in my experience, there actually are many people out there who pray at all the shrines. However, some of us who are hungriest for something holy never had a lesson in how to pray. We didn’t go to Sunday School. We don’t carry the brand label of religion(s). For others—yes even religious types, the holy isn’t found in the shrines or cathedrals—but in the spaces in between.
There’s another good reason for some coyness about the WHY of our wanderings. One’s reasons for beginning a pilgrimage may not be the reasons that keep one going. As we undertake our journey, the struggle we start with may not be the question we have after five hundred miles—or even five. And so the questions aren’t always easy to put in words. And the answer to an old question may be a new question.
If you walk with someone a little way, and you too are on a search for healing or light, you might just find they are forthcoming about their journey. If they feel like it. And listening you might discover something about your own pilgrimage.
What’s your story, friend?