A few days before I boarded my flight to Lisbon, Lisa and I walked along the waters of Leith, in Edinburgh. It was raining, and although Edinburgh is gorgeous in any weather, it really shows off its gray stone beauty on a wet day. A woman stopped us for directions, (which happens surprisingly often when we are away from home), and asked about where we were traveling. Her eyes lit up when we told her we were about to embark on pilgrimages.“Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said. I replied, “It seems like fewer people these days search for answers to life’s big questions in organized religion. But many of us are drawn to nature, solitude and the ancient pilgrimage paths.”“So true,” she added, “and we definitely need to slow down to consider how our choices are impacting the planet and future generations!” I agreed and we discussed the problematic nature of our shared reliance on air travel. Just before parting ways, I turned to her and said, “They say a pilgrimage begins the moment you decide to embark on the journey. So my Camino started several months ago. Thanks for walking a mile of it with me.” She responded, "Thanks for saying that, you just made my day!"
I spent the first ten days of my Camino mostly alone, but eventually fell in with a group of pilgrims traveling at roughly the same pace. I kept bumping into them at hostels and cafes. Sometimes clusters of solo pilgrims congealed into “trail families” who arranged accommodations and ate their meals together. In Mealhada, a town known for it’s signature dish, leitão da Bairrada (spit roasted suckling pig), I sat with a trail family benevolently ruled by Alisha, a Brazilian business person. Her trail family included Russell, a chemist from Kuala Lampoor, Philippe, a carpenter from Montreal, and Pascal from Italy, who did not share language with anyone in the group and communicated through google translate and expressive hand gestures. Like me, he had terrible blisters on this feet.
It took me awhile to get used to sleeping in rooms shared by up to twenty strangers, both men and women. Word got around quickly about the guy who snored as loud as Pavorotti sang. Pick a bunk as far away from him as you can! My days gradually took on a predictable rhythm. Wake up before dawn (whenever the first person in the room decides to leave). Pack in the semi darkness hoping not to forget anything. Walk a few hours. Stop at a cafe for a coffee and pastry. Arrive at the hostel by two or three to claim a preferred lower bunk. Shower, wash and hang clothes. Take a nap. Map out the next days hike. Then walk the town in search of a restaurant or grocery store. Eat dinner and go to bed around 8:30.
In Mealhada, I had to stay up late to get on a cohort call with the group I’d be meeting up with in Porto. The next morning I was the last to leave. A tall German wondered back into the room and said, “Hello, Mark from San Francisco!” Though we hadn’t met, he knew who I was from a picture he’d seen. On the trail you’d often hear about someone before you met them. There was “the Slovakian express,” “the girl from Prague,” and “the Columbian.” I gave Dominic the trail name Pippi. His friends back home call him Pippi Langstrumpf (Longstocking) because he “loves to dance and and have fun, unlike the typically serious German person who,” Pippi says, “lives to work.” We spent the next four days traveling together.
Even though I’d wanted to walk the Camino for years, I struggled to imagine a time in my life when I could take off twenty or thirty days to walk. I was enthralled by the simplicity of carrying what you need on your back, the singular purpose of walking all day and the liminality of being a stranger with arms wide open to the world. I finally said, “Yes” to the Camino because my friend Jon invited me to help lead a group called Journey Home, a cohort of men in their forties transitioning to the second half of life.
Before joining up with the group in Porto, I’d spent three weeks mostly alone, immersed in what was unfolding around and inside of me, and rarely thinking about work or life back home. I felt free of the expectations to be a particular person. I was just Mark, the guy with red glasses from San Francisco. When I joined the group, it was a bit of a shock to be in the company of people who knew of me or had read my books. Suddenly I felt pressure to present myself in a particular way. Do these guys see me the way I want to be seen— as wise, creative, intelligent, altruistic and successful?
I am a bit embarrassed about how I acted the first few days we were together—name dropping, humble bragging and spinning yarns about my extensive global travels. But I know I wasn’t alone. Many of the other guys admitted to feeling insecure and making comparisons. Am I important enough to be in this group? Am I faster or slower on the trail? Is what I have to say in the daily meeting profound enough to get approving nods from the group? Do the other guys like me?
One of our impulses is to believe that we will only know who we really are by retreating into solitude. I think this is partly true. With the competing demands of modern life, it can be challenging to find space to slow down enough to become aware of ourselves and the Divine mystery. But we also learn who we are through our relationships with one another. Those who know us best hold up a mirror that reflects our true nature, vulnerability and surprising dignity. Our group was gradually able to take off our protective armor. With laughter and tears, we named our insecurities and fears, bringing them out into the light where they lost their power.
For the last nine days of my Camino, I exchanged solitude for days and nights of constant companionship, conversation and camaraderie. It was nice to have others to share experiences with, who could witness approvingly that the sunset was beautiful and the Pulpo Gallego (octopus) was, indeed, delicious.
After we arrived at the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, Jon invited us into a ritual. Standing in the square, each of us placed something on an altar that symbolized the first half of our lives and what we were leaving behind. I took a ring off my finger. For me it represented the ways I’ve tried to construct a sense of identity based on what I look like and how I’m perceived by others. After putting the ring on the altar, each person in the group alternately embraced me and said, “You are loved. Welcome home.”
Who are the people in your life who hold your fragility and affirm your essential dignity?