Day #016

Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France.

Somewhere Between Butterflies and Blisters

The night before a long journey feels oddly mechanical.

There’s no fanfare. No crowds cheering. Just me – standing over a pile of gear like a monk decoding scripture.

Every item must have a reason. A purpose. And a place.

Socks rolled just right. Headlamp tested. Cash and passport stashed in a reachable pocket.

(Where the hell’s my toothbrush?!)

Packing for a through-hike is less of a science and more of a spiritual discipline. While ergonomics is a key factor, I prioritize utilitarianism.

Practicality over comfort.

Every object must pass an important test - a question slightly altered from Marie Kondo’s philosophy: Will you make me happy?

I cinch the compression straps. The weight is optimally distributed. My hiking shoes are laced – trail dust from the Kumano’s kiss is still visible.

Outside the street is still. But inside, something’s beginning.

I sit down on my bed. I pause.

It’s not a super dramatic pause. No Hollywood montage coming.

It’s smaller. Personal.

Just like in Japan – I’m at that moment. The flicker before the fire. The inhale before the steps.

It’s the liminal space where butterflies live.

We all know it – the sensation that hums before a race, a job interview, risk.

A first kiss.

When the mind is loud, and the world goes quiet.

It’s where nothing has started – and yet everything already has.

Tomorrow, I will begin the second leg of my two long walks: The Camino de Santiago.

An ancient path carved into the shoulder blades of Spain – once traversed by pilgrims, now wandered by the curious. The searching. The lost.

I don’t know which one I am. Maybe all of them. Maybe none.

Curious. Hopeful. Shadowed by questions I don’t have answers for.

And that's my goal. To walk until the questions quiet down. Until blisters give way to something stronger. To build the calluses until silence feels like company.

This journey begins with butterflies.

Soon new friendships will mark my progress.

But somewhere – 500 miles away –

There’s a new version of me, waiting at the edge of this map I’m holding.

I hope he’s sun-worn and smiling. Lighter in heart. A bit more grateful.

And he's ready to tell a few more stories than he set out with.

Not everyone walks across centuries.

But – universally – we all stand at the edge of a map only we can see.

It’s ours to traverse, cross, and pass.

Its ours to create our own stories. Our own tales. Our own small footprints on this world.