Day #018

Rural Spain.

Camino de Santiago

One Step and The Uncertainty of Now

I’ve taken hundreds of thousands of steps since beginning my pilgrimages.

I’ve crossed two mountain ranges. Climbed ridge lines above the clouds. Marched through ancient, fog-thick forests and descended into old-world villages where time is still defined by a church tower - not a clock.

I’ve taken these steps with joy, frustration, gratitude, and purpose.

My steps have been accompanied by blisters, self-talk, pride, hunger, and ache.

And my travel buddy: Silence.

Yesterday, though, I sat at a medical clinic in this rural village of northern Spain. Mothers were cradling their babies in the waiting room. An elderly couple sat hand-in-hand in front of me. The TV hummed with news updates I didn’t understand or really cared to focus on.

I sat by myself – thinking about how many medical clinics I’ve received care at around the world: Costa Rica, Botswana, Tanzania, Zambia, Malaysia, and a few others.

Spain has officially been added to the list.

It’s not a fun list to be on.

Because here’s my situation now: after covering the forests, valleys, rivers, mountains, and beauty of Japan and Spain, I’m sad to say: One step may have changed everything.

I had just completed arguably the most iconic summit of the whole Camino – the Hill of Forgiveness. It was a moderate grind up a long incline to the top of the mountain. From there, The Statue of Pilgrims awaits intrepid travelers, accompanied by a beautiful view that whispers:

Behind you – everything you’ve endured.

Ahead – everything you still need to earn.

And that’s when it happened.

A miscalculation on a wooden plank. Minor in any other circumstance - except this one.

Only a few inches of wood – mere inches of the hundreds of miles I’ve logged.

Snap. Fall. Tumble.

The distinct feeling of skin rubbing off on gravel.

Of bones moving in directions they shouldn’t.

Of a body coming to a contorted rest and a brain wondering: How bad is it?

Oh shit.

It’s that moment when instinct meets impact.

In a split second difference that separates “I’m fine” from “I’m not.”

The only thing I can do - get up.

I’ve never thanked the quiet machinery that has carried me this far - the ligaments, tendons, and bones – of my feet. I’ve never even noticed how much I depended on these small and – up to this point – durable parts of my body.

Until one of them stopped working.

Isn’t that how it always is though: The things we take for granted are often the very things we rely on the most. And when they go offline – when they snap or break or simply give out – we’re left with trying to rewrite our journey mid-chapter.

Today, I’ve spent the afternoon at a nondescript café in this quaint medieval village. A block from the medical clinic I sat in yesterday.

The tables await an evening crowd that I’m told will be big. I wonder how large that could be in a town with a single stop sign.

Behind the bar, an all-in-one employee prepares bocadillos while refilling my olive tray. Flies buzz around me, mariachi music flows through the speakers, and a small group of girls are reliving a story with genuine hilarity. 

A stray cat holds dominion over this place. From the looks of her, she’s obviously benefited from a few slivers of jamon that have dropped on the floor.

I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be my companion for a while.

And then the church bells toll. I exit my fog. I move on to what's next.

Just days ago I stood on top of the Pyrenees with confidence. With a feeling of destiny. Untouchable. Invincible.

Now I stare at my foot – heavily wrapped and bandaged. It’s not going anywhere – it’s immobile.

When your dream of self discovery is built on forward motion, nothing is more terrifying or disheartening than the words: Indefinite recovery.

The Camino may not give you what you want - it'll give you what you need.

So now that I've fallen and gotten up - my path is less clear.

I try to embrace the idea that this is simply part of the pilgrimage. This is part of the teaching. This is when we discover who we actually are. What we believe. How hard we’re willing to work.

And grit becomes our teacher.

I sit with this idea, and I smile.

My dangling foot. The fall. The halted journey. The internal conflict.

I think about the absurdity and humility that one step – after hundreds of thousands – may have undone the dream.

But I also believe the goal remains the same – the dream can still come true. Indefinite recoveries have timelines too.

Yes, the plan has changed – but the purpose remains.

The next chapter may be limped into – slower, possibly with some pain – but it’s still mine to write. It’s still mine to experience with joy and laughter and eyes wide open.

And that, I think, is enough.

So I resolve to do what I do best – what we all do best when our back is against the preverbal wall:

Get up. Dust off.

And figure it out.