Buen Camino

I keep thinking about the Camino. It’s always there. In the back of my mind.

If my brain were a school bus, all the nerdy thoughts would be sitting up front. These are the responsible, grown-up thoughts, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and neckties, performing important tasks on calculators, computing existentially vital equations such as, “Do BLTs actually need the L?”

Meanwhile, all the cool thoughts would be sitting in the back of the bus. That’s where the cool kids sit.

These back-row thoughts represent notions I never have time for because I’m constantly thinking adult stuff like: “The mortgage is due!” “Don’t forget to mow the lawn!” “Make sure you’re wearing clean underwear in case you get into an automotive accident!”

But when I slow down long enough, I find that I’m always thinking about the Camino. The 40-day walk my wife and I made across Spain.

I see it all from a different perspective now.

When you’re on the trail, you’re immersed. You’re living it. You can’t see what it is because there is no “it.” You’re part of “it.”

You’re saying “Buen Camino” to everyone you meet. And they’re all saying it back to you. You’re speaking Spanish more than English. You’re walking 10 hours per day sometimes. Hotel proprietors are serving you beer for breakfast without the slightest hint of irony.

But when you’re NOT on the trail; when you stand back to view the whole experience, “it” takes on a different light.

I am not the same guy I was when I started the Camino.

Back then, I didn’t think often about my own personal spirituality. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been a spiritual guy. Kind of.

But to me, your spirituality was just a thing. A hobby almost. Like yoga, kayaking, or campaigning for public office. Spirituality was just a fun thing humans did.

But after walking one earth’s most sacred trail, I’ve found I was wrong. I had it backwards. Being human is just a fun thing spirits do.

Which is actually one of the first things you learn on the trail: That we’re not human. Not actually.

I mean, of course, yes, right NOW you’re human. Most of you. We ARE currently in physical form. We have human lives. Human bodies. Human mothers-in-law. Human lower intestinal movements.

But that’s not what you ARE.

No. Being human is just a temporary thing. You are more than a walking talking slab of defecating meat. What you are, truly, is a soul. You’ve always known this, of course. But knowing something is much different than experiencing it.

And once you experience your own “soulness,” it’s a little like waking up from a dream. You realize, “Wait, if I am not my body, if I am indeed a soul, this means that…”

Yes. Exactly. It means everything.

The belief in a soul predates our species. I learned this on the trail from a guy named Mark. Mark had recently undergone a liver transplant. He was walking the trail to refind his soul.

One night, in a smoke-filled outdoor cafe, over lukewarm Spanish beer, Mark started talking:

He said, “Did you know that archaeologists discovered that homo erectus, and homo habilis, the species that predate ours, they all conducted ritual burials?”

“So what?” I said helpfully.

“This means archeologists discovered valuables placed in their ancient graves, LOTS of valuables. Their money, their belongings. Important stuff.”

“Big deal,” I pointed out.

Mark wore a huge smile. “Don’t you get it? Why would they need their valuables after they died?”

I shrugged.

“The idea of the soul,” he said. “This idea isn’t JUST an idea. Homo sapiens didn’t invent it. Our earliest known biological ancestors—who didn’t have language yet, didn’t have fire, didn’t have RELIGION—believed that we are more than body.

“Don’t you see? The soul, the afterlife, it’s not just a happy idea made-up by religious leaders to make you feel good. You and I are genetically hardwired to believe in God. Hardwired to find Him. Each one of us. This means that you can’t miss God. Because you’re not chasing Him. He’s chasing you.”

I looked at Mark. He was an older man, covered in dust, a heavy backpack at his feet.

“You talk like a priest,” I said.

He smiled. “And also with you, my son.”

Buen Camino.