Final Dispatch Del Camino

The ancients called this place the end of the world. And that’s what they believed it was.

It is the westernmost part of Spain, jutting into the Atlantic, reaching into a seeming eternity. There is nothing after this shoreline. No more land to conquer. No more to see. The Romans called it Finis terrae. The Spanish call it Finisterre. The local Galicians call it Fisterra.

Long before the Cathedral of St. James became the official finish line of the Camino, it was here. This place. This was the end of the ancient walk. Pilgrims of old would hike this long route to Fisterra and stand on the shore looking at the end of the earth.

I suppose they would sit on this shore and ponder the great questions of life. They would try to figure it all out, using that delicate and feeble organ between their ears.

After which, they would remove a single scallop shell from the sandy beach and carry it with them on the return journey home.

After we arrived in Santiago, we caught a bus to Fisterra. We rented a small cottage perched on a rocky shore and sat on the rocks, dangling our feet above the water. Our walk was finally over, and our bodies were sore. That night we ate a simple dinner of bread and tomatoes and olive oil and beer and slumbered like newborns.

I awoke early the next morning to watch the sunrise. The fishing boats were out, casting their nets, pulling in the spoils. Small boats, with young men, laboring in the dark purple hues of morning.

And I replayed the Camino we had just finished walking. I relived every lunch we ate in open pastures, and each albergue we bunked in. But on a deeper level, I think I was asking the same questions the ancients once asked. Unnamed questions without known answers.

I became lost in this cloud of unknowing as I watched the silhouettes of baleen whales, arching their backs, spraying blasts of water through their blowholes. I saw the bright-green Iberian lizards rushing over oceanic rocks. I listened to seagulls singing their hymns to each other.

And I think it all boils down to happiness.

I think I’ve always wanted to be happy. I think ancient man has always wanted the same thing.

And yet happiness eludes us. Whenever someone says “Look, here it is!” or “Hey, look, happiness is over there!” they’re always wrong. Happiness is never where they say it is. It’s like trying to grasp fog.

Still, sometimes real joy seems so near to me that I could reach out and touch it. And at other times in my life, it has seemed miles away, obscured by clouds and trees and rocks and forests and all the worries and fears I have carried since my traumatic youth.

But as I watched the black sea ducks dive for breakfast, as I saw the sailboats in the middle distance, bathed in sunlight, as I felt the warmth of a coffee cup in my hands, something happened to me.

For a nanosecond of a moment, the clarity I’ve been looking for my entire life spontaneously occurred. It happened so simply. So quietly. So free of effort. So quickly that I almost missed it.

“This is it,” I could almost hear a small voice say to me.

“This beautiful moment you and I share right now. This is all there is. This is all there ever will be. This. It’s right here. And it’s right now.”

At first, I felt almost confused.

“Look around you,” the internal voice said again. “Notice the heat of the mug in your hands. Notice the smell of the salty breeze. The sounds of overhead birds. The gentle beating of your own heart. The affection of your family and friends. The precious memories of loved ones. There is nothing else. This is what you’ve been looking for. This is all. And it is more than enough.”

I believe happiness, love, truth, and God are not objects to be found. They have all been found already, and are present right here, right now. And what’s more, it’s all waiting for you. There are no steps to be taken. There are no journeys you can take to secure it. There is no club to join, no secret handshake, no dogma to memorize, no magic prayer to pray.

Life is the prayer. The fullness of this moment is the only prayer you’ll ever need. Gratitude for this specific moment contains it all: the great beauty and majesty of existence and the Great Artist who created it.

I wish I could explain it better, but I still have so much to learn.

That said, if none of this makes any sense, don’t worry. The eternal Love that holds you fiercely and protects you so everlastingly is not dependent on the delicate and feeble organ between your ears.