The End of the Camino
“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
Endings tend always to be emotional for me. Endings I’ve been walking toward, on foot, for three weeks, are particularly piquant. There is something about watching those cathedral spires appear on the horizon as you near Santiago de Compostela, dancing among the clouds, growing that much bigger and more real with each footfall on cobblestone. There is something about watching the way-markers that started at 350km tick down to 2km, 1km, Okm. There is something about watching the people alongside you smile as the crowd parts to welcome you into the plaza with cheers and hugs for strangers-turned-companions that made me think I’d fall to the ground and weep when I reached the end of my Camino.
I thought I’d weep for all I sacrificed in an effort to get here.
I thought I’d weep with relief at having done a hard thing well.
I thought I’d weep for the aloneness of it, for having lost the beloved companion with whom I’d expected to share such adventures and accomplishments forever after.
I thought I’d weep with gratitude for the great good fortune that landed me in the position of being able to take this long walk.
I thought I’d weep under the weight of all I’ve been carrying.
I thought I’d weep at the miracle of having accomplished a physical feat that such a short time ago no doctor would have said I could contemplate, let alone complete.
I thought I’d weep for everything left behind.
I thought I’d weep and that the weeping would go on and on and on.
But then I got here, and the tears that have fallen in a constant deluge for the past two years didn’t materialize.
I got here, and all I felt was happy.
All I felt was happy.
On the square outside the Santiago de Compostela Archcathedral Basilica, holding my Compostela, the official certificate verifying distance walked and date of completion.