Compostela

Our final day on the Camino showed me, once and for all, why people have been doing this for over a thousand years.  It started with the simple physical reality of getting my legs back.  For day two and three, my legs had felt heavy, and there were long stretches, particularly during climbs, that I had to focus every ounce of energy just to put one foot in front of the other.  On day four, the load seemed lighter, my legs had life, my feet, despite the blisters, weren't yelling at me with every step.  We had a couple of good climbs, and about half way up the first one, I knew some threshold had been crossed.  My body was a little harder, my mind was a little more determined.  I spent a good portion of day four on my own, not because I had grown tired of the company, but simply because my body was telling me what pace to keep, and it was a little faster than the others.
I felt in balance with my body, I was eating to live, just what my body needed to keep going, drinking plenty of water, my muscles had adapted to the load, and I scaled those last two mountains at a good pace.  At the top of the last rise, I stopped and waited, because I knew, particularly after going it alone for a good couple of hours, it was time to get back with the group for the final descent into Santiago de Compostela, the completion of the Pilgrimage.
There was one last physical and spiritual hurdle to overcome, coming down the mountain.  From the high places you could see the town, but you were detached, a creature of the open road, a Peregrino.  When you entered the town, you immediately had to face the reality that you were a stranger to this world.  People going in and out of banks and stores, tourists with cameras and fanny packs, normal, modern life.
It was oppressive.
So close to the goal, my legs got heavy, my shoulders started to ache, my soul began to want to turn around and head back out to the road.  I've been back for two weeks now, and my soul still wants to head back out to the road, I fear I have been infected.
When we finally wound our way through the modern city of Santiago and into the old section, we caught a glimpse of the spire of the cathedral, and tears came.  I knew why we were there, I knew that there was a place that welcomed the stranger, the Peregrino.  A few of the group started singing the doxology as we walked down the crowded streets, I couldn't sing with my voice, but my heart was singing loud.
As we entered the courtyard in front of the cathedral of Saint James, I realized momentarily that my pack was no longer heavy.  As I climbed the steps of the church and entered into high vaulted sanctuary, into that space where ancient stones played wonderful games with the sunlight that came streaming through the high windows, I felt a sense of quiet come over me.  The tourists ceased to exist in my world, all my critiques of the excess of a church like this, with so much gold and ornamentation, were silent.
I walked around the whole perimeter of the cathedral before dropping my pack in a section roped off for prayer and meditation, and I knelt down and wept.  I don't know why I wept, but it was a deep and cleansing process.  I looked at my pack, laying there on the pew in front of me, and I realized that it was not the only heavy burden I had carried to Santiago de Compostela.  I was still carrying my brother, grief and absence.  I was still carrying Christine, Amanda and Sara, and I was still carrying their father, their killer.  I was still carrying all the people I had said goodbye to in Plumville and Atwood.  I was still carrying all the new people in Maryland that I'm just getting to know.  I realized that perhaps I will always carry them. I realized that there are some burdens you shouldn't put down.
As I looked around at the ancient sanctuary, I thought about all the burdens that had been brought to this altar over the last 1500 years, all the people who were hoping that their pilgrimage would get them, or someone they cared about into heaven.  I thought about how, after days of wanting nothing more than to be rid of the backpack in front of me, what I wanted, more than anything, was to put it back on and keep walking, to embrace the simple way of the Peregrino, to travel the roads and the high places...
And then I thought of home, and family, and I realized that pilgrimage is valuable as a contrast, as salt of the earth, as a way to set yourself apart, temporarily, from all the things that clutch and grab at your soul.  It is a parable that illustrates life, but it is not life itself.  It can be addictive, it can put a claim on you, and it will pull at your heart.
But there are burdens that you should not put down, or walk away from.  Things that are every bit as sacred as the Way, or the Cathedral.  Living people who are every bit as holy (more holy really) as the bones of the Apostle in their ornate silver sepulcher.
For doing at least 100 km of the Camino, you get a certificate called a Compostela, which is a verification that you have completed your pilgrimage and become a Peregrino, but the journey isn't done, not by a long shot.  I don't know how many specific sacred journeys I'm going to take in my life, but I know now that my life as a whole is a sacred journey.  I am, and I always will be, a pilgrim, a Peregrino, whether I'm on the Way or at home with my family, whether I'm trekking through the wilderness, or sitting in my office.
I am a Peregrino, and this journey is not done.