I found one of my favorite poems written on a rock on top of the Cruz de hierro which says basically, "Traveler, there is no path, the path is made as you walk..... and looking back you see the way that you will never pass again." Looking over these pictures to post, I certainly get that feeling. Towns, people, and scenery I may never see again seem very dear to me as I sit in a familiar coffee shop back in my adopted home town.

Here I am, back at the scene of the crime sounding like a broken record as I explain, "Yes, I thought I might be gone for a year, but I decided to come back." One of the reasons I wanted to go to Spain was that I had a hunch that once I got there, I might never return. It was a strange sensation to look around me and think how wonderful everything was, but at the same time, to have no desire to stay.

If this post seems disoriented, jumbled, melancholy, or sentimental in any way, welcome to the current landscape of my mind. For the most part, everything feels remarkably normal. On the other hand, I'm continually overtaken with a lump in my throat and an ache in my chest that I can't place. Do I want to be back in Spain? No. Do I want to be here? Yes. I've just never been here before.

There's a character in one of my favorite Paulo Coelho books, The Alchemist, who is a Muslim glass shop owner who has always dreamed of going to Mecca, but has no plans to ever actually do it. He fears that if he goes, his life will have no purpose once he has completed his journey. With that fear also in my mind, I decided to go on my journey anyway and confront that possibility with a brave face. I think anytime we choose to explore things we really want, we are signing up for the next question which goes something like, "What now?"

Let's be honest. Here's the answer to my question in a nutshell.

1. I'm living in my newly married best friend's guest room.
2. Um, employment anyone?
3. To quote the ever wise boyfriend, Dave, "Music for music's sake."
4. Did I mention boyfriend?

Basically, the honeymoon's over and this is my life. For quite some time that reality has been mitigated by legitimate excuses like being recently divorced, getting ready to go to Spain, moving out of my apartment, and the like. I feel equally daunted as I did when I first injured my knee coming down from the Alto de perdon and realized that I still had about 700 kilometers until Santiago and I had better figure out how I was going to get there in my sorry state. The idyllic picture I had of spiritual encounters with a backdrop of gorgeous scenery was going to be more like, "Shit, shit, shit!" with every step peppered with moments of, "Isn't that a beautiful sunrise!"

But the truth is, I did it. I figured it out, and I'm here relatively safe and sound. If nothing else, what I'll take from my camino experience is the belief that no matter what, I can do it even if it doesn't look like I thought it might, and like the poem says, I make my path as I go.