The Way

About a month ago, I went on a pilgrimage. The Camino de Santiago is a series of routes through France, Portugal, and Spain, all leading to the Cathedral of St. James in Santiago de Compostela. This is a popular pilgrimage for religious and nonreligious reasons. My sister and I had been talking about doing it for years, ever since a family friend did it for their honeymoon. Now, after my first year of teaching in Memphis, TN, we were finally doing it.

We spent twelve days hiking 190 miles up the coast of Portugal and Spain. We saw incredible landscapes, weathered literal storms, raced to catch ferries, climbed up (and fell down) small mountains, and managed to make it to the other end with only one blister between the two of us. We met people from all over the world, ate more sandwiches than I've ever wanted to, and sat in the silence of churches older than our home country.

A few weeks after returned to the States, I was on the phone with a friend of mine, telling her about my summer. She asked me a simple question that made me pause and think: "What did you learn on the hike?"

Well, I thought. Lots of things. That toe socks, shockingly, save your feet from blisters. That speaking French will not in any way help you understand Portuguese. That my body actually can hike 22 miles in one day, but my hip flexors are going to punish me for it the next day. That "Climb Every Mountain" from The Sound of Music really can and will get you up a mountain.

But then, I thought about one day on the trail. Honestly, it was the worst day of the hike. The day after going 22-miles, we were hoping for an easy hike. Our bodies had been through it. We were about halfway to Santiago, and we were tired.

The day started normal. We woke up early, checked out of our Albergue (hostel), and began the quiet walk through the city of Baiona, Spain. We stopped for coffees in the next town, checked the map on our phones, and started again. It was about 9:00 in the morning.

The Camino (which means "the Way") is marked with clear signs. These arrows, often accompanied by a stylized scallop shell, appear as often as every 500 meters on the trail. The trail is designed in such a way that you shouldn't be able to get lost.

The signs disappeared that day.

We were in a foreign country, where only one of us (not I) spoke the language. We had no service on our phones, no wifi, and a map that was only accurate maybe 60% of the time. We had relied completely on those arrows for the entire trip. They'd never led us astray. And now they were gone.

Well, to say "gone" is a bit of an overstatement. They hadn't disappeared completely, but rather than being every 500 meters, we saw them maybe every five kilometers. When you're walking through the Spanish countryside, five kilometers is a long time to go without a sign!

I'd like to say we handled this with the grace of seasoned pilgrims, the easy humor of unflappable world travelers. We didn't. By the time we made it to our next Albergue, 19.5 miles and almost 9 hours later, we were hot, sweaty, dehydrated, hungry, and angry. We had walked through beach towns, past tourists, through forests, and a literal shipping yard, but we had made it. At one point, we had walked on the side of a highway for almost two miles.

I was honestly a bit shocked that we hadn't ended up in the sea, or lost in some small town miles from the trail.

I shared this, now, with my friend on the phone. She asked how we'd done it. Had we turned on our GPS, followed the directions to the next hostel?

No, I said. We just ... kept walking.

By the time we realized that the arrows had disappeared, we had been following the direction of the last arrow for a half hour. We had two options. Go back and see if we'd missed an arrow, or keep walking.

We kept walking.

Each time we saw an arrow (and felt with it an overwhelming sense of relief), we knew that we would have to follow that arrow in faith that, eventually, we'd see another one.

There were turns in the road, side paths. But we never took them, trusting that when we would need to turn, there would be an arrow.

"I think that's what I learned," I told my friend at last. Life is kind of like that sometimes. We like to see signs for what we're supposed to do, or where we're supposed to "go". I, at least, like clear direction.

Two years ago, I moved to Memphis to pursue a career in teaching. I have two years left in my commitment to my program. After that, who knows? Being halfway through the program, people have started to ask me what's next. For a while, I felt the pressure to answer. To speculate about how I'll feel in two years. Where I'll want to go.

But honestly, I have no idea.

In a way, I feel like I did that day on the Camino. I am fortunate enough that there were very clear signs pointing me towards teaching, and towards Memphis. Some of the clearest direction I've ever felt in my life. Since then? Nothing. For a while, I'll admit that scared me. Where am I supposed to go from here?

That day on the hike reminded me that I don't need to know. I have to trust that I'm on the right path, going the same direction I started two years ago. I'll stay on that path until I see a sign telling me, "Okay. Now it's time to turn."