I’m the first to arrive at today’s hostel inside a 14^th century church and monastery. I stake out my bed for the night, putting my sleeping bag liner over a thin pad among several lined up in a loft of the church. By the time everyone checks in, the room is a colorful display of sleeping bag liners. About 30 of us gather in the evening for a time of sharing in the church choir loft, answering the question, What does the Camino mean to you. I share my story.

“Me? I’m on the Camino because my husband died. I was single for 30 years; was married for 33 years with David. I’m now widowed and looking for what my next 30 years will be. My body hurts. Achilles tendon pain makes it hard to walk. I feel alone and lost. I keep asking why am I doing this? Wouldn’t it be easier to just check in for a week or two at a luxury hotel and plan my next 30 years? Why do I need to walk this friggin’ Camino?”

And I answer my own question. “There is something mystical, magical about the Camino. I’m finding something powerful in this physical-emotional-mental connection I’m experiencing. The hardship of the physical walking seems to open me up to grasp more profoundly what I need to hear. It breaks me down. It peels away the layers of stories and lines that I created to get through life with the least resistance. It drills down into my inner essence. On the Camino what I need carves itself into me instead of just laying its truth on the surface in mental assent.”