Hey there, fellow soul-journey-ers—it's Lance here, your resident Central Florida Pilgrim walking 'it' out here in Champions Gate, musing my way along sidewalks lining swamps and golf courses with busy streets full of morning commuters.
Today's humidity clings to me like old doubts, yet a grey-green horizon calls me toward it.
Last night I watched this gem of a video from Caminotellers on the Portuguese Camino route—raw, unglamorous, and spot-on about those Day 2 slumps where the world feels not yet uploaded to your brain and the coffee has yet to kick you in the shins of your mind funk.
Ricky, our pilgrim's poet, tossed out a question that hit me in my Camino-feels. "When the day gives you nothing, what keeps you walking? Drop your real answer in the comments, simple or messy," he dared.
Here's my answer.
I keep walking because... walking.
Yeah, it is really that tautological (redundant). It's my stripped-down, no fireworks, no profound epiphany waiting at the next albergue—just the act of walking itself, the rhythm of one foot chasing the other into whatever next grey awaits.
It's like the sidewalk whispered to me today in Ricky's voice, "This is it, pilgrim. There's no negotiating with reality."
Asi es. Nada mas y nada menos.
In this simplicity, I've found a quiet power that carries me through my nothing-days, whether on the Camino or in my everyday grind back home.
The idea resonated even more when I re-read Antonio Machado's poem, again, for, like, the, 1000th time, "Caminante, no hay camino"—"Traveler, there is no road; you make the path as you walk."
Those lines have been my mantra since my first blister emerged after I neglected to attend to a hotspot on that magical forested pathway along the Rio Arga from Zubiri, thru Zabaldika and on to Logroño. It became my favorite day on the Camino Frances, thus far.
Three days before a wind and a freak storm guided us up and over the Pyrenees with its dreamy postcard vistas into a riverwalk hike when that fourth day produced my first blister... because, "walking."
Looking back at the wake my walk left along the Way that day, I'm sure it has fully blended into the mysterious memories of thousands of other pilgrims. I give for example, ringing the bell atop that quaint little parish church in Zabaldika. How many other pilgrims have rang that very bell? Bell rings are invisible sound wakes in the air much like visible wakes are on the water. But no less real.
Ricky and Machado reminded me that the path only existed because I had not stopped walking. On those mornings when the sounds of my tired feet crunching on Meseta gravel lulled my overactive mind into a trance and the views were, less than picturesque, walking became the answer to itself. It's not about chasing hope of a photo op; it's letting hope catch up and give you something that cannot be photographed... and only because you persisted.
And get this—it echoes something even deeper—at least to me.
Today, while walking to my daily listen of the "Bible in a Year" podcast with Father Mike Schmitz, I perceived the redundancy of this life, even more clearly.
We finished the Book of Job, that gut-wrenching tale of suffering, clearly wrapped up as a gift, but without a neat bow. Job rails at the heavens: Why the pain? Why the loss? God shows up in the whirlwind, not with a PowerPoint, or TED Talk bullet-point explanations, but with His presence. Job shifts from hearing about God to truly seeing Him, and that's where he repents, and surrenders.
Father Mike nailed it—the answer isn't a "why," it's the Who. God Himself is the response to life's brutal realities. It's strikingly similar to "walking, because walking." No cosmic set of Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) for the suffering or the slog; just an encounter with the Divine in the midst of what's real, step by step, grey day by grey day.
For me, this weaves right back into the Camino's unglamorous magic. Remember that stretch from Sarria to Portomarin? I do not. I don't remember the trail. I don't recall any photo ops or epiphanies. Or at least I've not come up with any... yet. What I do recall is not fitting in. Once again in my life, I felt like a stranger, and it shocked me, given how the Camino Frances had unfolded. It shocked me so much that I lost some of the peace and presence gained thus far.
Let me spell it out for those who have not experienced Sarria in this manner. When you are one of the fortunate, sunburned long-haulers, joining the boombox crowd with their fresh Decathlon and Corte Ingles gear and garb... it shocks you right out of the long-haul Camino vibe you've become accustomed to walking in. Boom! You are now part of a noisy and joyous parade. To be fair, the parade grows on you over the next days. But the reality remains. Sarria was... let's say... shockingly different.
It's in these physical, often emotional, and sometimes spiritual setbacks where pilgrimage stops being a costume—a shell, a stick, a backpack—and becomes a way of moving through the world. Not demanding perfection, but embracing the real: patience as walking without certainty or proof, consistency over inspiration. On the trail or off, when nothing cheers you forward, if you persist, you might walk into the mystery, and somehow, that's where you meet the sacred.
So, Ricky, if you're reading this—thanks for the prompt. My messy-simple answer? Walking, Machado's unfolding path, Job's whirlwind encounter. It's all the same surrender: keep going, and the meaning emerges.
Lance v22,798
P.S. Today's walk was grey, yet mysteriously real! And then I heard Him say, "Greetings Pilgrim!"
