One Step at a Time, All the Way to St. James Way.

"Are your feet surviving?" many asked me.

I laughed and said, " Surviving? No, I'm LIVING!"

No kidding.. I am fully alive.

We walked about 140+ kilometers in 7 days [Portuguese Way]. Writing it down doesn't quite capture the weight of it. Each day felt like a world of its own. The terrain shifted constantly, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh. We were an hour into a forest, where eucalyptus and pine trees rose above, and the smell was earthy and wet. Then we'd spill out into open countryside, fields glowing gold under the sun, or trace the edges of sleepy villages where laundry fluttered and dogs barked lazily behind fences.

We walked past fields of endless grapes, some near enough to sweep our hands against the leaves, others creeping into the distance like painted rows on the hills. Vines curled in straight lines, loaded with ripening or already picked fruit, depending on the day. Their peaceful, steady existence was soothing, disciplined, and timeless.

Stone walls guided us past centuries-old horreos. Those narrow, raised granaries perched on stone pillars like guardians of tradition. A few were old and crumbling, while others had been carefully restored, proudly standing on the corners of peaceful farms or the back of someone's house. I had never laid eyes on any before. They seemed to have stepped out of a fairy tale, with their cross-shaped vents and mossy roofs. I loved spotting them, sometimes between houses, sometimes on a hill like little sentinels patrolling the ground. They reminded me that tradition doesn't have to shout to be felt. It just stands, steady, unmoving, still a part of the ordinary.

And the animals! Amiable, curious, utterly indifferent to standing around pilgrims. We walked past a dog swimming in the river, cows grazing in an open field, their bells softly clinking like wind chimes at a distance. Goats glanced over wired fences, swishing their tails, strolling with us for a while, as if guiding us on. Horses clip-clopped through town squares by local officers, straight-back and calm. Duck waddled across dusty paths, quacking softly. It was all kinds of good, simple, earthy, alive. Every encounter made the walk less a way and more a shared world, where humans and animals moved through the same rhythm of earth and air.

And sometimes, we'd have to slow down even more, not for our feet, but for the snails. Small, tenacious, and immensely slow, they crawled along the asphalt inch by inch. We'd catch glimpses of them after the soft rain, their wet shells shining in the sun as they left behind unseen tracks on the trail. There was something oddly comforting about them, so relentless, so predictable. As if to remind us: hurry not. All ways have their pace, and even the slowest step holds its beauty.

We passed by small chapels along the way, some so small they were smaller than one room, concealed behind trees or down farm roads. They quietly appeared, as if from another era. Doors were often left open, inviting us into calm, quiet quietness. The atmosphere within was thick with stillness, pale light passing through stained glass or thin panes. There would be a flash of candle flame. There would be no one at all. But always, there was a sense of peace, a gentle invitation to slow, breathe, and remember that this pilgrimage wasn't measured in miles. It was about presence. These little chapels were the Camino's heartbeat, reminding us to maintain reverence in every step.

We crossed narrow, moss-covered stone bridges across still rivers, some only a footpath wide, some flowing smoothly beneath us, almost noiselessly. The water moved slowly, calmly, as if it had all the time in the world. It mirrored the trees above and carried leaves downstream in lazy whirls. In those moments, it felt like the whole world had exhaled.

We climbed hills that rolled out green valley vistas, and rode through quiet industrial areas where concrete walls and warehouses hummed with machinery and time passed more slowly. The ground told its own story with every step, flat cobblestone in ancient cities, crunchy gravel beneath pine trees, heavy mud that clung to our shoes after rain. Every surface grounds us in the moment.

And the weather! It gave us everything. Soft rain that floated down over us like a gentle hush, more cooling than soaking. Winds tugged at our jackets, sending us along. Then sun, warm and golden! That seeped into our backs and dried out the path beneath our feet. Sometimes the clouds parted just in time, like a small benediction just around a hill.

And no matter how lost we felt or how tired, we were never truly alone. Every kilometer or so, a small yellow arrow or the familiar scallop shell would appear: painted on walls, carved into stone, fastened onto wooden posts, or hidden on the back of a street sign. Sometimes they glowed bright and obvious, sometimes they were faded and discreet, like a gentle whisper pointing the way. But they were ever there, those little reminders of encouragement that you were on the right track. And next to some of them, pilgrims had left little offerings: stones poised in careful piles, pictures wedged into crevices, ribbons bound to branches or signs. Pieces of themselves. Pieces of someone they were walking for. A reminder that this path carries more than feet, it holds memories, prayers, and hopes. In some unspoken way, the signs didn't so much seem like directions as gentle encouragement from the path itself: keep going. You're doing it.

Along the way, you meet strangers, people from everywhere in the world, walking for reasons you might never even know.  Now and again, you exchange a few words and a smile. Sometimes you walk with someone for miles, exchanging stories, aches, snacks, and silence. You break bread together at tables that seem to go on forever in tiny cafés or highway albergues, breaking loaves of bread like friends. You laugh past language barriers, commiserate about blisters, and share life lessons as chotchkes. You may never see each other again, or you may be in each other's lives forever but here, now, on this trail, you're walking the same path. And somehow, that qualifies you as friends.

Some day, we saw elderly couples strolling hand-in-hand, taking their time. Other day, lone backpackers with deep stories in their eyes, and even families with children playing on the trail, parents loaded with strollers holding wide-eyed toddlers swaddled up inside, siblings walking hand-in-hand. It was a reminder that this was not a contest. It was something more profound: a community pilgrimage, regardless of pace, we were all going... together.

I approached this with no expectations. Perhaps I thought I'd take the time to think, to reflect on a few things. But that's not what the Camino does for you. It drains you. Not in an empty manner but in the way that creates space. Out there, your mind quiets. You don't loop through thoughts. You listen to the path in front of you, to the breath of the wind, to the constant rhythm of footsteps alongside you.

I didn't concern myself with work. Or worry. Or anything beyond what was immediately in front of me. At times, it was Isaac, telling a story. At times, it was simply the road curving between the trees. I wasn't trying to think or plan. I was just walking. And in that act of walking, something inside me slowly let go.

And then there was Santiago de Compostela. That last part of all was surreal. The cobblestone streets weren't too narrow but narrow enough to be intimate, as though the city was welcoming you in an embrace. There was a subdued reverence in the air, even with the hum of fellow pilgrims and the distant strains of traditional Galician music, especially the bagpipes. Every step toward the cathedral was sacred, slow, and a little surreal.

And then, suddenly, poof. We were there! Standing before the cathedral, its spires pointing toward heaven.

We saw them before we felt it, pilgrims scattered across the square. A few sat on the ground silently, propped against their backpacks. A few danced, laughed, snapped pictures, let go of joy from within themselves. A few stood frozen, looking up at the cathedral in awe. And many, many cried. Quiet tears. Deep sobs. Overwhelmed. Free. Grateful. It was one of the most human experiences I've ever had. The whole square hummed with release.

And what about me?

I felt it all at once.

Weary, but stronger than I'd ever been.

Hollow, but in the best way imaginable, like something had been taken out of the way to allow something new to fill the space.

Quiet, yet radiating energy I didn't realize I had. It wasn't about accomplishment. It was about arrival, arriving not just at a place, but at a place within myself I'd forgotten.

There was no moment of epiphany. No slow-motion monologue. Just this marvelous, silent knowing: I made it. And in that instant, I did not need any more. I let go of things I had not known I was clinging to: pressure, expectation, grief, guilt, and noise. They did not release at once. But something inside me relaxed. And with that relaxation, I was at peace.

And amidst it all, I carried two small things with me from home: a homemade crocheted Craiggerbear and stickers, each with a simple message and quiet intention, to spread the love Craig had for strangers. The kind that didn't need praise, but softly existed. Again and again. A testament that kindness can change a life. That showing up matters.

Can you spot the CraiggerBears?

My scheme was straightforward. I would pass the bear on to someone I felt a connection with. Someone who, unbeknownst to them, was making a difference in people's lives every day. Someone who emanated that low-key, consistent goodness that Craig possessed so effortlessly. I assumed I could find them on the path, in another pilgrim, or a moment.

But I didn't.

I saw her in the end. She was our tour guide at the cathedral, kind, smart, and full of heart. She spoke with wonder and joy, not only in awe of the building but the people who arrived at it, day by day, with tales on their feet. There was something in her, a warmth, a comfort, a way of seeing other human beings without seeing at all, that caused me to think: She's the one.

So I passed it on to her and told her Craig's story. She wept as tears fell on her face. She was moved, touched, and just incredibly grateful. Along with it, i shared a part of Craig. A part of the journey. A part of me. I let it go, but not really. Because that small bear will carry with it what matters most: kindness, connection, and the gentle magic of being present with love.

And now. I grasp so tightly to something intangible. This sense. This airiness. This tranquility. I want to cling tight. I want to remember walking without rushing, breathing without tension, and viewing the world through gentle eyes and an open heart. I want to remember the uncomplicatedness of each stride, how sufficient it was simply to travel forward.

I know I cannot stay on the path forever. Life will pull me back into its rhythms, its timetables, its cacophony. But I would like to carry this quietly with me as an interior compass, something I can look back upon in moments of quiet or when I have lost my way.

I don't want the feeling to fade. I want to protect it, nourish it, hold it close like an ember until I'm back on the trail, whenever that will be.

Because some part of me knows: the journey isn't over.

Maybe it never really is.

And finally, to my amazing son - thank you. Thank you for giving up two weeks of gaming, comfort, and routine to walk with me, step by step, blister by blister. For taking your pack, your sense of humor, and your quiet strength along every forest path, every hill climb, and every café stop. You didn't just walk with me; you walked this experience, heart and soul, and without a grumble. I'll never forget the laughter, the talks, the silences, and how you motivated me and stopped me from calling a cab for help. :) This was not a walk across Spain. This was something we'll bear together, always. And I'm glad it was with you.