I step into the weekend like a question. No itinerary. No certainty. Just the hush of morning and the feel of earth beneath my feet. I remember Antonio Machado’s words—“Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.”
And something in me exhales.
There is a kind of freedom in not knowing. In releasing the grip of destination. I have spent too long searching for the right way forward, waiting for some sign to say, This is it. But the sign never came—only silence and the quiet rhythm of breath.
Now I walk not to arrive, but to listen.
With each step, the ground shapes itself beneath me. The unknown opens like a flower. And I begin to trust that what I seek is not beyond the horizon but within the motion itself.
nothing ahead— only the whisper of steps becoming a trail
The Road to Santiago is a spiritual path. It was originally a Catholic pilgrimage for sinners who were trying to work off any time they might have to spend in Purgatory before they could go to heaven. It’s a 500-mile trail that runs across northern Spain from Roncesvalles to Santiago de Compostela.
I first came across the Road to Santiago through reading Robert Twigger’s book On Being a Man in the Lousy Modern World. In the book, he talks about the death of action versus unisex blandness, where style is more important than substance, and how we look is more important than what we do.
I later came across the Road to Santiago through Paulo Coelho’s book, The Pilgrimage, which is his account of the Great Walk. He walked the Road to find something he had lost. I wanted to walk the road to see what I could find. I was going through a serious low point in my life. I felt on the verge of falling apart.
I needed to believe the Road to Santiago would help me find what was missing in my life. On the surface, I didn’t seem to lack anything. I was living the American Dream: wife, children, a nice house, and a good job. But something was gnawing at me from the inside.
On the Road to Santiago, I hoped I could find what was missing. Of course, it’s kind of hard to find something if you don’t know what you’re looking for in the first place. Every epic journey must have a goal the explorer is seeking. Since I did not know what I was looking for, I set myself some sub-goals to give the journey some meaning. So on the Road to Santiago, I set out to do something I had never done before, which was to walk 500 miles as part of a single venture. I also wanted to meet other pilgrims and find out what they were seeking on the Road.
A month before I set out to walk the Road, I told a friend of mine that I didn’t know what I would find on the Road to Santiago, and he said, “I suspect that on the Road to Santiago, you will find Santiago. It’s what you’ll bring back that intrigues me.”
When I relaxed into the profoundness of his words, the Road suddenly took on a new meaning for me. Instead of walking the Road as a frustrated man who didn’t know what he was looking for, I would walk the Road as an explorer, open to whatever I might find.
What I brought back came in the form of an epiphany:
Open your eyes to the joy and wonder all around you, and appreciate the little things in life.
We can make life more complicated than it needs to be. And I’ll confess now, I have done my fair share of complicating life, making it into a great big tangled melodrama when it doesn’t have to be.
Going through some old papers, I came across a phrase that for years has been my unofficial motto. I even used it to caption my yearbook picture. I wrote (and I used to believe) that “winning is an attitude.” Like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, I stole this phrase from my judo coach. I remember the exact moment I became bonded to these words.
We were competing in the Eastern Collegiate Judo championships in Maryland. I was competing out of my weight class. Normally, I fought in the 209 pound division, but coach needed someone to fight in the unlimited weight class. I was a big boy, but I would be going up against even bigger boys who outweighed me by 30 to 40 pounds.
I was used to lifting heavy weight. I’d been a weightlifter and a bodybuilder since I was fourteen. Gym weights, however, don’t tend to move around and fight back. Despite all of that, I made it to the finals. My opponent was humongous and as solid as oak. He was the immovable object, but I certainly wasn’t the irresistible force. I’d tug on his gi and he wouldn’t budge. He’d tug on mine and I felt like a Raggedy Andy doll in his grip.
I knew that I would have to use speed and endurance if I wanted to win. The big guys tended to tire quickly. I had to keep him moving. The strategy was working. I managed to get a foot sweep in for a koka.
I was winning.
I went into defence mode. And that’s when coach got pissed. During a short break, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled my forehead against his forehead and said:
“You’re playing not to lose. Don’t worry about losing; losing will take care of itself. Focus on winning. Winning is an attitude,”
And with that, he sent me back out onto the mat.
I’d like to say his speech fired me up and I went on to win the match, but I didn’t. I didn’t escape out of one my attempted throws fast enough and this beast of a judoka got a hold of me. My feet left the ground and the next thing I became aware of was the ref yelling Ippone!
Match over!
I may have lost the match, but I gained something valuable. I learned that no matter what challenges I face, never worry about losing. Instead, focus on winning and let losing take care of itself. This simple change in attitude did wonders for my self-esteem and confidence. Now my default mode is to face into the challenge.
Death,
Fears big brother,
Drops the gauntlet
I have definitely fallen in love with the haibun, which is a form of Japanese poetry that combines prose and haiku. It originated in the 17th century and typically consists of a brief lyrical prose story followed by a haiku poem. The haiku usually relates to the prose in some way, providing insight or elaboration on the story or scene being described in the prose. The haibun often has a meditative or contemplative tone, and may be autobiographical in nature.
There is something about the form that really resonates with me. I really excited about exploring the fomr some more. I am even contemplating doing a 365 day haibun project for 2023. I reckon if I were to write a haibun a day, I could master the form in a year or at least be proficient in it.
I am struggling to imagine myself committing to a project of this sort for a whole year. My personality type doesn’t lend itself to sustained projects. I’m more of a butterfly flittering from one idea to the next. My blog archives would bare witness to that. I fall in love with a new idea at least every other week.
But I really like the haibun. As a literary form, it seems well suited for me.
