The Path is the Goal: A Buddhist’s Pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago
An endless road appears and disappears in front of me as the sun rises, illuminating a distant village with an amber glow.
I am walking the Camino de Santiago, an ancient pilgrimage beginning in the foothills of the Pyrenees in the quaint, picturesque village of Saint Jean-pied-de-port. About 500 miles west in Santiago de Compostela, Spain lies the relics of Saint James, or Santiago in Spanish. The Camino gained popularity in the Medieval Ages when annually more than a quarter million Christian pilgrims walked to admonish their sins. The funny thing is…I’m Buddhist.
At first, one might think a Catholic pilgrimage to the remains of a Saint is a strange place for a Buddhist to end up. I might’ve agreed with you, especially on the first day of the pilgrimage when I was trailing a priest for about 5 kilometers, who upon passing him, stopped to pray for me, Bible in hand. I figured an extra prayer or two couldn’t hurt, but it did get me thinking, wait… why am I walking the Camino? Shouldn’t I be in Bodh Gaya or maybe circumambulating a Buddhist stupa somewhere?
An hour after my priest interaction, I found myself alone on the seemingly endless road to Santiago, and I asked myself again, “Why am I walking?” out loud, halfway hoping the Camino would respond.
The next morning, I noticed a boulder on the hillside painted with the question, “Why are you walking?” A great question for any pilgrim to ask, I decided, and with a shrug, I did what any pilgrim would do and kept walking.
Discovering Pilgrimage
Pilgrimage invites us to look deeper as we leave behind the daily routine of our lives and relate with our inner and outer journey, often following the footsteps of countless seekers before us. While the term “pilgrimage” is most commonly described as a journey to a sacred place, I began to question the true meaning of pilgrimage. What if pilgrimage was actually every step of the way? How does it differ from simply going on a long walk?
As I pondered this, I remember an interview with Oprah Winfrey and Thich Nhat Hanh. She asked the Vietnamese meditation master, “Do you meditate every single day?” He smiled and said, “We try to meditate not only every day but every moment.”
At this point in my life, I was fairly new to meditation. It was 2016, and I was the tender age of 23 years old. I was living in Ibiza, Spain, teaching English and understanding what it means to be off on my own for the first time. I knew I wanted to learn about meditation, so when I found a flier that said, “Thank Buddha it’s Tuesday - Weekly Meditation Group” I was intrigued enough to make the weekly pilgrimage to the other side of the island on my Vespa to practice meditation in community. With each passing week, my intrigue transitioned into trust and gratitude. Still, the concept of meditation in every moment was a lofty aspiration. Sitting still for a 15-minute practice felt like an eternity.
If there’s ever a time and place to practice this mindfulness stuff, it’s while I’m walking across an entire country on an ancient pilgrimage, I thought. A week into the pilgrimage, I serendipitously was given a book “Silence: The Power of Quiet in a World Full of Noise” by Thich Nhat Hanh. Inspiration soared. I took it as a sign to go into silence as I walked.
I began to notice things as if I were seeing for the first time: A dusty red-orange dirt road. An old man on a tractor in the distance. Beads of sweat rolling down the side of my face. Memories peeking in and out from between the endless rows of Rioja vineyards. Smiling at a fellow pilgrim. The consistent crunch of my footsteps. The simplicity of breathing. For the first time ever, I felt at peace in my own skin.
The Camino Provides
Sangha, in Buddhist context, refers to the community of practitioners who support and inspire each other on the path. As one of the Triple Jewels along with the Buddha (teacher) and the Dhamma (teachings), it is an integral part of the path of awakening.
Traditionally, albergues, or pilgrim’s hostels, were run by monasteries, churches, or local communities as a way of supporting pilgrims on their journey. Many albergues offer a communal atmosphere and foster a sense of sangha, often with a shared dining area and dorm room setting, ranging anywhere from four beds to 100 beds in a room. Because do you really know someone if you haven’t heard them snoring?
One afternoon, I arrived at the albergue where I would stay that night. I met a group of Italians who were wildly expressive with their hands and faces. A chuckle escaped me as I listened to their stories, feeling as if my whole being was lighter, unrestricted by the usual distractions of daily life.
The Italians decided that they’d make dinner for everyone because, well, they’re Italian and that’s what Italians do. I was grateful and walked with them to the singular market in this tiny village. When my new friends couldn’t find what they were looking for, the old woman working at the store tried to help them. Two babies, probably her grandchildren, crawled around by our feet. Because of the language barrier, they couldn’t understand what the other was saying. The Italians began to speak louder, their hand gestures more wild. The confusion had reached an all-time high when the woman began to laugh uncontrollably at the situation. The Italians froze, first looking at each other and then back at the woman who was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face. Then, we all began to laugh. The whole store burst into laughter just at the sound of our own laughter. The wave of gladness was impossible to ignore. After some time, we found what we were looking for and returned to the albergue.
“The Camino provides,” a pilgrim once told me. “It’s this weird thing that starts to happen…you’re walking along in need of some help like a knee brace or whatever and bam! Just like that, the right person comes along and without asking says, ‘Hey - I have this extra knee brace if you want it.’ Or you’ll be wrapped up in some deep processing when you see some graffiti that says exactly what you needed to hear.” I laughed because that happened to me, and honestly the more time I spent walking this pilgrimage, the more I began to embrace the truth of this statement. Some call it “Camino magic”. It’s almost like, as spiritual seekers, we are protected by an outside force. I bow to the dharma protectors with reverence.
Later that evening, we were gathered around a long table, appreciating the divine Italian pasta, red wine flowing, muscles sore from walking and faces sore from smiling. It was then that I realized how incredibly healing it can be to be fully available to the aliveness of right now. Our mind can spin out thinking about what we have and don’t have, insecurities and defenses, but instead we are choosing to see how interconnected we really are. The simple fact is that we all want to be happy, safe, and at ease. What a relief to know that we’re all in this together.
Letting Go
The act of renunciation, or nekkhamma in Pali, is the act of letting go of what we do not need. Much like attending a meditation retreat, pilgrimage is a time to let go of the constant demands and overstimulation of our daily lives. During a pilgrimage, one simply walks, carrying everything needed for the journey in a backpack. At the onset of my journey, the weight of my backpack was a huge burden. Half the time, I felt like I was nearly falling over because of the weight of it. Over time, I realized how little I actually needed. Similarly, in life we accumulate excess – be it half read books on overflowing shelves, cluttered junk drawers, overstuffed closets full of clothes. This pattern extends to mental and emotional aspects of our lives where unnecessary worries, elaborate plans, and enticing fantasies occupy our minds.
As my pilgrimage was coming to an end, my backpack felt surprisingly lighter. Not only did I let go of the things I didn’t actually need, I was also in better shape and able to carry the weight with more ease. I was practically skipping to Santiago on the last day of the pilgrimage. If we see this as a metaphor, we can understand how the act of renunciation, be it on pilgrimage or in our daily lives, can become an incredibly transformative aspect of our practice.
The Path is the Goal
The much anticipated moment was just within reach. Like rivers converging into the ocean, nearing the end point of the pilgrimage, I merged into a group of expectant pilgrims, all of whom walked varying distances to arrive at this very place. We passed through a tunnel just before the famous Plaza de Obradoiro as Galician bagpipes played in the distance.
The nerves kicked in, and my stomach fluttered with excitement. I looked down at the familiar sight of the movement of my shoes until I reached the center back side of the plaza to get a full view of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, lifted my head, and opened my eyes as I exhaled.
The cathedral filled my field of vision, with scaffolding covering half of the structure, and ominous rain clouds as its backdrop. I began to cry, unsure what this moment meant. I couldn’t help but shake the subtle ache of disappointment that the final moments of my pilgrimage didn’t quite encapsulate the fullness of the entire journey. Dukkha, I laughed as I cried, wiping away my tears with my shirtsleeve. Raindrops interrupted my thoughts, and I ran for cover to a nearby cafe.
One day soon, I plan to walk a Buddhist pilgrimage, but for now, I will continue to use every step as my practice. As they say, the path is the goal.
