distillation of everything that matters

The next step.  

London was made anew in the afterglow of the camino, a far cry from the previous homecoming.  The cosmopolitan metropolis put its Sunday best and all that transpired reformed a once closed chapter to a door left ajar.  The short time spent was a whirlwind of nameless emotion, an exploration of the unknown in a strikingly familiar setting.  Everything absorbed through two pairs of eyes, two beating hearts.  

Sentimental intoxication gained momentum in the week that followed within the backdrop of southern France.  Much of the pervading stillness was interrupted by my now racing thoughts and the desire to grasp onto a moment in time.  Nature offered its bounty as I bore witness to the varied shades of a life that permeated my interest.  The impending departure was greeted like that of a petulant child.  I was in paradise, my soul electrified.  

“…A te regarder

danser et sourire

Et a t'écouter

Chanter et puis rire

Laisse-moi devenir

L'ombre de ton ombre

L'ombre de ta main…”

Any lessons of equanimity were swiftly kicked to the curb in the midst of uncertainty.  My return to America represented more than the immersion of family and friends; it was the end of an era and my greatest test thus far.

First stop: Pittsburgh- where my dear hermano takes residence.  The woman at the airport shuttle counter sizes me up to be the “Eat, Pray, Love lady” and wishes me luck with my life with a sweet degree of sincerity.  I had almost forgotten that Americans can be so friendly.  Even sweeter was the time spent with my almost genetic double after an all too long period of absence.  Although exploration never exceeded farther than my legs could carry me, I found myself in constant company of towering trees, open minds, and the pangs of tears with the re-emergence of Atticus Finch. Over the finest French cheese, my brother asserts what I already know but have temporarily lost under piles of preoccupation and dare I say worry.  With my batteries charged he bids me farewell and I head home.

Holland, Michigan holds mottled memories at every turn.  All that has been collected over the last year of travel is now put on a robust trial.  Admittedly, my mental faculties are the primary source of resistance.  Sure, the Mitt Romney signs are disconcerting, but the ever-present conservatism never comes as a surprise.  Amongst faces and landmarks I see traces of a history that seems to belong to someone else.  Now, surrounded by incredible love and lakes to match, it is up to me to make the most of my time here…to separate what I think I know from what is actually just staying present. So I enter this stage with the resolve to firmly anchor myself to distillation in the hopes of spreading the wealth.

to dream the impossible dream

My final day in Santiago was marked with ineffable elation amidst the pouring rain and embraces of all who understood what it meant to set foot on the way of St. James.  An indescribable dream to celebrate in the sanctuary of familiar faces and winged forms...

A warm voice whispers "The camino starts now" and it´s meaning is a daily resounding echo of a purpose beyond physical exploration and taxation.  Every moment as a springboard to parallel the steps of the pilgrimage.  Seek.  Observe.  Revel in eternity.  Substitute judgement with compassion.  Entertain all with openness of thought and emotion.  Understand that you may never understand, and most obviously... love.

"When it was over, all I could think about was how this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this logical structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. It was a time to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery, and I had been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was raging all around me and every moment was magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all the contradictory impulses - that's what I loved the most, connecting with the people. Looking back, that's all that really mattered." - Waking Life

Santiago 38.5

¨What does it feel like to be a character in someone else´s dream?¨

I posed the question (and quote from a favourite film) in partial jest although mainly due to the surreal hour spent in the company of one who renderd the distinct impression that I was a mere extra on The Truman Show.  The man whose acquaintance I´ve just made is caught off guard and hesitantly answers that he does not believe this to be the case but then begins a tirade of personal ambitions such as smoking cigarettes (for the pleasure of it because apparently other people don´t enjoy it as much as he will), working at a law firm that allows beards, carrying the 3 bottles of recently purchased alcohol on him over the next 20k (just in case), and walking the last 60 to Santiago in one day (because he is supposedly the fastest on the camino trail).  The final week of this adventure certainly contains a fair amount of eccentricities.

In two days this stretch of my camino journey will come to an end; news in which my bodily readily rejoices.  However, it is mentally difficult to imagine a life beyond washing socks in the sink, Compeed, back aches, and bunk beds.  What will really be missed is the developed sense of family; the excitement of seeing old faces amongst new landscapes.


The region of Galecia is easily the most picturesque section of the camino between the pouring rain and the brief moments of sunshine; the deep forests with their towering trees cultivate a feeling mirroring Alice´s as she entered Wonderland for the first time.  With the budding leaves taking on hues of autumn there is a sense of beautiful displacement and childlike fascination.

I had feared that the camino would be somewhat anti-climactic after I had reached Cruz de Ferro, the highest point on the path where one leaves a stone from their home country to atone for sins past.  For reasons unknown to my lower consciousness, much excitement had been generated in regards to this particular landmark as soon as I had been made aware of its existance.  Instead of a stone, I left a small Ganesha statue which had been gifted to me during one of those lovely moments in Kerala.  What followed this moment was a reminder that there are no such things as holy or unholy moments.  Angels were sent forth in the forms of felines, forgotten guides, and alarm calls that test the ideologies of faith and inner strength.  No such thing as an anti-climax here. 

With a degree of slight heartache, due to time constraints and a mercurial knee, I´ve had to forge ahead leaving behind some of the finest pilgrims I´ve had the pleasure to acquaint myself with.  However, it is very easy to find myself in warm company with many promising to meet me at the gates of Santiago, a moment that I carry equal parts of hesitation and eagerness.

brother sport

It never fails.  As soon as I see that I am within 1 kilometre of an approaching town, I become a bedraggled vagabond having wandered the Sahara without food or water for weeks.  My legs become increasingly unsteady as  they start to quiver under the unbearable weight of a rucksack equivalent of carrying a baby elephant.   I drag myself into the quiet pueblo and my worldly belongings crash to the ground as I collapse into the waiting arms of Javier Bardem who carries my limp body across the cobblestone streets to his modest cottage.  I am nursed back to health under his supervision and with the aid of his signature sopa de verduras and mandolin lullabies. Oh, and then I save the world.


Dramatics aside, the camino has been carried on at a reasonable pace, in fact perhaps a bit too reasonable. In the last couple of days I have become the proud parent of a family of blisters which likely made their entrance to spice things up a bit.  It clearly isn´t enough to ruminate over existence whilst the wind and rain spit in my face. I´ve tended the ongoing campaign to keep such events from becoming psychological, but as soon as destinations are reached or the sun actually makes an appearance, most battle scars are immediately invalidated.

The terrain following the halfway point is thankfully flat and without the lovely addition of being drenched in rain.  However, many have described this period as being somewhat "hellish" due the the never changing landscape.  Personally, I´m finding all the surroundings to be enchanting and am comforted by the striking similarity with one of my favourite Van Gogh paintings.  In little time it will be back to the mountains and forests, each day with it´s own offering.


Aside from the understandable physical wear and tear, I remain surprised by the whole experience thus far.  The camino possess a soft intensity.  When the days come to an end, one can only reflect on the hours past and what emerges as the intrinsic intentions of such an undertaking.  A real sense of community on this path is also apparent with a shared sense of respect and generosity between pilgrims and locals alike.  "Ultreya peregrina" indeed.

the goal is no goal

Five airports in just as many days.  A brief transit through London found two immigration officers shoving their fingers in my direction bitterly declaring that I wasn´t really British.  Like hell I´m not; nevertheless, the event won´t go down as one of my finer moments of dual citizenship and it was a perfect reminder of a world left behind.  Deep breath, Piccadilly Line, consumable tap water, overdue exchanges, cleanliness to a forgotten degree, and an all too familiar lifestyle that mutated culture shock into a mind blowing level of anxiety.

I was pleasantly thrust back into the comforting bosom of the unknown once I was received in Biarritz, France.  A picturesque journey was swiftly undertaken to St. Jean Pied de Port, one of the traditional starting points for the Camino de Santiago.  Other "pilgrims" were easy to spot with their over-sized backpacks, impeccable trekking gear, and a general look of bewilderment combined with excited anticipation .  Although walking the camino has been a dream years in the making, I joined the masses with substantially less mental and physical preparation.  The beastly high temperatures during the final weeks in India made it extremely difficult to bound and leap anywhere (much less an accessible mountain) or complete a test run with excess baggage. After a debut on the French news and a cosy night in a family style albergue (hostels established specifically for those undertaking the camino), I was off to cross the Pyrenees blue jeans and all.

Every passing hour gave birth to a new landscape, atmosphere, acquaintance, and realm of thought.  The more penetrative moments occurred when movement ceased and I momentarily surrendered to the still of silence.

Cliched philosophies are thrown around the pilgrim watering holes but much of what is dispensed generally comes back to the desire to live in the moment. Initially I found myself in the category of those who had an agenda or goal.  Mine was to sprint to Santiago within 27 days so as to have my cake and eat it too.  Similarly there are many whose days begin and end with the obsession of daily destination points and measurements of the hourly pace.  However, my body had other ideas of what I am meant to gather from this experience.

On day three, my right knee and ankle were in so much pain  that my companions on the trail were all able to recognise me by the time I limped into the albergue.  Contained in this day was an immense outpouring of generosity and sincere attention from my fellow peregrinos.  Medicine, walking sticks, and an encyclopedia of advice and personal opinion was showered on me without having to utter a word.

Day four saw the introduction of angels.  Hours after visually salivating over the thoughts of a massage, I was taken aback by the timely entrance of vibrant, wild-eyed Emmanual.  This French gift from God casually offered his professional skills and my legs were brought back to better form under his caring hands.  The days that passed found me in varied company from the days preceding but it has been effortless to make connections and strike up conversations that form the stepping stones for friendship or at the very least take allow me to take a token of the exchange to heart.

Nevertheless, the future of the camino hangs in the balance as my ability to walk at a normal pace has been hindered by tendinitis. A visit to the medical centre (and several unqualified but experienced pilgrims) have all prescribed rest of which I undertaken the past two days.  Tomorrow will be the test to how far I will be able to carry on and to what pace.  However, my attitude has shifted a great deal in a short period of time.  In place of possible disappointment, I own excitement at what lies ahead or rather, in the present... if not Santiago then where, what, and why?  After all, this trail will be here my whole life for the taking, and I have never been more appreciative of the moment. To quote the lovely Tili, "the goal is no goal"....so be it.

fever pitch

The G.T Express roars across the Indian countryside, a 35 hour journey that will draw the curtain on the last 8 months.  Every second unravels a surreal slideshow of snapshots whose normalcy is lost in the wake of detachment.  It’s as though I am seeing India again for the first time.  In fact, at the time of writing this a man of certain determination races across the platform at Maramjhiri train station on his motorbike. Oh, India, but of course… 

My last weeks in Tiruvannamalai provided a kaleidoscope of the quintessential Indian experiences in addition to a spiritual and emotional crescendo which found me in the loving embrace of many, not least Mount Arunachala whose spell endlessly enraptures the masses.  Every passing moment proved to be a reflection of self and for the first time in my life I sobbed with tears of release and elation.

India’s sense of extremes in the kiln of incomparable intensity makes it so the country and experiences contained within it pass unparalleled.  It goes without saying that the impression of such an introduction pulsates through my core.  I prepare for my departure a stranger to who I was when I arrived.  The most profound additions being an understanding of a life without limitation and an unapologetic surrender of the perceived control I held in the daily grind.  Of course, such notions are better put to the test in the surrounds of familiar faces and consistent routines.  Bring it on. 

However, before I temporarily hang my hat I must first fulfil an old dream to complete an 800 kilometre hike across the northern border of Spain. I pray my venture on El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is more Coelho than Sheen, but whatever I make of it, the pilgrimage will be a fitting transition back into the Western world.

Oh, India...in my life I love you more.

there is a season

I hiss loudly to prevent myself from crying out as the nurse dresses my open wounds.  Otherwise I remain pacified by shock only intermittently spitting information such as my name, observance of sensation, and the brief details of what brought us to the emergency room.  It is the sight of my companion’s raw bloodied limbs that sends a surge of guilt to my consciousness as I feel myself surrendering the battle of equanimity.  Had it not been my hands at the helm, my attitude would have been much more undisturbed.  However, self-indulgent pity is swiftly dissolved as a large, scantily-clad man on a stretcher is wheeled into our room with five others excitedly at his heels.  He too had met his fate in a motor bike accident.  The man’s left foot is trembling involuntarily and I observe that his right eye is swollen shut.  Inasmuch as I try to overt my gaze, the visual imprint of his blood spattered body remains married with the thought that his pain was so immense he could scarcely make a sound.  As I softly murmur a prayer, I am again reminded as to how fortunate we are.

Aside from roadside spills, the time spent at Varkala beach was pleasant and reasonably low-key.  The beach itself lay violently underneath picturesque cliffs which would have proved to be a vision to behold had they not been populated with tourist restaurants and resorts falsely claiming Ayurvedic expertise.  The tide appeared to resent such a presence as it was almost impossible to swim amidst the strong undercurrents.  However, as per usual, I was in good company and receiving an abundance of experiences and insight of matters existential and Indian.  

On a more successful night of motorbike navigation, we found ourselves on remote peninsulas dancing with the setting sun on a more inviting part of the coast.  Gazing at palm tree lined shores it was hard to imagine that so many inhabitants were still chasing the illusion of going to the West when equally as many Westerners dream of places like the Keralan backwaters.  The grass is always greener...

Nonetheless, limp and all, it was time to move on to Kerala’s neighbouring state in the south, Tamil Nadu; the destination and final stop in India being Tiruvannamalai.  Although my main objective was a reunion with an old friend, a driving force for several ventures, coming to this city also coincided beautifully with my desire to see the holy mountain Arunachala, a mission inspired by Paul Brunton’s account in “A Search in Secret India”.

The dry heat in Tiru was initially overwhelming, but not as much as the mountain itself.  It’s difficult to put into words the power of this particular location, but I can assuredly say that if I had started my journey here I would have undoubtedly seen much less of the rest of India.  I’ve encountered countless amounts of individuals who have been unable to escape the pull of Tiru with endless stories of cancelled train tickets and abandoned flights.  In fact, it is the first place that I have met travellers who have rented their accommodation by the month, even by the year. My original thought was to visit neighbouring cities on my way out, but I’ve joined the masses in rooting myself here for the next two weeks despite the zealous mosquitos and unwavering heat.  I've found a mountain and not a moment too soon.