Towns and villages are dotted all along the 800ish km trail of Camino de Santiago in the northern regions of Spain. Some boasts of its grandeur with all its ancient but polished buildings and statues. Some barely stands with nothing but a few withering shelters. It was in these towns and villages where us Pilgrims (a term used to describe the hikers of Camino de Santiago) took refuge after a long, weary day of Pilgrimage. 

One day, after putting in 30 something kms, I sought refuge in one of the more remote villages. I was relieved for the peace and quiet. The albergue(hostel for Pilgrims) consisted of three separate wooden buildings. One served as bar/restaurant/reception. The others held the heavenly sanctuaries more commonly known as bunkbeds to rejuvenate our stiff bodies. 

Dinner was never lonesome. People all along the way, from all over the world, of all ages, joined in to celebrate life. 

On this night, after having devoured our hot food then washed down with always too much wine, the six of us found ourselves gathered in the small common area. Common area is a bit of a stretch to describe the cramped space we happily piled ourselves in. Entry-way/HarryPotter’s-cupboard-under-the-stairs seems more adequate. 

Dim lights uncovered the corner that housed an old antique piano so out of tune it would’ve enraged even an infant. In the other was a guitar with loose strings and a crooked neck. It was perfect. Soon enough music filled the quaint room, enough wine in our warm bellies to overlook the flat notes. 

The old guitar was passed around from one hand to another, careful to keep it in one piece. From young and ambitious hands to timid and soft then to the wrinkled but strong hands of Stefan. 

Everyone stiffened as he embraced the ancient guitar with subtle hesitation. Although I saw him from time to time along the trail, we never exchanged a single word only a number of curious glances. His grave expressions and solemnity harbored an impenetrable wall. 

As he began playing, our breaths halted.

He fumbled the chords of Der Weg by Herbert Grönenmeyer as he shyly sang the verses. The melody together with his reserved singing loomed an ambience of grief and in return consolation. 

He fought his way through the song refusing to give into his shaky voice. He apologetically paused in between only to give his fingers time to settle into the next chords. His music seeped through the cracks of the tiny walls. His longing filled the dense air smothering our throats with tiny knots. First verse then the second, he slowly released his thick fingers from the strings- his eyes dampened and red. The impenetrable wall came crumbling down alongside his tears.

Silence. 

Stefan reluctantly began to share his story all the while apologizing for having ruined the jolly mood of the night. His first language being German, he spoke in German then translated to English by a fellow pilgrim who spoke both languages. As his shaky lips parted, all else ceased- the tiredness, the overwhelming heat of the wine, the struggles of each own. 

Stefan was an Austrian man, in his 60’s. He loved his wife. She was the love of his life, his life-time companion and partner. His wife passed away just the year before. The song he played was her favorite song. 

The night was immersed in an unexpected sorrow. But it wasn’t all sorrow, it was also beautiful. It was beautifully vulnerable, beautifully human. The night was immersed in an unexpected beauty.  

The curfew, strictly enforced by the hospitaleros (the hostel-keepers), herded the six of us into our bunkbeds. Our bodies laid to rest while our minds lingered in the tiny space under the stairs until sleep took us. 

Stefan’s life had been flipped upside down. Days and months had gone by lost in the massive hole his wife had left behind. I can’t know and can’t even begin to fathom his struggles. But I do know this. He was on the Camino to battle the scars of losing a loved one. He got up and walked. 

Throughout the trail, I came to discover many more brave souls with stories and tragedies of their own. Cancer, bankruptcy, broken families, death, all the shit life throws at you. They all got up and walked. 

Stefan and I crossed paths throughout the remainder of the trail, all the way into the last city, Santiago de Compostela. As we embraced in celebration of our completion of the trail, his once icy exterior was no longer traceable. His face wore the wrinkles of an old man but the joy of an innocent child. 

———

Maybe life won’t always be a rose-petaled red carpet. Maybe it kicks your ass and bludgeons with a spiked club. But maybe just maybe the very struggles that weaken us also strengthen us. Just as iron meets fire, takes a beating, and withstands the process to become a mighty sword, we too must stand strong and resilient in the face of our perils to become a mighty soul. 

If adversary-no matter the form-is inevitable in our walk of life, let’s embrace it when it comes knocking. Not in resignation but in acceptance and in faith. Acceptance of situations that are beyond our control. Faith that we are more than capable, faith that we hold the reigns of our life and, most of all, faith that we will rise above stronger than before. 

Let’s get up and walk, each in our own beautiful way. 

"One day, in retrospect, the tears of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful."  

-Sigmund Freud