Completion

I set out on a journey with a clear awareness that the end wasn't the goal in itself. An awareness that at the end of the journey there would be another and another. Although I hadn't realised yet that on my journey there is something else that matters altogether more. An intangible that is best described as completion, although it has nothing to do with finishing and everything to do with soaking up what is for me. On my Camino de Portugal that started with an aim of Santiago and ended at the sea, the sense of completion I craved came to me in one day. A day that I could have easily missed.

Once I set my heart free in Vigo, it didn't take me long to sniff my way back to the comforts of Portugal. I'd gone there in the first place only because I wanted to be near the sea and had already explored the wonders of Camino del Norte along the Spanish north. Language barriers were a necessary evil until I could yet again find myself surrounded by Galician castellano, or at least so I thought. The country itself I hadn't given any consideration and the fact that my mum always told me I was 'made in Portugal' had not so much slipped my mind as it had become buried beneath my 552 day devotion to the Spanish language - a level of commitment I thought was reserved for other people.

At first my decision to skip Santiago was unwavering. I'd come for the coast and those days were behind me. Braga connected me to something I had lost and in Viana do Castello - the sequel, I faced my fears of heights and of small spaces. It was a win win situation more than it was me conquering anything and I felt like I was on the right path. Until I didn't.

On any given day, what shook me to my core, would have likely passed me by without a mention. On this particular day... oh my!

After watching the sunset in a state of bliss I started down the stairs towards the hostel. A man was selling cakes and I wanted to try one. Before I knew it I handed over a ten euro note and received a huge box of cakes in return. #firstworldproblems. I'd told him several times to stop and while he kept piling on, I found myself locked in place, wondering why I didn't walk away or in any other way let it be known that stop means stop, even if it is not said with anger or aggression. With the rational awareness that ten euros and a box of cakes does not make an apocalypse, I watched as the world crumbled around me. How could I face what I thought were my deepest fears, yet fail to assert a healthy boundary with a kind - come evil in the midst of my demise - street vendor. Defeat, mixed with the remaining glory of my spire moment followed me home and a last attempt to salvage my victory sent me down for the count. I thought the hospital might be a good place to turn evil defeat cakes into joyful appreciation, so when I was met with a very cold no! in answer to my offering, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

At the hostel my sorrow, not of cakes, but of each time I was treated badly, and for whatever reason, usually one of valuing the other person more than me, didn't act in my own defence, was met by the joy of three drunken Italians. The one who grew up in Poland spoke a little English, but I still never figured out what their inside joke was about. A group of us went out for dinner, but after wandering around an hour I finally decided to value me more and went for a toasted sandwich and bed.

I nearly went home after that night, but luckily I already booked my return flight from Lisbon a week later. My Camino was yet to begin.

Fatima touched my soul in a similar way that Braga had. To the point where I was convinced that arriving in Nazare by bus instead of my planned foot journey would give me the same level of satisfaction. Camino de Nazare turned out to be Camino de Fatima, meaning it ran in reverse, so all the signpost would point me to where I'd come from.

On the day I had planned to leave for the final leg of my journey I still wasn't sure if I would. I still wasn't sure about anything. I ran in to some Pilgrims from the day before. One of them was considering walking to Nazare and we shared a lunch while we both considered how much we could alter our journey to make the trip together - both used to doing just that; let go of ourselves to fit in with others.

I decided to head out of Fatima that afternoon but was only going to walk for some hours. It allowed us to meet up the following day if that was on the cards, and allowed me to have my night alone in the hammock.

When my toes were at their coldest that night I was ready to walk back to Fatima the next day and catch the bus. Something kept me going.

When I arrived in Porto de Mos the following day after a morning of yarns and port with the locals I was still weighing my options of bus vs feet: It was 26 km to Nazare and I wanted to be there by nightfall to watch big waves the following day.

Whatever it was that kept me walking after a chilly night in the hammock 5 km from from Fatima following an entire night where I'd been convinced catching the bus was the only and best option, also set me out on my life's adventure from Porto de Mos to Nazare. What made it special was that I didn't know if I could do it.

I've always had this reassurance that I can do whatever I put my mind to. To the point where I completely neglect to celebrate my achievements. Perhaps for that same reason I lost my reassurance and belief in myself. Each time I set out to do something epic, all I was left with was the opposite of completion; a reason why I hadn't done it good enough, fast enough, pretty enough. If I failed it was almost as if I'd won because at least my sense of defeat was justified.

When I took the first step toward Nazare that day I found my faith and I knew once more that nothing can stop me. Only this time what makes me unstoppable isn't my ability to run a marathon or endure the stresses of becoming a citizen of another country, but the subtle beauties of a life with my heart as boss; showing up when things are hard, when I don't know if I have it in me to keep going. And knowing when to rest in a world that values only progress. It seems in my life as it was on my Camino; I am going in the opposite direction; my Mecca is the sea, the free, the fierce one day, calm the next, proud and flowing with all of it's aspects.

I celebrated me the entire day. When I got to 6 km before my destination, I was convinced I'd made it. I didn't know that what was before me was a marathon in itself, fighting my way up and down steep hills with deep sand. Trying to find my way when my phone died, so I couldn't consult it for directions. By this time though, none of it mattered. I arrived into Nazare and my heart knew where we were going. When I turned my phone on at the tattooist's I was 200 metres from my hostel and I wished that I'd relied more on my own sense of direction and less on my phone, whenever I had to navigate through a city.

If I never allowed myself to surrender to feeling lost, I don't believe I would have found the sense of completion that still is a loyal friend to me some days after returning home. So I hope the next time adversity knocks on my door, I have the courage to answer the call. And I have a feeling that journey is just beginning...