The Madman's Life
October 22, 2022
I stole a pair of shoes once. Actually, a few times. As I walked the Camino de Santiago.
I can't say I felt any remorse. Because I didn't.
It was a necessity at the time.
—
I had walked thousands of miles over the years, from country to country. The little I had left had dwindled. Not having soles on the bottom of my feet was a luxury I had grown to like — and was unwilling to give up.
I had burned through a few pairs alone as I walked the 900 kilometers of the Camino de Santiago.
Climbing out of bed one morning, looking around the two-hundred-bed dormitory, then down at my worn-out shoes — the soles on the bottom flapping as I folded them back with my hands — I thought of repairing them with the duct tape I carried with me. But that had dwindled down to nothing, also.
A simple thought. And it was decided.
—
I had already pondered it the night before as I passed the massive shelf downstairs, loaded with other pilgrims' shoes against the church window.
Churches and parishes have housed the roughly one hundred thousand-plus pilgrims each year that walk the Camino de Santiago. The relatively inexpensive cost to the pilgrims — a few dollars each night — generates massive revenue for the country. Some of the towns along the way exist and have flourished solely due to the financial influence and popularity of the Camino de Santiago.
—
Packing up my things back into my 38-liter Osprey backpack. Slipping my socks on. Silently heading downstairs.
Walking up to the rack loaded with travelers' shoes, I quickly tried on a few pairs before finding a pair big enough for my loppy feet.
I finished lacing them up. Stood up. Stepped out the doors.
One foot in front of the other.
—
I had left quite early — an hour or so before the sun was to rise. The town I had entered the evening before was high in the hills, surrounded by massive pines. A beautiful and refreshing start to my day.
As I left in pitch black down the dark dirt path that led me to my next destination, I was grateful for the air in my lungs. The breathtaking scenery around me. And the soft new soles on my feet.
I thanked God for the life I'd been given. Allowed to live.
Camino de Madman.
—
I am not ashamed of the man I've become. I've accomplished more in my first forty years on this great earth than most have in a lifetime.
And I'm just getting started.
With thirty countries down out of the 180+ that make up this crazy ass world we all live in, I have so much more to explore.
—
As I sit in a Colombian prison — a year and a half in on my seven-year sentence — I ponder my life decisions.
And then I ponder them some more.
—
The Camino de Santiago — the Way of St. James — is a network of pilgrimages leading to the shrine of the apostle St. James the Great in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, northwestern Spain. For over a thousand years, people have walked this path. For religious reasons. For spiritual reasons. For reasons they cannot explain.
I walked it for the same reason I stole the car. The same reason I picked the locks. The same reason I crossed borders without papers.
Because the path was there. Because my feet needed to move. Because sitting still has never been my gift.
—
The shoes I stole probably belonged to a German tourist. Or a Korean. Or a Brazilian. I don't know. I didn't look at the names. I didn't want to know.
I told myself they would buy new ones. That my need was greater. That the Camino provides.
The Camino did provide. It provided me with soles that weren't flapping. With kilometers that didn't hurt. With a path forward when I had nothing else.
—
I am not a good person. I have never claimed to be.
But I am a person who walks. Who moves. Who refuses to stay in one place for too long — even when that place is a prison cell.
In Envigado, I walked in circles. Around the yard. Around the cell. Around my own thoughts.
It is not the same as the Camino. But it is still movement. Still forward. Still one foot in front of the other.
—
I wrote this on October 22, 2022. I had been in prison for fifteen months. I had thirty months left at the police station before transfer to Bella Vista. I had no idea when I would walk the Camino again.
But I knew I would.
The path is still there. The churches are still open. The pilgrims are still walking.
And somewhere in Spain, there is a rack of donated shoes waiting for the next person who needs them.
I am not that person anymore. I have soles on my feet now — ones I paid for, ones I earned.
But I remember the feeling of stealing those shoes. The guilt that wasn't guilt. The necessity that felt like grace.
—
Camino de Madman.
The way of the madman.
Maybe that is the only path worth walking.