Santiago may be the official destination of the camino, but my pilgrimage didn´t come to an end until today. By bus I made my way to Finisterre, what the Celts and Romans belived was the end of the world. This finger tip of rock juts out into the Atlantic, and the sea stretches to such a far horizon that it´s no wonder the ancient world thought ships would fall off the edge. Only a lighthouse sits where the ancient temple to the sun once perched, and past the faro (lighthouse) is nothing but giant stones, wildflowers, and scrub bush that tumble steeply down to the sea below.

Sitting there on the rocks, virtually alone, I watched turquoise and aquamarine water undulate quietly and then break violently over sun bleached rocks, turning into foamy white cream. I saw birds soaring effortlessly on the air. I saw the sun, a blazing fireball in an almost cloudless sky. I imagined (and felt?) the stream of ancient pilgrims making their way to worship at Ara Solis.

It was a profoudnly moving moment, especially as I broke out of silent revery to ask my neighbors if they had a lighter or match, not an easy request when you don´t speak the same language. After ten minutes of fruitless hand gestures and noises, I found an Italian man with a lighter, and I began to build a fire.  Traditionally, profligate pilgrims burn their shoes as a symbol of completing their task. All over the rocky promentory are charred remains of past fires. I found the perfect cleft and began asking others if they had something to contribute. One by one, pilgrims began to smile and rummage through their sacks for shirts, towels, socks, or anything else that would burn, since boots nowadays are a tad expensive. Two of us broke our sticks used as pilgrim staffs into smaller pieces after kissing them and giving thanks for the countless steps they helped to stabilize. I brought so much paper for kindling that the fire produced a large flame quickly, and with several shirts and sticks, we made a good amount of smoke. It was magical, as I threw my hands up, shouted a big yalp, and surrendered all my expectations, excitement, and feelings of accomplishment to this one moment of sacrifice and thanksgiving. I think I would have made a good pagan.

As the fire died down, our group slowly dispersed one by one. I lept down the rocks further, wanting to be alone on the penninsula. I watched the waves for an hour maybe, keeping an eye on a Peruvian pilgrim even further below. Someone told me he traveled for 3 months, all the way from Nuremberg, Germany. He looked out to sea for hours, alone, and I wondered what he must now give up in order to end this journey. The camino is funny that way. I spent days anticipating the end, and now that it arrived, I wasn´t sure how to let it go.

A day in the sun, after countless days in rain, surrounded by ocean, mountains, and forrests is a bit intoxicating. But eventually I made my way back up the rocks, and past the lighthouse I felt tempted to turn around and soak it the scene again. Instead, thinking of Lot´s wife, I decided to commit myself to the way forward, back home. In a brief pause, I loved the day and held it in my heart and mind, but I decided not to  hold it too tightly. So, past the lighthouse I embraced the eastward way, walking toward the sun for the first time in a month -- walking not toward a pilgrimage destination but taking my first steps toward a long, winding amble home.

My pace down the mountain to the village, a 30 minute walk, was slow, movingly slow. For the first time in thirty days, I did not have a destination or a sense of urgency or a sense of accompishment.  I just walked as if I was savoring the entire journey, no longer headed somewhere but headed from somewhere, sinking peacefully into a rhythm of afterglow. Down the mountain. Retracing steps. Headed home.

The destination and goal reached, the pilgrimae is over, but the journey continues. Only now there is no clear end, no Santiago or cathedral or site of an ancient temple. At the end of the world, there is nowhere else to go but back. And while I know there is more life to be lived, it is strange to not have a path or map, a next step to take. No more buen camino, just an ever unfolding ultreia. Now this particular pilgrimage is wrapped up into the larger way of my own life.

The Christian story provides a conception of an eternal end, not just heaven as a geographic place, but the human journey toward greater and ultimate communion with God. But that´s a bit harder to incorporate into each day´s walk, compared to a specific town or albergue or signpost or church that defined the camino target. Yet, some kind of end is absolutely necessary, else I´m just wandering without purpose. I wonder how to find one, knowing I have one in my tradition, yet still pondering how to give that flesh and walk the path.