The Secret

There is an old saying you hear by the veterans of the Camino de Santiago while walking the ancient pilgrim route, “the way always provides.” As I sit in the airport bar in Porto, Portugal, drinking whiskey, my crutches sitting next to me and waiting for my flight back home to San Francisco – I can’t help but ponder over my journey across Spain and the secret I kept along it.

It was somewhere around Navarette on a blistering hot and sunny May day when I took a breather from the dusty, sun baked trail inside of a stone beehive shaped hut that dot the vineyards of La Rioja. Most of these were built in the 14th century and are locally referred to as Guardavinas. They are still in use to this day by pilgrims and vineyard workers alike, just as they were centuries ago. As I took my hat off and sat in the comforting shade of the stone hut, I began to read the scrawls and etches left on the stones by pilgrims over the years. I drink water and wipe sweat from my face as I read the notes of others marking their passing through. It reminds me of what prisoners would do in medieval prison cells I have seen across Europe. An innate desire to be seen and remembered I suppose. As I look around for the oldest date I can find, I contemplate leaving a trace of my presence here as well. Though nobody will ever know I was here except myself. As I silently debate between the vanity of leaving a mark here and the feeling of comfort that somewhere in this world will be my mark for possibly hundreds of years from now, I spot a stone that is slightly loose and askew. As I draw closer to it I notice that it has “Bonam Fortunam” written in very neat block letters on it. Though I barely speak any other languages I surmise that this roughly means good fortune or something akin to that. It is not out of place from some other common sayings used as greeting to other pilgrims you encounter on The Way so I do not pay much attention. I say a whispered thank you to the pilgrim that left this and push the stone back into its place and move on, but before I can get my pack on the stone falls to the dusty ground at my feet.

Secrets are a strange thing. A secret can be a test of loyalty, of fear of being found out, a pact, a gossip subject, blackmail and for the well being of another. It can gnaw at you for life and also free you from its burden if released just once. It can be good and evil. Often both simultaneously.

I don’t know why I kept this secret for hundreds of miles on the Camino and for the years after I had left in life. To be honest, I do not know why I have written this down now. I never told anyone and never planned to but if you are reading this, it means my life has passed and you have found my secret after all these years.

In the recess of the stone that fell to my feet that fateful day was a large bundle of money in a clear Ziploc bag. Not old or new. Just sitting there. As I reflect on that moment now, I feel a tinge of shame that it was so easy for me to take it. Such little thought about taking it and hiding it in the deeper parts of my pack. I simply shrugged it off as it was meant to be found by somebody and that somebody is me. My lucky day. Thoughts of wonderfully expensive dinners, expensive wines, posh hotels and a first class flight home dance through my head as I put my pack back on and head out of the hut back onto the dusty trail. My shoulders didn’t hurt any longer. My pack felt lighter and my feet no longer screamed at me to stop. My head held high to the horizon with the excitement of my discovery and the myriad of ways I shall burn through it after I finish the Camino.

That evening, after checking into my albergue, I settled into a back corner bunk away from people and re-hide my loot deep into my pack, wrapped inside the foulest unlaundered clothes I have. Not even I could have taken pleasure in checking on it daily. Feeling confident in my hiding spot, I ventured downstairs to join the other pilgrims for dinner. Dinner, though not the best food by any stretch, is a wonderful time of exhausted, disheveled, odorous pilgrims exchanging names, where are you from and why you are on The Way. Much of these conversations require translation or if need be, the use of rudimentary language abilities each possess. Despite the differences in all of us, there is one constant in every pilgrims story. I call it The Search. The Search is as much a part of the pilgrim’s story as the dirt and sweat that caked our bodies each day. The search for meaning or for peace is the common denominator for us all. As vague as that may sound, we are all on it. Separate yet unified in that singular desire within us. The reasons are all different to varying degrees but day after day you find common themes. Loss of loved ones, loss of careers, loss of health, loss of hope, loss of faith – loss of yourself. The Camino becomes a funnel of the human experience that compresses it all into this trail. Each bonded through the suffering and the hope for life.

My reasons for having done the Camino are of no importance to this story – suffice to say I was searching for both meaning and peace. An epiphany if you will.

Every morning from that fateful day became a ritual of reaching into my pack and feeling through my dirty clothes for the money I could not wait to celebrate with after completing the journey. Day after day – check for the money and daydream while walking. Until, somewhere along the way, I felt less excited. I felt burdened by my secret. The pack felt heavier by the way. My feet felt like weights were attached to them. My shoulders ached again. The more I listened to the stories of my fellow pilgrims. The further I got away from the life I knew, the less I thought of the money as something important to me. A secret and silent guilt had come over me due to it. I did not feel guilt that I found it but that I was like a troll hoarding his treasure from the world. Why was I so burdened by this secret? How do I remedy this?

It was not until I reached the end of my journey at Finisterre or as the Romans called it, “The End of the World.” As I sat on the rocks watching the waves crash into them with my exhausted, hurting and now needing - crutches body, I found my epiphany at last.

After the sun set on Finisterre, I knew I had to go back to a specific spot on The Camino of particular memory and peacefulness to me. The next day I took a bus to my chosen location and placed the money – hidden – yet very visible, though indistinct from its surroundings. Though, maybe much to your chagrin, the exact location will remain vague. I placed what had amounted to twenty thousand dollars in this spot but also added twenty thousand of my own money to the Ziploc bag. The only marker being Bonam Fortunam written upon it.

You see, on My Search, I found the true secret was within me. It always was. The money was not going to change that for me personally. I had found my peace without it. Therefore, I set the money on a journey of the fates of the universe to guide the person in need of this for their Search and for reasons only that person and the gods will know. I trust in that. When I returned to San Francisco I chose to relinquish the secret I held for many miles by writing it down in this little black book not knowing if it would ever be read upon my passing or not.

So, to you reader, if there is a reader, do as you wish with this book of mine. And if ever in life, you find yourself on The Search and it takes you to The Way, I hope you find what you need and, if the money will help you in that endeavor, I trust that it will find you…The Way always provides.