You can't always get what you want*: rethinking pilgrimage at 67

The first time I heard about pilgrimage, I was deep in the trenches of raising young children. My only real alone time happened in the bathroom. It was usually short-lived with someone screaming, “Mommy” before I even locked the door. (And yes, I locked the door. They were just developing but I had some boundaries.)

Then a friend told me about the Camino de Santiago.

Four weeks of walking alone across Spain? No parental duties. No church obligations. (Regular readers know I was a pastor’s wife back in the day.) Just a daily walk ending with fascinating conversations with people from around the world over a simple meal and lots of red wine. I was instantly captivated. To be honest, I don’t think my desire was for a spiritual experience as much as it was to escape all the responsibility of my life.

Over the years, I read every Camino memoir I could find, quietly tending that small ember of longing. Then, the movie, The Way came out, and the ember burst into flame. I was determined that some day I would go on a pilgrimage.

I’ve listened to friends tell stories of walking the Camino. I’ve cheered them on, prayed for them on their pilgrimage and loved their stories. But my own life never aligned in a way that made disappearing for a month possible. Pilgrimage, it turns out, requires two things often in short supply in my life: time and money. Somehow, I never had both at once.

And now, at 67, walking 20–25 kilometres a day for weeks feels more like a fast track to knee replacement than a spiritually enriching meander in Spain. I decided that I needed to rethink pilgrimage and so instead of chasing the Camino, I came to Ireland.

Not for an “official” pilgrimage. I don’t have a Credencial del Peregrino. I’m not getting stamps along the way. Although I have bought a couple of stickers for my journal. I have been making it up as I go. I don’t have a big spiritual agenda. I am just follow a quiet call to walk alone somewhere old.

Ireland it turns out has been the right choice. Northern Ireland, is the place of my maternal ancestors. I’ve been confronting history. I’ve visited with family and friends although here those lines seem blurred. The craic has been good. People have been forgiving when I say Derry instead of Londonderry (or the other way around depending on who I am with.)

And I’ve been walking.

Along cliffs and beaches. On an inter-faith walk around Belfast hosted by Corymeela. I’ve walked stone walls that have stood longer than I think Canada has existed. I’ve visited the Derry Girls exhibit. (I told you I was making it up as I go.)

I’ve walked through monastic ruins and rain-soaked trails. I’ve shared conversations with strangers, sat alone in pubs, and I’ve had space in the loo. I’ve encountered deer and sheep on the road. I’ve sat mesmerized by the cutest robins. I’ve eaten more scones with cream than I care to admit. All of this, I’ve learned, is pilgirmage.

The British Pilgrimage Trust offers this definition:

Pilgrimage (n.): A transformational journey on foot to holy/wholesome/special places with trust and purpose, but without expectation. Etymologically, the word pilgrimage comes from the Latin peregrinus meaning ‘being away from your own land or home’.

For years, I imagined something very different. One with less rain and a more defined path. One where I would be identified as a pilgrim by the locals. And to be honest, one with a lot more wine! I thought those ancient Spanish roads held the spiritual experience that would transform me and answer all my questions.

But somewhere between the walking trails of Ireland, the exhaustion of catching buses or trains, the conversations with strangers, and the long quiet hours alone with my thoughts, another realization has slowly surface. It turns out pilgrimage is not all wine and good conversations. It’s boring at times. It’s lonely at times. It’s about missing home. It’s about dealing with people who are annoying. It’s about having time to even remember the questions. It’s life with different scenery.

And today, when I started thinking about the next four days and the rain in the forecast and wondering about adjusting my plans, a verse popped into my head. They weren’t words from the Holy Bible like you might expect if you were sitting overlooking the ruins of St. Kevin’s Parish Church in Glendalough. It was the words of The Rolling Stones.

“You can’t always get what you want……but if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need.”

Maybe Mick understands pilgrimage better than I thought. I’m trusting this time is providing me with what I need.

*In high school, I had a bracelet with these lyrics engraved on it. It seems The Rolling Stones are part of my long list of spiritual guides.