Today, I’m flying to Europe to walk the Camino de Santiago, a 400-mile, 1,000-year-old pilgrimage across Spain. Honestly? I don’t know what this walk is about. I’m not a practicing Christian, and while I’m still a confirmed member of the Catholic Church, I don’t feel any deep affiliation there either. But with age, I’ve come to believe that love, life, and consciousness can’t be just a construct.

I’ll be carrying a small pinch of my father’s ashes in an urn necklace, something that already feels strangely close and comforting around my neck.

My financial responsibilities are on autopilot, and for all intents and purposes, I could be self-sufficient for years. Denali, my furry child, will be in the best hands, cared for by a wonderful neighborhood friend staying in my home.

We seldom give ourselves the opportunity to step off a ledge into the unknown. But I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing for the next six weeks. I have no expectations, no grand revelations I’m chasing. I only hope that, in the end, I’m better for it.

Buen Camino!