Losing the Way in Distractions

The path out of Vic was a testament to the journey he had taken that morning. The physical route, he noted, was far better than the one that had led him in, a route filled with the doubt of a "path that ran dry" that had made him afraid to reach the town at all. That fear, he now understood, was not of the physical place but of the spiritual terrain it represented—a return to the feeling of futility and the "maelstrom" he had worked so hard to leave behind.

Yet, this morning, he had faced a new test. A simple act of kindness—helping a young woman pick up dropped pastries—had been sullied by an unwanted, instinctual sexual urge. He had felt himself being pulled off the correct path, consumed by the ego's demands for a fleeting fantasy. But in a moment of clear choice, he had manufactured a route over a stream, a decisive, physical act to reclaim his inner space. He redirected his energy from the unwanted thought and, instead, chose to pick fresh figs. It was a choice for nourishment, for presence, for life itself.

This pivotal moment led him to the Font de la Talaia, where he realized he had finally reclaimed his soul. He filled his flask with the spring water, a source that a sign deemed "non potable" because it was untested, but which he knew was a "splinter of truth." He trusted the eternal flow of the spring over the cautionary words of a man-made sign. He was no longer dependent on external validations; he was drinking from his own well, trusting his own perception of truth, even with its "little negative salts." This was his Dao, his personal Rta, the natural flow of his life.

As he continued on the path, a cockerel with a "broken doodle-do" caught his attention. He saw the bird as a living metaphor for the "hollow people" he had met, putting on a show of power but with a flawed, inauthentic core. He contrasted this with a pile of stones, a physical representation of the "ten thousand things," and the large pebbles within them that acted as a "pebbles in the throat" for the inauthentic. His journey, he knew, was about moving through these chaotic things while remaining whole himself.

And as he walked, he carried a new and important sello. Back in Olot, a kind gardener from Welshpool and his artistic Catalan wife had given him a new mark for his pilgrim's passport: a doodle of the number 53. It was a perfect, serendipitous gift, marking him not just with an official stamp, but with the very number of his age, a symbol of where he was on his journey.

Now, with nearly 11 kilometers behind him since that moment in the cafe, he was heading for a meal of Capipota. A dish of humble, transformed ingredients, a feast that perfectly mirrored his own pilgrimage.