A rebel without a clue.

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 ch...

​The sun was a warm blanket on the stones of Vic. Daniel sat at a small cafe table, a necessary espresso and a piece of sweet pastry his only companions. He took a moment to be still, to collect his thoughts before the day’s journey began. He had six more nights, six more stages. Six, he had mused, was two times three. Duality and unity. He was walking a path from two back to one.   ​He thought of the others on the road, the lycra-clad cyclists he saw as hollow, their bodies moving but their souls static. They were trapped in a cycle of their own making, a performance of self-importance. They were a vivid contrast to the journey he was on, a path of shedding layers that were "flimsy and easily torn". He thought of his sister, Emma, and her own brand of hollowness, her own performance. He had chosen, in a quiet act of grace, to love her still, "warts and all," and in doing so, he had freed himself from a different kind of performance—the need to placate her. He was n...

The morning sun fell on the cobblestones of Vic, warm and forgiving. Daniel sat at a small outdoor table, a necessary espresso and a bottle of Vichy Catalan before him. It was a Sunday, the third day of his pilgrimage, and he was taking a moment to sit, to simply be, before the day’s stage. He had thought of the others, the lycra-clad cyclists who pedalled furiously, bodies in motion but souls in stasis, forever gossiping, forever hollow. He thought of his sister, Emma, and her own brand of hollowness, a person contaminated by the ten thousand things. The memory of the glass vase loomed, a physical manifestation of a spiritual void, a moment of such blinding rage that it was almost impossible to comprehend. He had not defended himself, and in that stillness, he had found a kind of clarity. He saw her, not as a family member, but as a person lost in her own fear and anger. He had made his choice. He loved her still, "warts and all," but he would no longer spend his life trying...