Category Archives: Camino de Santiago

by | October 19, 2026 · 2:03 pm

Walking the Thin Places

I have often been asked why I feel the need to go on a pilgrimage nearly every year. Why leave the comforts of home, carry everything I need in a small backpack, and spend weeks walking day after day along dusty paths, through forests, across mountains, and into unfamiliar landscapes? What is it that draws me back, time and again, to this seemingly simple act of putting one foot in front of the other?

The answer is not always easy to explain, because the most important things that happen on a deep walk are experiential and difficult to put into words. They are not necessarily found in the places visited or in the distance covered but in the gradual transformation of the relationship to the self on the one hand and the external world on the other.

During the first few days of a pilgrimage, my mind is often still occupied by the noise of the outside world. Thoughts about unfinished tasks, personal concerns, news headlines, and the countless demands of everyday life follow me onto the trail. Even though I may be walking through a beautiful landscape, I barely notice it. My attention remains fixed on the path immediately ahead, on the kilometers still to be covered, the next village, or the place where I will spend the night. My body is walking, but my mind would be elsewhere.

Then, almost imperceptibly, something begins to change.

After several days of walking, the constant chatter of the mind starts to subside. Nature starts moving closer. The landscape that had seemed little more than a backdrop gradually comes alive. I begin to hear the clicking of grasshoppers in the grass and the gentle buzzing of bees among the wildflowers. I no longer merely hear the birds; I begin to see them, to recognize their movements, and sometimes to identify their songs. A robin appears on a low branch, a skylark rises and hovers in the open sky, and a blackbird searches for food ahead of me.

I start noticing the different formations of clouds drifting across the blue sky, the changing contours of the mountains, and the distinct character of the peaks ahead. The air carries the scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and freshly mown grass. I become aware of the warmth of the sun on my skin, the coolness of a forest path, and the rhythm of my own footsteps. My breathing gradually settles into a natural cadence, and I begin to feel my body again. It is not something to be managed or pushed through the day but becomes an integral part of the world in which I am moving.

Nothing extraordinary has happened to the landscape. It is my perception that has changed.

The world has not suddenly become more beautiful. I have simply become more available to its beauty.

Perhaps this transformation is comparable to the experience of reading a good book. When we read, our imagination creates an inner world of images, voices, landscapes, and emotions. Each reader brings something unique to the experience, drawing upon memories, feelings, and associations that no filmmaker could entirely reproduce. This is why we are sometimes disappointed when a favorite book is adapted for the screen. The images presented to us may be compelling, even beautiful, but they cannot fully replace the private world that our own imagination has created and experienced.

A deep walk offers something similar. It allows an inner world to emerge, not through the images we consume, but through the attention we give to what is already there. The more fully we attend to the world, the more it reveals itself. We begin to see what was always present but remained unnoticed because the mind was elsewhere.

Perhaps this is one of the great paradoxes of modern life: we have access to more information, images, and experiences than any generation before us, yet we often struggle to be fully present to the miracle of life unfolding directly in front of us. We are physically here but mentally somewhere else, anticipating the future, revisiting the past, comparing ourselves with others, or reacting to a continuous stream of events over which we have little control.

A pilgrimage interrupts this pattern. For a few weeks, the familiar structures of everyday life fall away. There are fewer decisions to make, fewer possessions to maintain, and fewer distractions demanding our attention. Life becomes simpler. You walk, eat, rest and sleep. You encounter other people, sometimes sharing a conversation, sometimes exchanging no more than a greeting. You learn to accept the weather, the terrain, and the limits of the body. You cannot always control what the day brings, but you can learn to meet it as it comes.

This simplicity creates the space where you can begin to hear what has been drowned out by the noise of ordinary life.

I have come to understand that living fully is, in many ways, an act of deep presence. It is not enough to pass through the days, completing tasks and accumulating experiences. You must also be available to them. You must allow yourself to feel the warmth of the sun, to listen without immediately responding, to look without needing to name or judge everything you see, and to recognize the quiet movements of your inner life.

For me, this quality of presence is difficult to sustain in everyday surroundings. I can practice it at home, on a familiar walk, or during a moment of silence, but the habits of daily life have a way of reclaiming my attention. The mind returns to its familiar concerns, and the world becomes a collection of things to accomplish rather than a reality to encounter.

That is why I return to the pilgrimage trail. Walking for several weeks gives me the time and space to move beyond the surface of my habitual thoughts. It feels like a kind of detoxification of the mind. It is not an escape from the world but a gradual release from the compulsive need to react to it. As the mental noise recedes, something begins to realign. My priorities become clearer. What matters and what does not matter quite so much become easier to distinguish. I find myself less concerned with controlling life and more willing to participate in it.

And sometimes, in those moments of stillness that emerge through movement, I sense something for which I have never found an entirely satisfactory name.

It is as though a narrow crack begins to open onto a deeper dimension of existence, a window into what I might call the soul. I do not mean this in any necessarily religious sense. I mean the possibility of experiencing life beyond the familiar boundaries of the thinking mind and the separate self, the part that is so occupied with defining, evaluating, and defending itself that it can lose sight of its connection with everything else.

The more you train your attention to rest in the present moment, the wider this opening seems to become. You begin to experience yourself not merely as an individual moving through a landscape, but as a participant in a complex living whole. The wind, the earth, the trees, the birds and your breathing are no longer entirely separate but different expressions of the same unfolding reality.

When I walk long enough, and with sufficient openness, I sometimes begin to feel this truth rather than merely think about it.

That, ultimately, is why I keep walking. Not to arrive somewhere, but to become more fully present to the life that has always been there and is carrying me along.

This does not mean that the boundaries between ourselves and the world disappear. Rather, those boundaries become less absolute. For a moment, we no longer feel like isolated observers standing outside nature and looking in. We recognise that we belong to it. We have always belonged to it.

Perhaps this is what draws me back to the Camino year after year. It is not simply the physical challenge, the beauty of the landscapes, or the encounters with fellow pilgrims, although all of these have their place. It is the opportunity to rediscover a way of being that is easily lost amid the demands and distractions of modern life. Walking reminds me that I do not need to travel somewhere extraordinary to encounter something sacred. I need to become sufficiently present to recognize what is already here.

My greatest realization has been that spending time in nature can open our senses to a presence far greater than our individual concerns. Whether we call it the sacred, the mystery of existence, the natural order of things, or simply life itself is perhaps less important than the experience. We are not separate from this greater whole. We are one part of it, inseparably woven into its fabric.

And when I walk long enough, quietly enough, and with sufficient openness, I sometimes begin to feel this truth rather than merely think about it.

That, ultimately, is why I keep walking. Not to arrive somewhere, but to become more fully present to the life that is already carrying me along.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | September 15, 2026 · 10:38 am

Where the Earth feels thin

There are places in the world where the boundary between the ordinary and something deeper feels remarkably thin.

Ancient peoples understood this instinctively. Long before maps, property boundaries and modern planning regulations, they paid careful attention to where they built their temples, sacred groves and places of worship. Certain springs, mountains, caves, rocks, forests and hilltops were regarded as places where the human world came closer to the divine. The location itself mattered. Sacredness was not simply something that could be brought into a building; sometimes it was already present in the landscape.

We might call this a thin place—a place where the distance between the visible and invisible worlds seems diminished.

I have often wondered whether we have lost something of this sensitivity.

There is, of course, another side to it. Some places seem to carry the opposite quality. Landscapes marked by violence, suffering or tragedy can retain an atmosphere that is difficult to explain rationally. A battlefield, an abandoned concentration camp, a house where terrible things happened, a village emptied by war—these places can seem to hold an echo of what occurred there.

Perhaps this is memory embedded in landscape. Perhaps it is our own imagination responding to what we know happened. Perhaps there is something more subtle.

I don’t pretend to know.

But I have noticed something while walking.

On my pilgrimage journeys, I have sometimes entered a village and experienced an almost immediate sense of lightness. Nothing dramatic happened. There was no revelation, no voice from heaven, no mystical apparition. Simply a feeling that the place was alive.

The streets were clean and cared for. Flowers appeared in window boxes. Doors were open. People greeted the pilgrim with a smile. There were small cafés, benches, churches and places where people could pause and meet one another. Children played. Someone was tending a garden. Life seemed to flow naturally.

And then, sometimes, I would enter another place and feel quite different.

The shutters were closed. Houses appeared empty even when they were occupied. There were few places where people could gather. Gardens were neglected. Buildings were deteriorating. The streets seemed strangely silent. It was as though life had withdrawn.

I cannot prove that these impressions have anything to do with a measurable “energy frequency.” Nor do I think we need to turn every intuitive response into a supernatural explanation.

But I have learned to pay attention to such feelings.

Walking slows you down sufficiently to notice things that you would normally rush past. You see the quality of a village not simply through its architecture but through the way people inhabit it. You notice whether people sit outside their houses, whether they greet strangers, whether children have somewhere to play, whether churches are open, whether gardens are cultivated, whether there is a sense of care.

Perhaps what youvexperience as the “energy” of a place is sometimes the accumulated expression of the people who live there.

And perhaps the relationship works in both directions: you shape a place, and a place shapes you.

This has also made me think about why certain landscapes seem to have inspired some of humanity’s greatest thinkers, painters, poets and writers.

We tend to imagine inspiration as something that happens inside the individual mind. The genius sits at a desk, picks up a brush or opens a notebook, and creates something extraordinary.

But perhaps creativity is also a conversation with place.

Recently, walking through the countryside around Chawton, I found myself thinking about Jane Austen.

There is something about that landscape that makes her books feel less abstract. The lanes, hedgerows, fields, wooded paths and gently rolling countryside provide a physical world in which her characters seem entirely at home. Walking through what is called Jane Austen country, one begins to understand why this particular landscape could have nourished such a precise observer of human nature.

Austen did not simply write about people. She wrote about people in relationship to place—houses, estates, gardens, villages, drawing rooms, roads and landscapes. Social life and landscape were inseparable.

And perhaps that is true of creativity generally.

Think of the painters who were transformed by particular landscapes, the poets who returned again and again to the same hills or rivers, composers like Bach who found inspiration in the countryside, or the writers like Dickens who needed to walk before they could write.

Maybe the landscape doesn’t simply provide a backdrop but participates.

There is an old idea that certain places are “charged” with something greater. We might describe that in religious language, psychological language, ecological language or simply as a heightened sensitivity to beauty and history.

I am increasingly comfortable leaving the question open.

For me, pilgrimage is partly about learning to enter that openness.

When you walk, you surrender some of your usual control. You move at the speed of your feet. You become attentive to weather, trees, birdsong, stone walls, ancient paths and the changing light. You begin to sense that the landscape is not merely scenery through which you are passing.

It becomes a participant in the journey.

And occasionally, without quite knowing why, you enter a place and feel something shift within you.

The world seems a little more spacious. The mind becomes quieter and the heart feels lighter.

Nothing has necessarily changed, except the capacity to be more present.

Perhaps that is what a thin place really is.

Not necessarily a place where heaven breaks through into earth, but a place where you become thin enough to notice what has always been there.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | September 7, 2026 · 2:08 pm

Walking into Silence: What pilgrimage taught me about uncertainty, and trust

There are moments on a long walk when you stop thinking about where you are going and simply walk.You simply hear the rhythm of your feet. The landscape changes slowly. Your breathing settles. The noise in your head begins to diminish.I experienced something of that on a recent walk on the Pilgrims’ Way, from Winchester.

But before I took my first steps, I went into Winchester Cathedral. I sat down and was silent during a morning prayer ceremony with only a handful of people. For a few minutes I sat in that extraordinary building, surrounded by centuries of history, and thought about all the people who had come here before me.

Wonchester Cathedral

People who had stood exactly where I was standing and wondered what life meant.I set out on this walk with contemplations from the great Mystics such as Meister Eckhart and Julian of Norwich.

Julian lived in fourteenth-century England, during one of the darkest periods of European history – the Black Death.She knew all about illness, death and uncertainty. During a serious illness in 1373, when she believed she was dying, she experienced a series of visions that became the basis of her Revelations of Divine Love. And from Julian came those extraordinary words:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Julian said this living in a world in which almost everything was not well, and at the same time offering hope. She was saying that we may not understand what is happening in the world but we can still trust that love is deeper than suffering.

That is a very different kind of hope. We cannot plan and control the journey. Life happens in unpredictable ways while we try to protect ourselves against uncertainty.When we’re young, we often imagine that if we make the right choices, life will eventually become predictable.

People and pets we love become ill and die. Relationships change and fail. Homes and jobs change. Your body begins to remind you that you are not going to be here forever.

You begin to realize that you cannot control the journey. You can only walk and adapt to circumstances beyond your control.That thought stayed with me during the first hours of my walk during the unspoilt Itchen valley. 

The first kilometres are always slightly deceptive. You are still thinking about the destination. You look at the map. You calculate how far you have to go.

But gradually, something changes.

You stop thinking about the end.

You begin to pay attention to the next step.

And then the step after that.

That is one of the great gifts of walking.

It brings you back into the present moment. You hear the birds. You stand in awe before ancient trees. The Pilgrims’ Way takes you through landscapes that seem to exist outside ordinary time. There are stretches where ancient trees form tunnels over the path.You walk beneath them and suddenly feel very small.

The trees don’t know your worries. They simply stand there and some of them have been standing there for hundreds of years.And I found myself wondering how many people had walked beneath those same branches.

Medieval pilgrims walked these same old paths, possibly with the same questions as pulgrims today. And now they are gone.

The trees remain and there is something humbling and comforting about that. 

In the bigger order of things one lifespan is fleetingly small. The gravestones around the chapels, some dating back to the 12th century, are a stark reminder of that. You walk into a chapel after several hours on the trail and the experience can be almost startling. Outside, the modern world continues.

Inside, time seems to have stopped. The stones are old and the light is different.

And these are the moments when the boundary between the ordinary and the sacred really does feel a little thinner.A thin place isn’t necessarily a destination to an ancient sacred site but something that happens within.

St Augustine wrote about discovering God not by endlessly looking outward but by turning inward.Meister Eckhart later spoke about becoming empty — letting go of the endless accumulation of thoughts, desires and attachments that fill the mind.

And Julian of Norwich arrives at another extraordinary insight:beneath everything is love. Three different voices pointing towards the same thing. Turn inward. Become quiet and listen.

The longer you walk, the less important the things that seemed so urgent that morning can become.

You begin to notice the magic of life. The small things. The movement of leaves, the creaking of tree branches, the smell of moist earth in the forest, the taste of juicy wild blackberries and thoughts.

Not the thoughts you are trying to manufacture, but the ones that rise naturally when the noise becomes quiet.

That, too, is pilgrimage.

  • How do you deal with uncertainty?
  • How do you live when you don’t know what happens next?
  • How do you cope with the things you cannot control?

Julian’s answer is surprisingly simple. 

Certainty says:

I know how this is going to turn out.

Trust says:

I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but I can take the next step anyway.

That may be one of the most important lessons of a pilgrimage walk.

You don’t need to see the entire road.

You only need to see enough of it to take the next step and keep walking, leaving everything behind you but they remain as memories.

Perhaps that is what happens on all journeys.

And perhaps the same is true of the people we meet, the experiences we endure and the questions we never will answer.

So I keep coming back to Julian.

“All shall be well.”

I don’t hear those words anymore as a promise that everything will work out exactly as I want it to.

I hear them as an invitation to trust.

To accept that some things will remain unresolved and that life contains suffering as well as joy.

Beneath all the noise, all the uncertainty and all the attempts to control life, there may be something much more subtle.

Not travelling towards a place where you hope to find the sacred. But discovering that the sacred has been travelling with you all along and that all shall be well just by taking the next step.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | August 4, 2026 · 6:10 am

Finding Meaning Beyond Success: A Personal Journey

Are you one of those people living with this sense that your work somehow contradicts the deeper yearning of the soul? Outwardly you may appear successful, yet inwardly something remains unsettled.

Each person is born as a unique individual with gifts, talents, and a particular path to walk. Yet one of life’s great tragedies is that many people discover too late that they have spent decades climbing a ladder only to find it was leaning against the wrong wall.

Our culture encourages us to pursue success, influence, recognition, and wealth. There is nothing inherently wrong with these aspirations. The problem arises when we mistake them for the destination of a meaningful life. Once the goal has been achieved, the excitement gradually fades. What once felt extraordinary becomes ordinary. Habit replaces wonder. Achievement is followed by an unexpected emptiness.

I experienced something similar after walking my first pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

Reaching the cathedral filled me with joy and a profound sense of accomplishment. For weeks I had overcome blisters, fatigue, uncertainty, and changing weather. Every step had carried meaning because it demanded something of me.

Yet it was only after returning home to the old routine that I found that work needed to be done on the real pilgrimage. I was still stuck in an unfulfilling job and a marriage that was slowly falling apart.

On the Camino Primitivo

The Camino had changed me within, but my external world was still the same.

The real work was not completing the journey. It was allowing the journey to transform the way I lived afterwards.

That insight has stayed with me ever since.

The deepest satisfaction is seldom found at the destination. It is found in the daily struggle, the uncertainty, the conversations with strangers, the physical exhaustion, the moments of silence, and the countless small challenges along the way.

Perhaps this explains why people who seem to have every comfort deliberately seek difficult experiences. They climb mountains, run ultramarathons, walk across continents or venture into remote wilderness. They are not searching for suffering. They are searching for aliveness.

Growth rarely happens in perfect comfort.

Psychologists have long observed that human beings thrive when they are stretched, but not overwhelmed. Challenges activate creativity, resilience, and learning. When every obstacle is removed, our development often stalls. Muscles strengthen through resistance. Character is shaped through adversity. Wisdom is born from experience rather than convenience.

The workplace is no exception.

Many people see workplace difficulties as something to escape. Difficult colleagues, demanding projects, changing technology or increasing responsibilities can easily become sources of frustration. Yet these very challenges often become the training ground where patience, courage, emotional intelligence and leadership are formed.

This does not mean that toxic work environments should be tolerated. Persistent bullying, exploitation or unhealthy organisational cultures damage both individuals and organisations. But in a healthy workplace, challenge itself is not the enemy. Constructive difficulty invites you to grow beyond who you were yesterday.

The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer captured this paradox with remarkable clarity:

“If all wishes were fulfilled as soon as they arose, how would men occupy their lives? What would they do with their time? If the world were a paradise of luxury and ease… men would either die of boredom or hang themselves.”

His words may sound severe, but they point to an enduring truth. Human beings need something meaningful to strive for. We are not designed merely for comfort; we are designed for growth.

Over the years, I have facilitated hundreds of workshops on corporate health and wellbeing. One pattern has repeatedly emerged.

Many employees spend years counting the days until retirement, convinced that happiness lies just beyond their final working day. Yet when retirement finally arrives, many discover that the absence of work also means the loss of structure, identity, community and purpose. Without a compelling reason to get up in the morning, freedom can unexpectedly become emptiness.

Work is about far more than earning a living.

People often realise this only after a prolonged illness, unemployment or an extended absence from the workplace. Beyond the salary, meaningful work offers connection, contribution and the opportunity to develop our abilities. It gives us occasions to solve problems, collaborate with others and become more than we were yesterday.

Considering that we spend such a large portion of our lives at work, perhaps the better question is not, “How can I escape the workplace?” but rather, “How can I transform my work into part of my own inner journey?”

Whether you remain in your current profession or eventually choose another path, every challenge can become part of your formation. Every difficult conversation can teach compassion. Every setback can deepen resilience. Every obstacle can reveal strengths you never knew you possessed.

The goal, after all, is not simply to arrive at retirement, promotion or financial security.

The goal is to become the person you were always meant to be.

As I look back on my own life, I rarely remember the periods when everything was easy. It was the pilgrimages, the professional setbacks, the unexpected detours, the relationships that tested me, and the moments when I had to make difficult choices that shaped who I have become.

Perhaps the same is true for you.

Rather than asking, “How can I avoid life’s obstacles?” perhaps a better question is, “What is this challenge trying to teach me?”

The obstacle may not be standing in your way.

It may be showing you the way.

So let me leave you with this question:

When you look back on your own journey, did your greatest growth come from the seasons of comfort—or from the challenges you once wished would disappear?

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | July 28, 2026 · 5:29 am

The Trinity and Love

Over the years, I have walked thousands of kilometres on pilgrimage routes across Europe, often finding myself stepping off the trail into small churches and ancient chapels. Sometimes I entered simply to escape the midday heat. Sometimes to rest tired legs. Often there was no one else inside. The silence itself became a companion.

I would sit for a while and let my eyes wander over faded frescoes, carved crucifixes, stained-glass windows, and centuries-old icons. I rarely tried to analyse what I was seeing. Instead, I simply allowed the artwork to speak. Those precious moments became as much a part of the pilgrimage as the walking itself.

Walking a pilgrimage is not only about moving through landscapes; it is about allowing the landscape of the soul to change. The art in those ancient sanctuaries invited me to slow down, to become present, and to notice the subtle movements of the heart that are easily drowned out by the noise of everyday life. There are paintings we admire for their beauty. There are others we appreciate for their historical importance. And then there are a rare few that seem to look back at us, inviting us into a conversation that transcends words.

For more than six centuries, pilgrims, monks, artists, and seekers have returned again and again to Andrei Rublev’s The Trinity. Many consider it the greatest icon ever painted—not because of its artistic perfection, but because of the quiet mystery it reveals.

Most religious art portrays God as distant, enthroned, or judging from above. Rublev offers an altogether different vision. Three figures sit around a simple table beneath the shade of an oak tree. Their bodies incline gently towards one another. Their gaze moves in an endless circle of mutual love. There is no struggle for dominance, no assertion of rank, no hint of rivalry.

Everything about the icon whispers that the deepest reality of existence is relationship.

Rublev’s The Trinity embodies that same invitation.

At the front of the table there is an empty place.

It is impossible to ignore once you see it.

That space has been left open intentionally.

It is your place.

Icons were never intended simply to decorate churches or illustrate theology. In the Eastern Christian tradition, they are often called windows into heaven. Their purpose is not merely to tell us something about God but to draw us into an encounter with the Divine.

This is the difference between knowing about the sacred and experiencing it.

Modern culture encourages you to gather information, formulate opinions, and seek certainty. Yet the deepest spiritual experiences often arise when you stop trying to master the mystery and allow the mystery to embrace you instead.

That, for me, is the gift of pilgrimage.

Walking hour after hour strips away the unnecessary. There comes a point when the questions become more important than the answers, when silence speaks more eloquently than words, and when simply sitting in an ancient chapel can become a profound act of prayer. The journey teaches that God is encountered less through explanation than through attention—through learning to be fully present to the present moment.

When you sit quietly before Rublev’s icon, something subtle begins to happen. The image ceases to be an object we observe. Instead, it becomes a mirror. It reveals where lives have become fragmented, where fear has replaced trust, where ambition has overshadowed compassion, where you have forgotten that you belong to something infinitely larger than yourself.

The invitation is not to acquire another belief.

It is to enter the circle.

The early Christian mystics spoke of the Trinity as an eternal movement of self-giving love—a divine dance in which each person exists for the other. Creation itself flows from that love. Humanity is not called merely to admire it but to participate in it. It reminds me of the African philosophy of Ubuntu – that you become who you are through interaction with others.

Seen in this light, spirituality is no longer about escaping the world or accumulating religious knowledge. It becomes a way of seeing. A way of listening. A way of walking through ordinary life with an awakened awareness that every encounter can become sacred.

The empty place at the table reminds you that you are already included.

You do not earn your seat through achievement, moral perfection, or religious certainty but in simply accepting the invitation.

Perhaps this explains why The Trinity continues to move people after more than six hundred years. In a world marked by polarisation, tribalism, and the relentless pursuit of status and power, Rublev reminds us that the deepest reality of the universe is not domination but communion. Not fear, but love. Not exclusion, but belonging.

Every time I leave a quiet church or chapel on pilgrimage, shoulder my backpack, and return to the path, I carry something invisible with me. Not a new doctrine or a fresh certainty, but a deeper awareness that the sacred is never confined to the sanctuary. It walks with us along dusty paths, through forests and villages, in conversations with strangers, and in the silence between footsteps.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson Rublev’s icon has to teach. The spiritual journey is not about climbing towards God.

It is about awakening to the astonishing possibility that God has been making room for us all along.

And perhaps, having taken our place at the table, our calling is to leave an empty chair in our own lives—for the stranger, the wounded, the forgotten, and those with whom we disagree.

For love always makes room.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | June 1, 2026 · 8:54 am

Embracing Self-Love on the Camino de Santiago

While walking the Camino de Santiago, I sometimes encountered pilgrims who seemed to confuse pilgrimage with an act of self-punishment. Despite their bodies sending unmistakable signals—painful blisters, swollen joints, and deep exhaustion—that it was time to rest, they would continue pushing forward. Determined to conquer the path at all costs, they ignored their physical limits until, inevitably, they were forced to abandon their journey altogether.

There is a saying I learned from another pilgrim on the way. “If you don’t learn to approach the path with humility, it will teach you humility.”

Others approached the Camino very differently. I remember older pilgrims, some well into their eighties, who walked slowly and with intention. They moved at their own pace, stopping occasionally to admire the landscape, sitting quietly in contemplation, or choosing to walk only half a stage in a day. Rather than measuring success by distance covered, they seemed to delight in the journey itself. Remarkably, many of these pilgrims completed the entire 800-kilometre route to Santiago. Even more striking was the vitality they radiated. They appeared youthful, not because of physical strength alone, but because they had learned the wisdom of walking in harmony with themselves.

Pilgrimage offers many lessons about life, but one of its most important teachings is the often misunderstood art of self-love.

Modern psychology increasingly confirms what many spiritual traditions have taught for centuries: self-love is not a luxury but a necessity for human flourishing. Research on self-compassion, pioneered by psychologist Dr Kristin Neff, shows that people who treat themselves with kindness during times of difficulty tend to be more resilient, emotionally balanced, and motivated than those who constantly criticise themselves.

Contrary to popular belief, harsh self-judgment, especially negative self-talk, does not produce stronger or more successful people. Instead, it often leads to anxiety, burnout, perfectionism, and emotional exhaustion.

Self-love, in psychological terms, means relating to oneself with the same care and understanding that one would naturally offer a good friend. It involves recognising one’s limitations without shame and acknowledging one’s worth without needing constant external validation. Such an attitude fosters emotional well-being and enables people to respond more constructively to life’s inevitable challenges.

These findings resonate deeply with the teachings of the 13th-century mystic Meister Eckhart. Eckhart believed that what turns human beings into compulsive graspers—unable to let go of possessions, status, relationships, or beliefs—is ultimately a lack of trust. Beneath our attachments lies a profound insecurity, a fear that we are somehow incomplete or unworthy.

For Eckhart, self-love and trust in the divine are inseparable. Compassion arises from confidence in the goodness that lies at the heart of existence, while compulsive striving grows from the belief that we are fundamentally lacking or flawed. The person who learns to “let be” and at the same time allows themselves to be is expressing a deep confidence in the creative source of life.

Eckhart writes: “If you do not know how to love yourself, how is it possible that you will love God? There can be no love of neighbour without love of self.” To love oneself, in his understanding, is not an obstacle to spiritual growth but one of its essential foundations.

Such ideas were controversial in Eckhart’s time. Many theologians were preoccupied with sin, moral regulation, and the strict enforcement of doctrine. God was often portrayed as an authoritarian ruler who rewarded obedience and punished transgression. Shame and guilt became powerful tools of religious instruction—a dynamic that continues to influence some religious traditions today.

The divine potential in every person

Yet Eckhart offered a radically different vision. Rather than beginning with fear, he began with trust. Rather than emphasising human depravity, he pointed toward the divine potential present within every person.

This brings us to an important distinction: self-love is not the same as ego.

The ego seeks validation, superiority, and control. It constantly compares itself with others and measures its worth through achievement, status, or recognition. Ego asks, “How can I become more important?” Self-love asks, “How can I become more fully myself?”

The ego is rooted in insecurity and therefore always needs more. Self-love arises from a deeper acceptance and therefore has nothing to prove. The ego separates; self-love connects. The ego grasps; self-love releases. The ego seeks to protect an image; self-love nurtures a living reality.

Far from encouraging selfishness, genuine self-love often leads to greater compassion. People who are at peace with themselves generally have a greater capacity to listen, empathise, forgive, and care for others. They are not depleted by the endless struggle to earn their own worth.

The spiritual path, whether on the Camino or in everyday life, invites you to confront your fears, loosen your attachments, and ultimately learn the difficult art of letting go. This includes letting go of the false stories you tell yourself about who you should be.

At the heart of Eckhart’s teaching is a beautiful image. The essence of the divine, he says, is “birthing”—a continual process of creation and emergence. Life is not a static state to be achieved but an ongoing unfolding into what we are meant to become. We are not passive observers of this process but active participants in it.

Perhaps this is one of the Camino’s greatest lessons. The journey is not won by those who push themselves the hardest. It is completed by those who learn to walk with wisdom, humility, and kindness toward themselves. In learning to love yourself, you discover that you are not separate from the sacred journey but part of its unfolding.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. Over the years, my own Camino journeys have inspired two books exploring the deeper inner dimension of pilgrimage and transformational walking: Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul and the newly revised edition of Walking on Edge. Both reflect on the Camino not merely as a physical journey, but as a path of inner change, reflection, and rediscovery.

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by | May 25, 2026 · 8:25 am

Why the Camino de Santiago is Captivating Today’s Seekers

A lost ritual once firmly embedded in medieval Europe has found new life among modern burned-out souls and those disillusioned with institutional religion. Walking the same ancient paths travelled by pilgrims centuries ago has become, for hundreds of thousands of people, a modern route to purpose, silence, healing, and experiential spirituality.

During the Middle Ages, a vast network of pilgrimage routes stretched across Europe — from Warsaw in Poland, Oslo in Norway, and Walsingham in England to Einsiedeln in Switzerland, Cologne in Germany, Rome and Assisi in Italy, and the Via Tolosana, or Arles Route, in France. These paths eventually converged toward some of Christianity’s most revered destinations, especially Santiago de Compostela in Spain and Rome in Italy.

For medieval pilgrims, it was common to leave directly from one’s doorstep and walk for months across mountains, forests, and foreign territories. The journey was often undertaken as an act of penance, spiritual devotion, or thanksgiving. In some cases, one member of a family would walk on behalf of the entire household.

Pilgrimage was never easy. Even in medieval times, it required considerable resources, endurance, and courage. Pilgrims faced illness, disease, hunger, harsh weather, and the constant danger of robbery. Many never returned home. Yet despite the risks, historians estimate that by the late Middle Ages, millions of people had travelled these sacred routes, making pilgrimage one of the defining spiritual practices of medieval Europe.

  • Map showing medieval pilgrimage routes and shrines to Santiago de Compostela across Europe
    Historic routes highlighting key pilgrimage paths across Europe to Santiago de Compostela

Pilgrimage also became deeply woven into the economic and cultural fabric of the continent. Pilgrims needed food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and transport. Inns, monasteries, bridges, hospitals, and marketplaces flourished along the routes. Wealthier travellers journeying on horseback or in carriages relied on blacksmiths and craftsmen for repairs and supplies.

But the pilgrimage routes were far more than economic arteries. They became channels for the exchange of ideas, languages, customs, art, and knowledge. Along these roads, Europe slowly developed a shared cultural consciousness.

One important spiritual centre on the Camino route was the monastery of San Juan de la Peña near Jaca in northern Spain. According to medieval tradition, the monastery housed the Holy Grail for several centuries — the cup believed to have been used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Beyond its religious significance, San Juan de la Peña also became an important centre of scholarship and monastic learning during the Middle Ages.

By the 18th century, however, much of the great pilgrimage tradition had declined. The Protestant Reformation, the suppression of monasteries, political upheaval, changing religious attitudes, and centuries of war dramatically reduced pilgrimage across Europe. In England, King Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries between 1536 and 1541 and effectively outlawed many traditional pilgrimage practices.

Then, in the late 20th century, something remarkable happened.

In the early 1980s, the Spanish priest Father Elías Valiña Sampedro became convinced that the ancient Camino de Santiago could live again. Armed with cans of yellow paint and driving his small Citroën 2CV through rural northern Spain, he began marking forgotten sections of the route with the now-famous yellow arrows that guide pilgrims to this day.

Father Elías was far more than a parish priest. He was a respected scholar who had completed a doctoral thesis on the Camino de Santiago in the 1960s, long before the modern revival began. At the time, very few people could have imagined that the Camino would once again attract pilgrims from across the world.

When I first walked the Camino in 2006, around 100,000 pilgrims received the Compostela certificate in Santiago annually. Most were students, retirees, or spiritual seekers with the time to undertake such a journey. Since then, the numbers have grown dramatically. In 2024, more than 446,000 pilgrims officially received the Compostela in Santiago de Compostela, and the real number of walkers is believed to be substantially higher, since many people complete sections of the Camino without registering officially.

Over the years I have walked more than a dozen Camino routes through Germany, Switzerland, France, Italy, and Spain, speaking to hundreds of pilgrims along the way. My overwhelming impression is that many people walking these ancient paths are searching for something they are no longer finding within institutional religion alone.

Pilgrims come from every imaginable background, age group, profession, and nationality. Many are standing at a crossroads in life. Some are grieving the death of a loved one. Others are recovering from divorce, burnout, illness, or emotional exhaustion. Some arrive carrying deep spiritual questions they can no longer ignore.

Few people return home unchanged.

Stepping away from the noise and acceleration of modern life for several weeks affects body, mind, and soul in profound ways. Long days of walking create space for reflection rarely possible in ordinary life. Many pilgrims return home and change careers, relationships, priorities, or even countries after realizing that a life centred on Being feels fundamentally different from a life driven primarily by external achievement and accumulation.

What we are witnessing may be more than the revival of an ancient tradition. It may reflect a broader transformation in humanity’s understanding of spirituality itself.

Increasingly, people are questioning whether spiritual meaning can be mediated exclusively through institutions, doctrines, or systems of belief. The modern pilgrimage speaks to a growing hunger for direct experience — for silence, mystery, transcendence, and inner transformation.

Experiential spirituality cannot simply be inherited intellectually. It must be encountered.

And perhaps that is why so many people are becoming pilgrims again.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. Over the years, my own Camino journeys have inspired two books exploring the deeper inner dimension of pilgrimage and transformational walking: Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul and the newly revised edition of Walking on Edge. Both reflect on the Camino not merely as a physical journey, but as a path of inner change, reflection, and rediscovery.

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by | April 3, 2026 · 9:15 am

The Cross: A Symbol of Resurrection and New Beginnings

Wishing you a peaceful Easter. I’m sharing this extract from my book: Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul as a reflection for the season — on the Cross, on suffering, and on the possibility of new beginnings.

“It is easy to bond with people on the Camino. You share daily experiences, memories and the highs and lows that come with a pilgrimage walk.

Then comes the time to say goodbye, which can be a painful process if you have spent days and weeks walking with someone. It is like saying goodbye to an old friend when you know it will be some time before you will see each other again.

Ray was a veteran pilgrim, walking the Camino for the last time. He had undergone surgery for colon cancer some weeks before, and was taking his walk slowly and with great mindfulness.

It was from the awareness that every moment that he still had to live was precious. “I’ve been on this same path many times,” he confided, “but this time I am seeing so many things I did not see before.”

“It is like reading a good book, and then you read it a second time and a third time, discovering each time something new from a different state of awareness,” he said.

Talking with Ray led to the realization that life itself is meaning and the purpose of each individual is moving to a higher state of consciousness during a lifetime whose end we cannot predict.

Ray decided to take a few days’ rest near the town of Sarria, wanting to walk the last 100 kilometers (62 miles) to Santiago in his own time.

On saying goodbye, Ray gave me a Christian cross that he had lovingly carved out of wood from an olive tree.

While I was touched by his gift that came from the heart, I had mixed feelings about the cross that also symbolized the “corporate identity” of the church with which I had a long-troubled relationship.

I was unaware at the time that my pilgrim friend had given me an astounding gift. I hung it around my neck, its mystery opening to me with every step to Santiago and healing the old wound.

In the Christian tradition the cross is the symbol of Christ’s pain and suffering. It resonated with the people in the Middle Ages who themselves went through a dark time of humanity. But in the modern era?

The tragedy is that the fixation on this symbol of suffering misses the essence of Jesus’ teachings—that of transmuting suffering and death in resurrection.

This might sound blasphemous for some but we have a religion focused on life being an endless endurance of pain and suffering with the salvation only coming in the hereafter.

This was very much the thinking during the Middle Ages. Christians paid tithes to the church to “buy” their way into heaven. With disease, war and childbirth being a constant daily reminder that life on earth could be a short sojourn, the church fed into the fears of what comes in the afterlife. If certain beliefs, habits and rules were not followed, you ended up in the eternal flames of hell.

Life on earth at the time must surely have been hell for many people, struggling to eke out a living in the overcrowded towns and cities infested with rodents and human excrement. Living in the rural areas was no better, as every freak weather condition could mean a failed harvest and famine.

The devil was blamed for bad luck, accidents, immoral behavior, theft, illness and death. He was frequently depicted in places of worship, paintings and manuscripts of the time. Hell was a dark underground world ruled by Satan and full of demons, monstrosity and deformity. The horrors could not be worse if you turned your back against God and the church.

At the same time Christ was the savior in the sky above. Depictions of heaven and Christ could frequently be found on high ceilings and on top of the altar. God’s mercy and the reward in the afterlife came after leading a life following rules and beliefs.

There are many depictions of the world of darkness and the world of light in the old cathedrals, chapels and churches on the Camino, such as in Jaca, Lugo and Oviedo, giving an inkling of the mindset of the time.

The dividing lines between good and evil could not be more vivid.

In contrast, the Cathedral of Santiago is an expression of joy. It probably stems from the joy many pilgrims felt in finally reaching their destination after months of arduous walking. The Monte de Gozo, or Mountain of Joy, is situated on a hilltop from where the pilgrims had a beautiful view of the ancient city of Santiago.

The Portal of Glory in the cathedral features over 200 Romanesque sculptures, featuring angels, saints and prophets. Angels carry and lead the soul to paradise. The angels play instruments in concert to the glory of God.

Built in the form of a cruciform, the cathedral is almost austere coming from the entrance but opens up to a magnificent organ and choir with illuminated chapels on either side.

Even today pilgrims are overwhelmed when entering the cathedral for the first time.

If he or she has walked on the northern route, he/she will have passed by numerous crosses along the wayside, depicting the crucified Christ in many shapes and forms of gruesome suffering.

No wonder the first Vikings visiting England went back to their homeland telling their people that the Anglo-Saxons were easy prey because they were worshipping a dead God.

The cross is in fact an old symbol pre-dating Christian times and deeply embedded in pagan and Celtic tradition.

In many of the churches and chapels on the Camino the “Goddess,” the Virgin Mary, is the central figure on the altar. Especially in Galicia the ancient stone crosses depict Jesus on the one side and the Mother Mary on the other, which on a symbolic level unites the male and the female aspect.

One of the sad aspects of the Protestant movement was the banishment of the Madonna, the female aspect, from the altar, replacing it with the crucifix.

Many priceless artifacts were burned and destroyed in the fanatic 30-year religious war between Catholicism and Protestantism that ravaged central Europe in the 15th century.

While the Roman Cross has a long central vertical line, the Celtic cross has both the vertical and horizontal lines in equal length, with a circle around it.

The horizontal lines symbolize the past and the future, with the mind locked in one of these two thoughts on a daily basis. The vertical line, however, represents the alignment with the above and the below, the awakened state of the present “heart moment” in the center where the cross meets.

We thus find many an ancient painting depicting a heart or a mandala in the center of the cross.

As we say the old Celtic powerful prayer of protection, we visualize the Goddess, the Mother, Mary, the Madonna:

She is as above me as below, to the left and to the right, before me and behind me as well as within me.”

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading more in “Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul” published by Morgan James, New York. Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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by | August 18, 2025 · 1:58 am

Walking the Camino: A Pilgrimage of Body, Mind and Soul

I walked my first pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago in the summer of 2006. I set out from Sarria, unfit and unprepared, with too much in my backpack and bad hiking boots. After just three days, my feet were blistered, my shoulders sore, and my backpack was slowly coming apart at the seams. And yet, every aching step felt like a quiet reclaiming of body and mind and soul.

It was in those early days, as I rested in pilgrim hostels and listened to the stories of fellow walkers of grief, hope, and longing, that I began to understand that the Camino was far more than a physical trail. It was a journey into presence, patience, and the sacredness of ordinary life.

Stripping Away Excess Baggage

On the Camino, I quickly realized how little I truly needed. Every unnecessary item in my backpack felt heavier with each step, and gradually I learned to let go of what wasn’t essential. This outer shedding mirrored an inner process, the release of a thousand thoughts of the head-mind. What remained was a raw encounter with myself. In that stripped-down honesty, I began to feel space open for the divine to enter.

Experiential Spirituality

The Camino taught me a prayer of movement, unlike anything I had experienced before. Each step became a rhythm of surrender: inhaling with gratitude, exhaling with release.

Spirituality rarely comes in dramatic revelations. Instead, it appears in nuanced whispers, in small, ordinary moments: the sound of church bells echoing across a valley, the scent from a forest on a misty morning, a shared meal with strangers who quickly feel like old friends. These moments shimmered with presence, reminded me that the divine was not elsewhere. I just hadn’t noticed or seen it before.

Rediscovering Communion with Humanity

Walking alongside pilgrims from all corners of the world, I began to see the sacred thread that connects all of humanity. I listened to stories of grief, hope, and longing shared on dusty trails and over bowls of soup. In hearing their experiences, I discovered that spirituality is not just an inward journey. It is also found in the recognition of our shared humanity and the ways we reflect the divine in one another.

Whispers from the Universe

There were long stretches of silence, hours with nothing but the sound of my footsteps, birdsong, and the slow turning of my own thoughts. Over time, my inner chatter began to fade, leaving a spaciousness that felt like prayer. In that quiet, I realized the divine was not distant. It was a subtle certainty within, present with every heartbeat.

The Real Camino Begins After the Camino

Reaching Santiago is both an ending and a beginning for me. The true journey is never about arriving. It is about awakening to the sacredness of each step along the way. The Camino becomes less a trail across Spain and more a way of living: to walk with presence, to notice the divine in the ordinary, and to live as though every breath were part of a pilgrimage.

The Camino has rekindled my spirituality in unexpected ways by simplifying, grounding, and embodying the divine. It has taken faith out of abstraction and placed it into the rhythm of footsteps, the ache of muscles, the beauty of landscapes, and the kindness of strangers. For me, it has become not just a journey across Europe—but a way of walking through life itself.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S.: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in the two books I wrote on the Camino: Walking on Edge – a Pilgrimage to Santiago and Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul my latest book,  Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and wherever good books are sold.

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by | December 26, 2024 · 3:30 pm

Walking the Camino: Lessons in Life and Faith

Walking the Camino is a spiritual journey that mirrors the journey of life, unfolding in three profound stages: a beginning, a middle, and an end. Kierkegaard describes these three stages of life as the aesthetic, the ethical, and the religious.

The first stage—the crucifixion—represents the struggle and hardship of making mistakes, forcing the boat upstream, and losing your way on the wrong path. During the first stage in life we face trial and error, effort often feels futile. You sometimes engage in aimless wandering and deviations. You may easily lose your way with countless distractions in the monkey mind.

The middle stage, symbolized by the Valley of Death or the Meseta, is a surrender of the ego to a higher purpose and deeper meaning. Here, the ego must die for the soul to awaken to its inner truth, allowing for transformation and clarity.

According to Kierkegaard the appeal during this “ethical stage” lies in walking the path with confidence, even though it may be monotonous and exhausting at times.

The final stage—the resurrection—is a state of flow, where you align with the current of life and begin to see that every experience, even the challenges, has been an expression of divine grace, sculpting you into the BEING you were always meant to become.

You feel the ecstasy in the dance of life. Your walk is a gentle surfing of the path without a sense of gravity. There is an unspoken faith in the journey that drives you forward, and quickens your pace.

Reaching the Cathedral of Santiago is a celebration of joy and homecoming, marking the soul’s return to its true essence. Ultimately, the Camino is a journey of the soul, finding its way back home.

Reino Gevers – Author – Mentor – Speaker

P.S. If you enjoyed this article you will be interested in my books available where all good books are sold.

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