We arrived in Finisterre on July 29th, after getting lost and trekking through lots of rain. I was excited to feel something, to feel completion. Finisterre means "World's End" after all. So we arrived. I felt nothing. There was nothing contrived to make a person feel anything, either.... Just quiet coast and quiet shops with kitschy souvenirs. I knew I should write something, but anything I could write didn't feel honest, and if you've been following this blog even a little you know that if I get hung up on anything, it's trying to be honest.
So we've been here, at The End of the World, for a few days now, living quiet lives, living in this beauty without walking 25km a day. We've talked with the other pilgrims we befriended along the way. Everyone talks about what they will do once they go home, or if they'll go home at all... And maybe I'm slow on the uptake, but it hit me yesterday:
Finisterre doesn't feel like an ending because it isn't.
We haven't been "collecting stories" this whole time, as though these lives are all completed. We've witnessed the beginnings of new stories, and we've started our own, as well. If Finisterre felt like some grande finale, maybe I wouldn't take all this back with me. Maybe life would go on just the same as it did before.
So here's to new beginnings from The End of the World.
