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There we were, four friends in our seventies, embarking on the Camino de Santiago—a pilgrimage that promised more than just miles underfoot. Our journey became a tapestry of song, prayer, and profound connections that deepened our bond with each other, ourselves, and the world around us.

Bursting into Song and Prayer

From Brother Sun and Sister Moon to The Sound of Music, we often burst into song, though our memories sometimes faltered. Thankfully, someone could usually dredge up the forgotten lyrics between the four of us.

One evening, we stayed in a beautiful hotel with a chapel that inspired us to pray Lauds and Vespers. Freed from the constraints of routine, our spirits soared, finding expression in heartfelt prayer. Before we started our walk, our Camino organizer, “Marly Camino,” gave us envelopes containing meaningful words. We would draw one at night, reflect on its significance, and share our thoughts—a practice that led to deep, inward journeys. Though we’d known each other for 50 years, this pilgrimage allowed us to share on a level we hadn’t before.

We always ended these evenings with a night prayer, setting the tone for the next day.

Preparing for the Challenges Ahead

Mornings began with rituals to prepare ourselves for the road ahead: preparing our feet, stretching our bodies, and bracing for another walk through rain and mud. We coated our toes with Vaseline, doubled our socks (one with separate toes, the other anti-blister), and miraculously avoided blisters—even in daily downpours.

Luckily, there was always a café with clean bathrooms along the way—a small mercy that made the rain bearable.

We each carried a stone, symbolic of the burdens we wanted to release. At Finisterre, the “end of the world,” we cast these stones into the ocean, watching them disappear into the waves—a powerful act of cleansing and renewal.

Finding Meaning in Every Step

On the first rainy day, one of us turned and asked, “Remind me again, why are we doing this?” That question sparked a tradition: choosing a word of the day to give meaning to our experiences.

One of us documented the journey, sharing updates with friends who cheered us on from afar. Their prayers and messages of encouragement became part of our pilgrimage, a reminder that we were never walking alone.

Our walking sticks’ rhythmic “tok, tok, tok” accompanied us through muddy paths. These sticks became extensions of ourselves, steadying us mile after mile.

The Steady Presence of a Guide

Our driver, Nico, was more than a chauffeur; he was a lifeline. Each morning, he discussed the route with us, though he soon realized only one of us was listening. He adjusted his plans, walking toward us if we were late to meeting points, offering relief and assurance that there was an end in sight.

His care went beyond logistics. He adjusted hats that obstructed vision, discouraged choking hazards like chicharrón, and kept us stocked with water and snacks. His presence reminded us we were cared for, even on the most challenging days.

Joys Along the Way

The Camino wasn’t all challenges. We delighted in simple pleasures, like the perfectly cooked scallops and octopus in Melide, where the flavours of the sea spoke for themselves. We marvelled at the unique flora—figs, chestnuts, and other unfamiliar vegetation—and the hórreos, storages on stone stilts, a distinctive feature of Galician homes.

Each step brought joys and pains, but more importantly, it brought us closer to who we truly are. The rain washed away more than mud—it cleansed us of burdens, real and imagined. By the last day, I felt a deep joy, a lightness in my steps, and a newness in my spirit.

Returning Home, Continuing the Journey

Back home, the Camino’s lessons lingered. A chance meeting with a young couple from a country where my late husband and I once lived brought new friendships. Losing my keys became an opportunity for my grandson to show his care, and a kind concierge reminded me of the interconnectedness of humanity.

The Camino taught me that people are not burdens; they are gifts. Each connection, each shared moment, is part of life’s more significant journey. Though the walking has ended, the spirit of the Camino continues, moving me to deeper connections and a renewed appreciation for life’s simple graces.

It took me a long time to realize that the way I moved through life wasn’t really me. It was a version shaped by my upbringing—quietly, invisibly, and very powerfully.

For years, I felt tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the deep, bone-level exhaustion that comes from constantly managing yourself around others. I didn’t know where it came from. I just thought, This is life.

Until one ordinary afternoon in my senior years in changed everything.

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The Moment I Finally Asked “Why?”

I was on my way to do the laundry when I suddenly felt overwhelmed and muttered, “I’m so tired.”

I’d said those words countless times before, but this time I paused.

My husband had once asked me, “You didn’t really do anything today—why are you so tired?”

That question stayed with me. Where was this exhaustion coming from?

The answer surprised me: it began with being the second child.

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Living as “The Second One”

My sister came first—beautiful, admired, and naturally noticed. I came next and quietly learned to take up less space. I didn’t know it then, but I carried that feeling for decades: Don’t stand out. Don’t fall behind. Don’t be second again.

So I worked hard. I achieved. I succeeded—on the outside.

Inside, I was constantly bracing myself. In conversations, I scanned for slights. In groups, I held back. When I felt unimportant, I left—jobs, commitments, even relationships. Leaving felt safer than risking that old, familiar ache.

I looked successful, but I was exhausted. Life felt heavy. Joy was rare.

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The Shift That Changed Everything

Loving my husband helped—but it didn’t erase my old patterns. I still tried too hard to be appreciated. And I grew even more tired.

The real change came when I turned inward.

I started listening—not just to my mind, which was loud and anxious—but to my heart. And my heart was quiet, steady, and honest. It always knew the truth, even when I ignored it.

So I began making different choices. I spoke honestly. I stopped pretending. I allowed myself to be seen—even when it felt uncomfortable.

Something incredible happened.

I stopped feeling tired.

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What Life Feels Like Now

I’m more open. More present. More me.

A small moment confirmed this recently. A neighbor shared how someone she’d been avoiding had ruined her day with a phone call. Without thinking, I said, “Why are you giving her that much power? Take it back. This is your life.”

It came out strong—but it landed. A young woman in the group jumped in, sharing her own wisdom about reclaiming personal power. Suddenly, everyone was reflecting, laughing, and opening up.

That’s when I realized: this is what living from your true self looks like. Honest. Energized. Alive.

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A Thought for You

You may have your own tools, your own path inward. Keep going.

Your true self is always speaking—through your feelings, your discomfort, your quiet knowing. When you listen and act from that place, something shifts.

This kind of truth is powerful. More powerful than approval, success, or perfection.

It’s the power of finally saying, This is my life—and I choose to live it as myself.

As Seniors, we find various ways of expressing ourselves. Each of us has a unique way of saying who we are—some whisper it, some paint it, some dance it, and some just let it slip out accidentally during small talk. But art… art is where expression finally takes form. It arrives in all kinds of incarnations: some sublime, some questionable, and some that make you wonder whether the artist was sleep-deprived or simply inspired. Yet the expressions that give us the most joy are the ones that carry beauty, goodness, authenticity, angst, or whatever life insists on handing us.

Expressing the Inner Spirit

Lately, I’ve devoted more time to art, and I can’t begin to explain the exhilaration of creating something that feels true, something that speaks from the soul. It goes beyond taste, beyond sight, beyond touch. It’s as if something inside waits—rather impatiently—to be given words, to be painted, to be played, to finally step out and show its face.

On the Periphery

For years, I lingered on the outskirts of art. I walked through galleries, museums, performances—happy to admire the brilliance of others while clutching my own creativity like a secret passport I never stamped. I dabbled here and there, mostly for my work in education, but never truly allowed myself to plunge in.

Until recently. One day, after decades of circling like a shy satellite, I finally picked up my brushes, spread out the paper I’d been hoarding (as all good artists-in-denial do), and jumped.

The plunge felt like the first swim in a cold Canada lake—lots of hesitation, then a shocking jolt of aliveness. And then… bliss. I became hooked. I forgot to eat. I forgot to be bored. I forgot to be lonely. I even stopped minding the clean-up, which in my personal universe counts as a minor miracle. Somehow, I became more organized; I could pause, take a walk, tidy up for visitors—and then fall right back into the flow.

Art didn’t just become something I did. It became part of who I am. And like a composer giving birth to a long-awaited symphony, I realized: this expression had been gestating for years. But the time doesn’t matter now. What matters is that it finally came to life—my joy, my offering, my small gift to the universe.

An Ode to Expression

The joy found words. It found poetry. Something deep within me stirred awake, and suddenly, the verses came—softly, insistently, like a child tugging on your sleeve at dawn. I now wake up excited to create, like a toddler discovering new toys, except my toys involve paper, ink, and an unreasonable number of brushes.

Here is what rose from within:

Life, thou hast been

In my womb forever,

Waiting to awaken

To the world of the keen.

Life, what beauty

You bring to me

On this particular day

Of my awakening to me.

Gratefully I sing

The canticle to thee—

Of art and beauty

That life does be.

Gone is hesitation,

Onward I go.

Lost for a long time,

Now found—and lo.

Words of complaint,

That time there were none.

Space couldn’t be found,

Obstacles now gone.

To thee I bow,

To your long vigil,

Till the soul awakens

And opens its heart.

The Inner Beauty

Inside each of us is an inner self longing to step out into the light—full, radiant, unfiltered. We catch glimpses of it now and then, usually in the quiet spaces between errands or in the five minutes before sleep claims us. For years, I was busy with life, with goals, with what I thought were the shiny trappings of success. I gave myself to them completely. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small voice kept whispering: There is something more.

Finally, I listened. Finally, I expressed it.

The joy it brings surpasses all my past achievements—not because it’s grand or public, but because it is mine. Personal. Essential. Whole.

Maybe this is what truly matters. Maybe it takes decades to discover. I can’t say I understand it fully, but I know the feeling of it now—this quiet wholeness, this sense of being at one with myself.

And that, too, is a kind of masterpiece.

Dear friends, I hope this blog finds you in a cheerful mood, much like the sun breaking through a curtain of morning clouds. Today’s writing prompt …

# What Gets Better with Age #