When I walked the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain a few months ago, I relearned old lessons, lessons of motion and feeling. I hiked down country roads and byways, my face in the chilly wind, the weight of my pack on my shoulders and lower back, my legs pulling me along, the sky clearest blue – no clouds mile after mile, sun warming my neck. All the time I was heading west toward what is called “the End of the World” in Finisterre, the last outcropping of Europe. Along the dirt path were