I have been doing a lot of walking. More walking than I’ve ever done in my life. More walking than I thought possible.

We wake up; we start walking. We go to bed; I’m walking in my dreams. My feet are so used to endless stepping that my feet subconsciously move while I use the bathroom.

But we have to walk. Got to keep training. Got to be prepared. In a few weeks we will be in Spain. And then it will all be real. We will be walking the Camino de Santiago every day. Walking will be our full-time job.

You can learn a lot about yourself by walking. I don’t know how this is possible. But walking does something to you. To your soul. You hear a voice when you walk. A still, small voice you would have never heard otherwise. A wise and ancient voice that speaks directly to your heart.

The voice keeps telling you, “You are insane.”

And we

are insane. Namely, because we’re carrying heavy backpacks as we walk. The packs are not all that heavy in regular life. In fact, they’re pretty light. They’re just normal backpacks. No big deal. But after several miles uphill, your backpack becomes a mid-sized Nissan from hell.

This is why you are constantly thinking about ways to reduce your pack weight. But you can’t, of course. Everything inside is a necessity. You’ve already reduced your belongings to a few pounds.

Your shampoo is a tiny bar of special camping soap. Your toothbrush has the handle cut off to save .0004 ounces. You carry only enough toilet paper to accommodate the needs of a small hamster.

Funny thing is, when people find out you’re walking the Camino, they offer friendly advice. Everyone has a useful tidbit. You quickly learn that everybody on planet earth must’ve known about the Camino except…

I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.

“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…

“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom. My therapist actually recommended that I write to you, seeing if you have any insightful thoughts about happiness.”

Hi, Erin. My first insightful thought is: Fire your therapist. If he or she is recommending that you reach out to me, your life is in serious trouble.

If you want pure happiness, however, you should visit the guest laundry facility at my hotel. Which is where I am right now.

It’s a room about the size of a residential bathroom. I am trapped in this room with an all-boy soccer team.

There must be 841 little boys crammed in this space. They are loud. They are unbelievably happy. Testosterone waves are crashing against the walls, compromising the structural integrity of the Hampton Inn & Suites.

I don’t know anything about soccer. Namely, because we did not have soccer when I was a

kid. During childhood, we only had two choices athletics-wise: (1) baseball, and (2) First Methodist choir.

Naturally, we boys gravitated toward baseball. I loved baseball. Baseball made me happy. I played first base. Granted, I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t good, either.

I don’t mean to toot my own kazoo, but I set a few Little League records. For example: I still hold the record, for example, for eating an entire birthday cake in under two minutes.

But that’s the kind of everyday happiness we experienced as kids. Just like the soccer players in this laundry room. Because when you’re that age, you’re always happy. You’re pretty much cheerful all the time.

Sure, sometimes things stress you out, but almost nothing can threaten your overall kid-happiness. So my question is: Why did we grow up?

The American Psychological Association states that childhood offers unique…

Maryland. The old cafe is mostly empty this time of night. Music plays overhead. Pedal steel guitar.

The cook is cleaning his flattop. The waitress is reading a magazine. Thank God magazines still exist in our AI Age.

I smell cured pork and onions. There are globe lamps hanging over the bar. Half of my American youth happened in places like this. The only thing missing is the smoking section.

I sit at the counter. My waitress is named Sharon. I know this because it’s on her name tag. She speaks Alabamian. I can hear it in her voice:

“You doin’?”

“Good,” I say. “You?”

“Better’n I d’serve. Choo drinkin’?”

“Coffee, please.”

She gets out a pen and pad. Thank God pens and pads still exist.

“Knowcha want, sweetie?”

“Two eggs. Bacon. Hash browns.”

“White’r wheat?”

“White.”

“‘Bout them eggs?”

“Sunny.”

“‘Thing else?”

“You got any chocolate milk?”

Smile. “You sound like my four-year-old.”

I’ve been on the road for days, performing my one-man spasm before audiences. It’s been fun, but I miss home.

I stay on the road for a living. Sometimes you get homesick. Last night, for example, I got out of bed to use the restroom and walked face first into my hotel room wall.

But it’s the little things that keep you grounded. Familiar food. Pedal steel guitars. And a familiar accent.

My food arrives.

“Your accent,” I say to my waitress. “Where’re you from?”

“Close to Troy.”

People from small towns almost never tell you the name of their town first. They always start with the nearest big city and work their way inward.

“Where around Troy?”

“Brundidge.”

“Pike County.”

She smiles. “Shut up. You know it?”

“How long you been gone?”

Her face is still wearing a smile, but it’s the kind of smile that…

Once upon a time there were three little ants. The ants had an unusual home. They lived atop an elephant. 

Long ago the ants’ mother had reasoned that an elephant would be a wise place to lay eggs to keep them from danger. 

“No predators shall ever find my eggs on an elephant!” their mother thought. Their mother was also insane. 

And so it was, the ants grew up on the elephant. The little ants wandered hither and yonder, all over the mammoth body. They found scraps of food within the great animal’s hairs. They drank from droplets pooled on the beast’s immense back. When it was cold, they burrowed in the warm folds of the elephant’s wrinkles. 

One day, a ladybug hitched a ride on the elephant. The traveler was impressed with the ease of the ants’ lives compared to the tiresome lives of regular ants. 

The ladybug asked, “What is this marvelous creature you live upon?”

“Creature?” said the little ants. “What doth thou mean?” For ants always spoke in Middle English.  

“Why,” the

ladybug said, “this host whom thouest inhabit, who feeds thou, who keeps thou safe from spiders and birds who would devour thee?” 

The ants looked at themselves confusedly. They knew nothing of any such creature. 

And so it was, the ants resolved to discover the host upon which they resided. They searched the entire behemoth body for answers. 

Later, they reunited on the elephant’s ear. They conversed freely, unaware that the elephant could hear their voices.  

“The thing we live upon is a rock,” reasoned the first ant. “For it is strong and mighty. Alack, I cannot dig through its skin for it is impenetrable.” 

“Nay,” said the second. “This is no rock. We live within a forest. For I wandered the multitude of hairs and whiskers upon the crown of our host. The hairs must be trees.” 

“Both art wrong,” said the third.…

My sister and I sit cross-legged on the front porch, playing cards. I am losing. Not that this matters.

We are really into the game right now, slapping cards on the porch floor.

The sun is low. Random cars pass our neighborhood. The five o’clock train is singing in the faroff. A robin is building a nest in one of our hanging ferns, talking to herself while she works.

It’s been a long time since I’ve played cards. Not since the reign of Queen Elizabeth II. The irony is, I used to play cards all the time.

There for a while, my mother and I would play casino almost every night. Or rummy. After my father died, we were big card players. Sometimes, my mother and I would play for hours without saying more than a few words. And once every 10 or 12 hands, I might even win.

My sister has never played casino before. So I teach her. It takes a few seconds

for her to fully grasp the rules well enough to thoroughly kick my aspirations.

Casino is one of the better card games out there. It’s quick. It’s all about numbers. It’s a card game my dad taught me. I don’t know why that matters.

I look at my sister sitting across from me. She looks like my dad. In fact, she has all my father’s best attributes and she doesn’t even know it.

His long, lean frame, and fast metabolism—she can eat an entire pizza and you will still see the veins in her abs. Whereas all I have to do is look at a single slice of ham and suddenly I look like a church deacon.

She has his laugh. My old man had a unique laugh. I liked to watch him laugh. His head would go back. His teeth would show. It was a full-body…

So, here’s your life.

You’re born into a good family. You’re a Roman citizen, back in the fifth century Britain. You wear a tunic. You’re a nice-looking guy. At least your mom thinks so.

You’re 16. One day, you’re hanging out, shooting the bull with friends, when a horde of thugs comes through your village, setting fire to houses, pillaging, and doing unspeakable things to townswomen.

The bad guys kidnap you. They put you on a boat. You’re below deck, in chains, bleeding, and you're crying. You’re junior-in-high-school age, not old enough to shave, you’ve probably never even been kissed. And, boom, now you’re a slave.

These evil men take you to their country, which the Romans call “Hibernia.” Although the locals call it “Éire Land.” The place is cloudy, very green, and the locals are in serious need of a qualified dental care professional.

You are sold on the auction block, naked, for a low price. Your master makes you a shepherd.

For years, you are homeless.

You sleep with animals. You eat with animals. You are always cold. You cry yourself to sleep each night.

It is here that you find God.

Then, when you’re 22, as your sheep are grazing near the seaside, you see some sailors. They speak a weird language. They seem like good guys so you beg them to take you home. Turns out, they aren’t good guys. THEY make you THEIR slave.

Anyway, somehow you escape. Years later, you finally make it back home. So now it’s time to rest. Relax. Maybe start a family of your own. But you just can’t.

How do you lead a normal life now? You’re scarred, battered, beaten, abused; you just can’t just go home and cut the grass.

Instead, you become a priest. And once you’re a legit priest, where do you beg your bishop…