I can’t write. I don’t know why.

Every time I sit down, I can’t do it. Namely, I keep asking myself “Why are you writing this?” Then I get up and go outside.

I’ve been writing professionally for upwards of a decade. And suddenly, I don’t know why I’m doing it. What’s wrong with me?

Since my wife and I finished walking the Camino de Santiago, life just feels different. I don’t mean “different” in a woo-woo, spooky way. I mean in a practical way.

Part of my mind is still hovering somewhere over the Iberian Peninsula, flying over orange groves, deserts, and Galician mountains.

Maybe I feel strange because you don’t spend 40 days on foot, beneath a hot Spanish sun, carrying your possessions on your back, and not find yourself a little overwhelmed when you walk into, say, Publix supermarket.

Our local grocery store has 1,008,327 different varieties of orange juice. We have pulp free, pulp intensive, 100% juice, 50% juice, and %100 juiceless orange juice. There is almost an entire aisle dedicated solely to peanut butter.

Maybe I’m disoriented because, as you walk the Camino, you are walking mostly in silence, through primitive villages, some with less than 50 residents. And it’s so quiet out there. Whereas, America is anything but silent.

When our plane touched down in Chicago, my wife and I scurried across O’Hare International Airport to catch our connecting flight.

The knowledge that we were in actually America hadn’t quite settled into my brain yet. I still FELT like we were in Spain. So when I found an airline employee, I asked for directions to our gate in Spanish.

The employee just looked at me with a blank face and replied: “Learn freaking English, sir.”

And I knew I was home.

Since then, nothing has seemed the same. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the yard. I find that I can’t sit indoors. Namely, because I don’t really know what to do with myself inside.

Heaven knows, it’s almost impossible to sit still long enough to write.

This is a big change for me. Last year, for example, I spent most of my year working on three separate book projects—sometimes writing at a computer for eight to 12 hours per day. There were some days I never saw the sun.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, I LOVE my job. I feel fortunate to have it. But is it natural to sit for eight hours?

So I cut the grass. I painted the shed. I built new steps for the shed. I planted some cast-iron plants, tea olive trees, and Tom Corley azaleas. I weeded the driveway. I picked up pine cones.

Now that I’m finished with all those chores, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I’ve been playing the fiddle a lot. My fiddle sort of became its own character out on the trail. Other pilgrims were constantly stopping and saying, “Hey! You’re the Fiddle Guy!”

That became my name. Fiddle Guy. Then, they’d ask me to play a tune. So I would. It didn’t matter where we were at the time—a bar, a crowded restaurant, a city street, a church—I would pull out the fiddle and play something.

And even though I am not a great fiddler—I’m the kind of fiddler who attracts wounded cats—people would clap and dance, and life became an instant party. It was though my old fiddle brought them so much happiness.

I think maybe that’s when it settled on me. That’s my reason. My reason for living. My reason for being.

My greatest desire in life is to make people feel better. Even if only for a short period. Even if only for five minutes. If I can make someone feel better, my life has been worth it.

Maybe that’s why I write.