“What giants?" Asked Sancho Panza.
"The ones you can see over there," answered his master, "with the huge arms, some of which are very nearly two leagues long."
"Now look, your grace," said Sancho, "what you see over there aren't giants, but windmills, and what seems to be arms are just their sails, that go around in the wind and turn the millstone."
"Obviously," replied Don Quijote, "you don't know much about adventures.”
― Cervantes
On this trip to Spain, I’ve been enjoying re-reading Don Quixote. I’ve always been taken with this foolishly romantic knight. There is something so inspiring in his chivalry, even when he is mistaking windmills for giants. He sees the world, according to Cervantes, not “as it is, but how it should be.”
I wonder if I identify with his naïve idealism. How desperately I would like to see the world changed for the better! But too often it can feel like an errand of desperation. That the world is unfixable and refuses to change. Is anything making any difference?
Before I began the Camino, there were several giants blocking my field of vision. Seeing around them felt impossible. They would have to be battled. I came ready to ride into combat and attack them one by one.
But from the very beginning of this journey, it was clear that these giants weren’t giants at all. The enemy wasn’t anything “out there.” The true battle, as always, was within. And as I’ve walked these miles I’ve started to recognize their true form. Feelings of hurt and betrayal mask deeper insecurities that make me question my worth. Justifications and rationalizations mask my own doubts and uncertainties. How I wish I could battle some external giant instead of recognizing my own inner complicity in the matter. How often I am the one sabotaging myself.
I do this by telling myself my preferred version of the story. The one where I have been wronged. Where I’ve been misunderstood. I like to see myself as the victim. But also the one person who sees things as they really are.
But as I walk this dusty trail, I hear God speaking into these places of fear. Showing me that I can let them go. And I find myself slowly lowering my defenses. Maybe this isn’t a battle at all. Maybe I can stop self-protecting. Maybe I can see that the deeper reality, the way things should be, is really the way things are. The giants really are merely windmills that I can stop “tilting after.” And the invitation is to rest in the fact that this is the world that is ultimately, one day, to come. To rest in the promise that all things shall be made new.
So this morning, as I ducked into a musty chapel along the Camino, I lit a candle for my giants, or should I say, my windmills. A candle of blessing and grace and compassion. I’m lowering my lance and shield. Choosing instead to be disarmed. But not giving up on the way it should be. That I’m embracing with all my heart.