“The Joy of Missing Out”

A cosmic, historical, mythological, and mineral explanation of a mystical experience

It was in a small pueblo on the Asturian coast called Nueva that I reached my half-century, under a new moon that was about to eclipse the sun on August 12th. I went for my last hike after 11 days on the Camino del Norte. Final stop Ribadasella.

The weather conditions weren’t exactly ideal. Having prepared for this moment a year in advance, I was starting to feel a wave of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). I realized I wasn’t going to actually see the physical eclipse, even though I was in the exact right place at the right time.

But the sky decided otherwise, scattering just enough clouds so that we could experience the event from within.

Lightheartedly, my friend Monika and I strolled toward the hilltop hermitage dedicated to La Virgen de la Guía (Our Virgin of Guidance) to gather with fellow eclipse hunters. As we approached the water, I suddenly recognized Salvador. He was a man I had met two days prior on the Camino who sold authentic Azabache stone.

Before this journey, I had never heard of the stone. But a lady I met wearing amber—just as I was—told me I would be fascinated by the region’s local jet, called Azabache. Much like amber is formed from the fossilized resin of prehistoric coniferous trees, jet is a mirror-black gemstone formed from fossilized wood. Asturian jet dates precisely to the Early Jurassic period, roughly 175 to 185 million years ago. This exact timeframe sits at a critical geological turning point: the dramatic breakup of the supercontinent Pangea.

Salvador sold "his babies," as he called them, right on the street. I immediately sensed he was one of the last true guardians selling the real stones. Operating on a small budget and having not yet researched its properties, I bought only a single, simple earring from him.

When I later read about the stone, its history astounded me. Medieval pilgrims walking the Camino del Norte (the Northern Coastal Route) would collect raw pieces of black jet found along the road, carrying them all the way to Santiago de Compostela to be carved by master guild craftsmen.

In those days, the Camino was highly dangerous, filled with bandits, harsh weather, and disease. In medieval folklore, jet was considered a magical, protective amulet worn to ward off illness, envy, and the "evil eye" (mal de ojo). It acted as a physical and spiritual shield for travelers facing weeks of uncertainty.

Having recently survived a near-fatal accident myself while walking along a high way, but miraculously blessed by Saint James (so it felt)  I understood deeply how precious such a shield truly was.

Excited by this revelation, I tried the next early morning to find Salvador again to buy more, but he had vanished, and I had to continue my pilgrimage. We eventually arrived at our final destination: Ribadesella, at a pension located on La Calle Oscura (The Dark Street).

I ducked into a local jewelry shop to ask if they carried Azabache. The shopkeeper said no, but mentioned a man had been selling them at the morning market. I felt a pang of disappointment, knowing it must have been Salvador, my savior :), and that I had missed him yet again.

But there he was, standing right along our path to the eclipse. In a joyful hurry, I bought a carved black rose and a raw piece of the Jurassic wood from which it was made.

This fateful encounter slowed our stroll to the hermitage. As Monika and I walked along the promenade of the Sella River, the daylight suddenly began to dim. We stopped dead in our tracks to experience the exact moment the light went out. The Asturian coast was one of the he entry point for the shadow in mainland Spain. Writers throughout history have described this specific, eerie darkness as "negro como azabache"—black as jet.

The sheer obscurity and the dark side of the moon held my full attention, though I didn't know what to do with the energy of it. My mum had sent me several messages warning me about the dangers for the eyes and my stepmother had previously warned me not to look at the eclipse for spiritual reasons, but I hadn't planned this entire trip just to look away. In the end, the overcast sky made the choice for me.

Standing in the sudden darkness, shivers ran across my body—not just from the dropping temperature, but from a profound current of energy passing through me. In that exact moment, I realized we were standing with an illuminated stone fountain directly at our backs: La Fuentina. Maybe to remind us that the light still existed even if we could not see it. As women we know that life forms within the womb.

Popularly nicknamed La Fuentina, this stone fountain is explicitly decorated with carvings of a Xana flanked by two bears, commemorating the old poems and water-fairy myths of the region. In Asturian folklore, a Xana is a female water spirit with long blonde hair who lives in the pure, crystalline depths of sacred springs. Legend says they spend their days guarding immense hidden treasures, combing their hair with combs made of pure gold or intricately carved Asturian jet.

In ancient pagan traditions, a solar eclipse represents the intense marriage of Sun (Fire) and Moon (Water). Because La Fuentina represents pure earth-water magic, and the local Azabache represents the blackness of the moon, visiting a sacred fountain during an eclipse was traditionally done to recharge protective amulets and gather "blessed" eclipse water.

Traditionally, the Xanas can only exit their underwater domains during specific cosmic thresholds—most famously at dawn on the Summer Solstice (San Juan). However, local folklore notes that a total solar eclipse acts as an unnatural, magical twilight. The moon plunges the daytime into darkness, tricking the Xanas into believing the gateway of San Juan has opened. They emerge at La Fuentina to untangle their hair with their famous jet and golden combs.

I later read in the local newspaper that to escape the cloudy coastline, thousands of tourists and "eclipse chasers" had fled up into the high Picos de Europa mountain range. Sanctuary sites like Covadonga—home to another famous Fuentina—became premier clear-sky gathering hubs.

It felt as though the two sacred fountains of Asturias were the absolute places to be during this cosmic event. We held the light in the obscure part of the eclipse. Salvador and his Azabache had acted as our anchors, ensuring we were at the right place, at the exact right time and protected against the “evil eye”.

Remarkably, August 12th also coincides with Lychnapsia, the ancient Egyptian Festival of the Lamps of Isis. During that sacred night, devotees would light thousands of oil lamps around temples and along rivers to guide the goddess Isis through the darkness as she searched for the scattered fragments of her husband, Osiris.

The parallels run deep. In Egyptian funerary texts, the Djed pillar, which phonetically sounds like jet is explicitly stated to be the backbone of Osiris. Standing the pillar upright during rituals (the "Raising of the Djed") symbolized Osiris restoring his spine, conquering decomposition, and rising from the dead. This mirrors the European tradition of jet acting as the "Pilgrim's Spine"—a protective backbone helping travellers survive perilous journeys to find spiritual rebirth at the Cathedral of Santiago.

In the book I am about to publish, I write extensively about a powerful experience I had with Isis’s Djed in the temple carrying her name.

It was only the next day, while reading about the legends associated with the Ribadasella fountain, that I truly understood the magic that had passed through us without our even realizing it.

Did my friend and I unknowingly hold the light in the darkness?

A seasoned pilgrim, called Andrew Michael, I met two days earlier had already reminded me of the only thing that truly matters in this world: to be light without needing to be seen or recognized, and to remain humble before the great mystery.

We are nothing, and at the same time, we are everything.

This is the sovereignty of nothingness—the core message of the only book I carried in my backpack, and that I barely read, and the wisdom I will carry with me forever.

When FOMO (fear of missing out) becomes JOMO (joy of missing out).

Pascaline, 15.08.2026, La Hulpe