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Disclaimer: overt mention of Catholicism.
February 21, 1997
I realize I've alluded to Chimayo in a couple of my journal entries over the past several months without elaboration. This is the anniversary (give or take a couple of days) of my visit there in 1995. Therefore, it's time to write the story.
Chimayo is a small town in the mountains of northern New Mexico on the high road from Santa Fe to Taos. It's famous for two things: Ortega Weaving and El Santuario. El Santuario is sometimes referred to as "the Lourdes of North America" because of the reputed healing powers of its sacred earth. Although El Santuario is a Catholic shrine, Native Americans attributed healing powers to the earth on that spot long before the church was built.
I was all set to try to write a travel article about El Santuario shortly after I returned home. Then suddenly it was in: an article in Travel & Leisure, a famous writer (Reynolds Price?) talking about his experiences there on two different NPR talk shows, even something in the local press. So I didn't bother.
This story is less about Chimayo as a travel destination than as something that went on inside me.
I'd visited northern New Mexico several times already and had wanted to go to Chimayo but was always overruled by my traveling companion(s). Now, on my own after the Natalie Goldberg writing and walking workshop, doing "driving practice" (New Mexico, 5 days, go), I made a beeline for it.
The first thing I saw was a green sign with Christ's face complete with crown of thorns, reading Holy Chiles of Chimayo. Another sign under an archway hung with chile ristras said Holy Chimayo Chile. Using the image of Christ to sell chiles - should I laugh or be offended?
The parking lot was practically empty, just a few cars of the faithful and signs everywhere warning you to lock up your valuables. The gift shop offered candles to light in the santuario, saint holy cards, prayer books, scapulars, rosaries, t-shirts and caps, and El Santuario coffee mugs. I bought a few holy cards and a pin of St. David the patron of poets and writers and headed over to the church.
I stood in the back of the church watching the priest in his green chasuble give the final blessing and sing the recessional. I found a box labeled For your Intentions. I wrote a prayer for Thomas and Steven to get through Steven's death in peace and reconciliation and for HIV not to take Thomas if it's God's will. The reredos, the cross, the candles all moved me.
I went into the back room. I rubbed the holy earth on my hand and arm (the scrivener's palsy hand) and said a prayer to Santo Niño Perdido, the holy lost child. I read the thank you's the faithful had left. The room next to the holy dirt room was filled with crutches, plastic statues of the blessed virgin and various saints, thanksgivings, pictures of the people who had been cured. It smelled of candle wax and glowed a dull gold.
When all you pray for is for God's will to be done, you get what you pray for.