EL SANTUARIO DE CHIMAYO

Leaving gentle Senor Trujillo's weaving shop,
we drive along a dusty road,
passing huge red rose bushes planted to please Our Lady.
On past impossibly blue gates,
and souvenir huts,
we arrive at a small clearing and a gravel lot.

The holy church of Chimayo rises from solid ground.
Scattered pilgrims of every sort:
parents with small children
seeking relief from the sacred child of Atocha,
hippies out of time lightly step on holy ground,
which crunches nonetheless;
seekers eagerly enter the sanctuary.

Log ceiling beams set in adobe and whitewashed walls,
stations of the cross in ancient wooden frames,
each topped by a small crucifix.
The altar screen washed in colors subdued by nature and time,
Red, green, blue and gold.
Good and evil struggle from an upstairs window
while our Savior hangs on the cross in a proscenium stage.

Candles flicker in the faces of those who sit, look and pray.
Through the shortened doorway, a holy chapel.
Tiny shrines with large, crowded hope-filled prayers.
More old world than new.

Statues and dolls, small and large,
left behind for others to consider.
Jars filled with healing sand from a hole in the floor.
Crutches and bandages line the walls,
tributes to prayer, hope, faith and healing.

Leaving the chapel, squinting in the bright afternoon sun,
we linger a while, not ready yet to leave.
The wind of the Holy Spirit gently caresses our skin.
Children play with sticks in a nearby living stream.
Something is different here,
perhaps we're too old to understand,
unsure, we pay heed as our heart guides our feet.