a boat for Santa Barbara
this final measure
only the penitent shall pass…
“I took that pan outside, because something old on the bottom started to burn as I made my toast,” I confessed to Anna, the hospitalera in Muxia. “If you have something I can use, I will scrub it clean.” Anna had just entered the main kitchen/gathering room and noticed the front door propped open to alleviate the smoky smell.
“You would make a good hospitalera,” she smiled warmly at me. “Do you want the job?”
“Yes! But, not now,” I pointed a finger toward the ceiling, the rest of my hand palm forward in my hold-on-just-a-second mudra. “I have to finish my Camino first.”
I brought my toast and instant coffee to the table by the large windows as Anna snuggled back into her blanket on the couch, where she had fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning. Her laptop was still open on the coffee table. We were not much beyond the wee hours now, the sun only hinting that it might rise.
Anna was a writer, too. We had encouraged each other to just take the next step, write what is next to be written. The Camino is made by walking. Now, comfortable in our comraderie, she asked my plans for the day.
“I have a gift, for La Virxen de la Barca. I need to take it to her.”
“Ah yes, will you go to the church, out on the rocks? Have you been there yet?”
“I found it yesterday,” I replied, my search for Christoph passing across my mind. “I have the Mass schedule, too.”
“I’m telling you, you should be a hospitalera,” Anna teased, rolling her eyes. “Ah, but – ” she leaned forward, “have you climbed the mountain?”
“Mountain?”
“The steep hill before the church, before you reach the sea. That is our mountain. There is a path to the top. I think you will like it. You should climb the mountain.”
So, gathering my notebook and pens, a water bottle and the Camino stone I had carried across Spain, I filled a small bag, hitched it onto my shoulder, and set off down the road in search of a mountain. Immediately before me in this tiny fishing village rose a peaked hill I must have circled, distracted, on my first trek out to the church. Here it stood, the smallest mountain I had ever seen.
The path began at steep stone steps leading up to a bell tower. The stairway split, rising on either side past the bells, ending as the stones entered the very mountain itself. Climbing the steps was like ascending a ladder, using my hands and feet, leaning into the hillside so as not to pitch over backwards. Next I scrambled a sandy, gravelly path, ridiculously steep and slippery, through thorny bushes that ripped at my legs and caught my boots again and again, so narrow and twisting was the way. I have hiked the Rocky Mountains and across the whole of Spain to die falling down a hill, I chided myself, and renewed my focus.
Just as I lost track of where the path turned next, I came over a rise and found myself at the top of the rocky mound, overlooking the endless sea. There, rising from the rock itself, stood a small, simple stone cross. It was surrounded by people’s burdens and prayers left in its care. I turned slowly, looking all around me. The morning was just reaching the boats in the harbor. Seagulls flew silently, riding the air currents circling the mountain. They did not need to call to me. I was here.
I reached into my bag. From the billions of rocks I walked over on the Camino, this one alone had caught my eye. This stone had fit snugly into the palm of my hand, had ridden in my pack with the water that sustained me every day. It had witnessed the ceremony at the top of the Hospitales Route on the Primitivo, where I threw its miserable twin as far away from me as that long-ago lonely deserted island was from this quiet, peaceful point of contemplation. Smoothed naturally by wind and water, it was heart-shaped, like a real heart, a natural heart. And it was red, the color of our blood, pumping in the good fight to live out our lives true to ourselves. The color of Santa Barbara’s dress, and of her empty tower.
I had planned to leave it at La Virxen’s chapel, or give it back to her by way of the sea. But this was the shrine I had been seeking. Alone in the new morning, I set my heart stone among the gifts of others. Thank you for teaching me how to sail my ship of stone. For the song. For finding my own heart.
Below me, the bells began to ring. I just shook my head, at myself, so hard to bless that Muxia had to pull out all the stops to break through to me; but there was no saving me from the tears that came in waves, matching each soaring intonation.
For an hour or so, I sat teary among the boulders high on the hill, sniffing and writing whenever my eyes were clear enough. The views of Muxia, and of the sea, were beautiful from that height.
this final measure
only the penitent shall pass
hands on steps
worn by prayers
bells ring our plea
two high are struck
one low is rung
two high
one low
as thorns will scratch and claw
so sand will slip your pilgrimage
but then
you rise
an echo
to stand on rock
before the sea
and gently set
like the sun
your sacred heart
upon the lichen
soft and growing
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As I came over the hill, I was once again struck by lightning. You’d think I’d see it coming by now.
Down the back side of the mountain, a path led toward the church to La Virxen. And between the mountain and the sea, between the cross and the cathedral, stood a double monolith, two massive, rectangular stones standing on end, like a Galician Stonehenge. But instead of capstones and a ring of similar structures, it was only the two stones – divided by a zigzagging cut. A bolt of lightning. Through the lightning space, I could see the ocean, rolling away to the horizon.
I didn’t fall to my knees. I didn’t need to lean against a rock for support; my legs did not weaken. Instead, I laughed like I was cheering, a long, loud exultation, throwing my hands in the air in hysterical joy. I jogged down the path in my hiking boots and walked confidently up to the enormous stones, nearly as huge as windmills. I put my hands on them, one on either stone, and felt their cool might. Then I hugged them, each one, pressing my tear-stained cheeks against their rocky faces.
I had no idea, but the Santuario de La Virxen de la Barca had been struck by lightning, on the morning of Christmas Day, a few years before I arrived. The Baroque altar, statuary, all the Catholic symbolism and gilding and ornamentation had burned. Only the stone shell of the church had survived. Only the stone walls, and the famous rocking stones attributed to her boat, perched as if landed on the stony coast – only her ship of stone survived. If you believed in that sort of myth.
The monolithic sculpture did not commemorate the lightning strike fire. It was designed as a memorial to an oil spill that happened off the coast many years before that. But the Camino provides; and as I touched the huge stones, I felt a sense of confirmation. Like the stone Roman mile marker I had passed, it felt like this was part of a larger map, helping me find my way.
Between the twin strengths of seeing and listening, writing and singing, word and tune, I would find the moments I sought. But I had to follow the paths of pilgrims, climb holy hills, search out the many meanings, layers of belief building again and again on the same solid rock. Because ultimately, the Sacred shows itself, if you seek it.
What is sacred is up to you. Give you a hint: it’s often heart-shaped.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The evening Mass was in Spanish, of course. I loved going to Mass in Spanish. Under a new roof,
I looked around at the cleaned stone walls of the santuario. At the front of the church where the ornate altar had once filled the wall, a printed image of what once was, like a massive wallpapering, covered a wooden facade. I imagined what it would look like uncovered, the power of sitting among the blackened walls where lightning had struck, setting fire to what we think will protect us from the world, and all our images.
This was my kind of church, burned but resilient, defiantly standing on just a spit of land, a wind-swept coast of boulder-strewn, wave-pounded rock and nothing more. The Costa da Morte, named for all the shipwrecks off its rugged shores. As the priest prayed, I listened to the crashing of the sea. La Mar. She who carried the ship of stone safely to its destination, bringing the sacred bones home. The Great Mother of us all. My journey had never been to Santiago.
As the service ended, I gave a euro to La Virxen de la Barca’s donativo for a candle, to light my way and send my prayer that she will continue to inspire me and guide me as I step forward into my new life. My life. Every poet needs a muse.
all the fury
of the Atlantic
cannot crush
this rock of me