to remember, to give thanks, to return
there is a bench
for two
beneath the cruceiro
at Cristovo de Corzón
Raining again. I unzipped the tent and looked out from under the tiny portico at the deep green all around me. Sheep like specks on the distant hills continued to graze, unperturbed in their fleece coats.
The bells began ringing. Two high, one low, then more, a tumble of bells, voices rolling, combining, rising, echoing. Smiling under my hood, I zipped the tent shut and dashed out into the weather.
Once inside the historic chapel, I quietly unzipped my jacket, shaking the water off in the vestibule quickly, as others were entering, too. We filed softly into the sanctuary.
I took off my worn hiking boots and sat down cross-legged on the floor, my rain jacket folded beside my boots. Before me, on the wide, stage-like altar, candles burned, dozens of red candles, held in a mesh of round-cornered black metal frames, like an imperfect honeycomb. I found a candle for me, and one for Christoph, as I did each day, the same two candles, not quite at the very top, somewhat to the left, in slightly off-kilter black shapes that leaned in toward each other, balanced well, but each in its own space. I bowed forward briefly, in thanks, as I did each day.
More people came to sit all around me, college students, newlyweds, parents of toddlers and teens, white-haired retirees holding hands. We squeezed in tight together, always making room for each other, sharing the space.
As the simple accompaniment began to play, the monks entered the sanctuary. Dressed in white robes, they came from all parts of the world, from all faiths, now one family of believers in a God who loved them. The monks entered into the sacred space in the center, between two wide masses of ordinary people, as we joined them: singing. Such beautiful voices, accents of homelands adding a new texture to old words, old tunes. I closed my eyes and listened, hearing Christoph’s deep voice among them; he had once been here, singing in this holy place.
The Omega and the Alpha. These had been carved, seemingly backwards, over the Pilgrim’s Door to the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. During that night of our tour, Christoph had leaned in close to explain to me that they didn’t know for sure why these signs had been placed this way. We decided we liked the obvious interpretation: “The end, and the beginning.”
The monks were singing in Spanish, my favorite. But by the next song, it would change, to German, or Polish, or English, or French. Often Latin. Here in Taizé, in France, the monks sang in every voice, as one voice. Four parts, blending melodies and harmonies, words and spirit, all seekers of the Sacred. I sat, among everyone I did not know, but loved, and sang my part, my voice rising in a counter-melody I was still learning. The song was a round, layers of meaning and voices woven over and through each other, spinning around, and around, and around, until you just lost yourself in the joy.
D.S. al Coda. In the language of music, this term means, “Return to the sign, and from there, continue to the new ending.”
I take the train
I take the train
nothing to lose
and all to gain
I take the train
I take the trainI walk along
beside the road
got what I need
no heavy load
I walk the road
I walk the roadby the train or my two feet
going where I go
jump aboard Life takes you there
knowing what I knowI take the train
I take the train
nothing to lose
and all to gain
I take the train
I take the trainI walk along
beside the road
got what I need
no heavy load
I walk the road
I walk the road— “I Take The Train”