Northern New Mexico’s Rio Grande Valley is known for many things: the art scenes in Santa Fe and Taos; the unique flavors of the local cuisine; and the stunning vistas of and from the Santa Fe National Forest. I agree these are all fabulous, but these are not what draws me back to the area again and again. For me it is the missions and their associated miracles: a wooden staircase crafted by hand with only wood and water, a glowing painting of Jesus, and soil with the power to heal.
My first visit was in the spring of 1999, on a cross country road trip who’s reason now eludes me. The three of us, Chewie the Wonder Dog, my faithful Brown Land Cruiser Wagon, and me had left Albuquerque earlier in the day on a pilgrimage for yarn, a hand grown, hand-spun, hand-dyed (using only local plants) wool available only at a small shop in Taos. (Don’t ask me how us knitters know these things, we just do.) Along the way we detoured east to visit the small chapel in Chimayo. Back then it was off the beaten path, a small brown state sign the only marker on the one-and-a-half-lane-wide road to alert you of it’s presence. We turned in, a tight turn since we almost missed it, and parked the Cruiser at the far end of the empty lot under the only tree.
It was quiet back then. Chewy and I were were able to explore the sights along the muddy and half-paved roads together. At the chapel ann usher offered to watch my girl; once inside I looked back to see her worried face peering at me through the doorway. Bright morning light beamed through the windows along the top of the room onto dark wood pews, aged white walls and the altar. Below the low fence, was Jesus, straining on the cross, rust red blood streaming from his hands and the barbs of his thorned crown. Below him was a gold cross, a large heart at it’s center, and to his right, placed carefully against the wall, was another cross, also life size, crafted from branches of a local tree, with the long leg shortened with wear. Across it, hand-written using a large black marker were a name, military unit, and two dates one year apart. A marker told the story: during the late 1960s it had been carried hundreds of miles on foot by a father, on pilgrimage to the chapel, requesting protection for his son serving in Viet Nam. The history reassured readers the son had made it home alive and intact.
To the left of the altar was an archway. Once through there was a small alcove on to my right and a long, low-ceilinged room to my left. I turned right, and kneeled at the small hole in the floor, my open ziplock next to me, and touched the earth before touching my now sandy fingers to my forehead. Then it was a scoop of soil in the baggie, for later. Once back on my feet I turned to the room behind me. Piles of crutches leaned against one wall, while photos and hand-written testimonials lining the other. I took my time as I made my way though, attention caught by some photos and reading several of the stories. Once outside I rounded the corner towards the front door. Chewie was still with the disinterested usher, gazing in to the chapel. She was so intent I was almost to her before she turned, saw me, and gave me a full-body wag.
One of the things that always surprised me about Connecticut was how many folks were aware of this far-away place. Foodie friends knew the local cuisine; word got out I had the soil, and colleagues would occasionally appear at my desk for a commission; engineers associated with high-altitude certification testing would mention side trips from Pagosa Springs. So I should have expected it when at last year’s Christmas Party the conversation veered to rural New Mexico.
It was one of our investigators, boasting of the best chiles he had ever tasted. The tale began in Albuquerque on the last night of a trip for a class or investigation. His appreciation for the local flavors had come up, and one of his hosts knew just the spot to indulge him. At the end of the day they piled in the car and begin driving north, the hour or so to Santa Fe, another half hour to Espanola, and then off on a side road, soon dark and winding. As the interval drew on and on my colleague became convinced he would never be seen or heard from again. Then, out of nowhere, appeared the ranchero, where, he made sure to emphasize, the chile sauce had been exquisite.
I spent the afternoon after the end of the retreat retracing his steps. My friend BR drove in, and together we made our way north. The town had some new polish: paved and curbed streets, mud paths replaced with wood boardwalks, and the gift shop now had a building all it’s own. A grotto had been built behind the chapel to house the many photos and requests received in recent years. Inside the chapel, the Vietnam cross had been removed and the crutches in the vestibule were arranged on posts along the walls. But the soil was still there, and I needed it, so I kneeled in the small room again.
As I made my way to the exit, my eye was caught by the interior wall. It was now covered with photos, with a six-foot stretch dedicated to wallet-sized official service member photos. They were mostly men, mostly brown, the Stars and Stripes behind them in official photos. And it struck me, each had been sent or placed by worried family. I saw suffering, the suffering of physical separation and the fear it might be permanent. I remembered how callously their suffering had been tossed aside in the zendo. And I could see the political, cultural, and theological stories, even among the best intentioned, that generated the need for their service. Still raw from the days before, my heart ached and my eyes began to mist.
“I’m hungry,” my friend rescued me. We made our way to the Rancho, and were seated at the edge of the garden. I had enchiladas, he had pork. The meal was divine.
On our way out, we stopped back in town for chile, some for me, some to send to friends back east. My eye was caught by a colorful building to one side of the Trading Post (okay, Gift Shop). It was the Santo Nino Chapel, built to honor a vision of baby Jesus reported to bring relief and solace to prisoners. I would later learn this was the saint the locals prayed to during their long march in Battan, and that survivors and families still made a pilgrimage of thanks to the chapel each Easter. But by this point the weekend had caught up with me and I was eager for a nap. Choosing to save this for another day, we were soon on the road to Santa Fe, where I would pack up and begin the next leg of my journey. And tires hummed on pavement I looked to the future, stops in Nevada, Florida, Portugal and France.