Authenticity

I got to go on vacation in July. A wonderful, road tripping, sun soaking, seat of the pants kind of vacation. My husband and I explored New Mexico and southern Colorado for a week, and for me it was a revisit to a place where I spent time many years ago. We visited new places I had not seen before, but also some old favorites, and it was hard not to make comparisons with how it "used to be."

One of those comparisons was El Santuario de Chimayo. The Santuario is a historic and deeply revered destination for those who seek healing. I remember a rustic, sleepy mission. A place where it was possible to pause in quiet contemplation.

It is hard to see that place in what it has become. Tourist stands flank the mission, operated by native residents of the Pueblo. Buses disgorge their road-weary travelers, guides narrating today's itinerary. Visitors to the site are offered a cartoonized map, pointing out the sites of interest - the Chapel, the Madonna Gardens, Our Lady of Sorrows Monument, the Prayer Portal. Booths sell rosary beads, offering convenient access to prayer and healing in case you have arrived unprepared.

As we left, hot and dusty, a vague dis-ease settling upon us, the fence lining the paved walk caught my eye. Here was the human element I had been seeking. Here was the authenticity I remembered, evidence of the hands which had offered their prayerful hopes. The fence was garnished with handmade crosses, fabricated from the simplest materials close at hand. Sticks, twine, ribbons, beads. The fence was crowded, crosses tucked into it's chain link gaps from end to end.

If I had a prayer to be said, this seemed like the place where I might be heard.