It was quiet, with only the sound of the river. I have spent my life looking for miracles, so when Sharon and I were driving down the desert highway in New Mexico, with cell service long gone and our only entertainment the gallivanting tumbleweeds crossing the highway, we saw a sign for “Santuario de Chimayo–A Place for Miracles,” and we decided to stop.
We steered our rental car down a dusty road and parked in an empty dirt parking lot, not sure what awaited us. We pulled our headdresses out of the back seat of the car where we had gently placed them so they wouldn’t get crushed, and it seemed right that we would put them on and wear them to this place of miracles. (In my world, riotous feathers and flowers act as antennas and can pick up joyful messages zinging through the air.)
We walked the paths, pondering the stone archways framing the mountains, the statues of the divine feminine, the red clay church with the tilted ladder, all beautiful in their quirky simplicity. We wandered, not knowing where we were going exactly, just following the paths that felt right, the shapes that called to us, lighting candles…
Sharon disappeared under the shrine and called to me to come see “El Pocito,” or the “holy dirt.” To get to the “holy dirt,” we had to walk through the “El Milagro” room, or “place of miracles” a small chamber decorated in crutches and shoes, and covered in pictures of people, soldiers, children, elderly people… people who needed miracles. A colorful saint doll-like figure sat in a glass case with a cushion in front where people could kneel, reminding me of those Zoltan fortune tellers you see at carnivals.
Sharon ushered me into El Pocito, the room with the “magic dirt” believed to have healing powers. She said we should rub it on ourselves, anywhere we felt we needed healing. Out in the sunlight, I may not have enthusiastically embraced this idea of rubbing dirt on my body, but in this dark place underground, it seemed right, so I scooped some up and rubbed it on my heart, which is broken into so many pieces it needs all the help it can get. I was frantically trying to think of what other parts of me needed healing, oh the sudden pressure. The true answer would be all of me, but I couldn’t drop to the ground and roll, could I? No, no, let’s leave some holy dirt for those who come after us. So I added a dash onto my throat to heal my “voice” which is how I communicate my storytelling to the world, and my forehead to heal my “clarity,” or “intuition, which again is the basis of my storytelling.
I have found that when all the buildings I constructed for my life crumbled to the ground, I was left with one thing, the foundation for all those buildings–storytelling. For me that is not only the foundation but the treasure.
As we emerged from the cavern, covered in magic dirt, we looked at each other–did we feel any different? Not really, except dirtier. Sharon laughed–she has the kind of laugh that rings through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains like a double church bell, the kind of laugh that can work wonders, heal hearts, maybe even make miracles.
As we wandered back to the car, we came to know pieces of the story, of why this place is considered “holy.” According to folklore, centuries ago a man saw a bright light appear and walked to it, finding it coming from the dirt. When he dug towards the light with his hands, he found the “treasure,” in this case a glowing crucifix. Each time the crucifix was moved to another place, it mysteriously disappeared and re-appeared in Chimayo, so they built a shrine to it. Another legend states that the man was cultivating his fields during a fall harvest and had a vision that the dirt he was plowing possessed magical healing powers.
What is definitely true is that thousands of visitors from all over the world come to this weathered adobe church in the middle of the tumbleweeds, 30,000 on Good Friday alone. They come with longing for miracles, hope for healing, supernatural stories, ringing laughter and whispered wishes some call “prayers.” In my book, this alone gives this place magical powers. And maybe the true miracle is that even with all the loss, the searing pain, the aching heart, we even believe in miracles at all.
I know I do.
Postscript: Soon after we were having breakfast in Santa Fe, and Sharon and I both ended up crying and hugging as we talked about how the experience of making our film together healed us somehow… so maybe that dirt actually did have magical powers. I bet if it could talk it would have so many stories to tell. I want to hear them all.
