The Road to Chimayó by Erica Lehrer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From her book Dancing with Ataxia—

 

The Road to Chimayó

by Erica Lehrer 

It’s not that I believe in miracles

but I set out one morning to visit a place

where miracles are believed to happen.

I imagine spooning the sacred dirt into a bag,

leaving my cane among the rows of broken

crutches, walkers and canes left by others

and strolling unaided into the daylight. 

The road to Chimayó drops into a slot

of the Rio Grande, snaking past orchards

and fruit stands waiting for their season.

I take in the views of the hard red earth

and snow-dusted exposures, rolling down

the windows to inhale cold air and meditate

as much as one can while still driving. 

The trip, although scenic, seems long – too long.

Somewhere, somehow, I have become part

of a lengthy funeral procession, the fifth car

behind the hearse.  I dare not pass for fear of bad karma,

so I turn the radio off and my headlights on.

I mouth a prayer for the deceased, thinking

“What a lovely place to die!” 

Finally, Chimayó, New Mexico’s answer to Lourdes!

You’ve been, no? Then you know how its thin air holds you

in a healing embrace, its land fed by the Sangre de Christo

-- a pilgrimage site of promise.  Inside the adobe sanctuary,

I pause before baby shoes, prom and graduation photos

of teens lost to drugs or fast cars, of faces of loved ones

in uniform and, everywhere, fervent, handwritten prayers. 

I stoop to gather my quota of brown dust,

scooping it into a small bag and fall to my knees.

Some people eat the dirt, believing in its curative powers;

Others rub it on afflicted parts. I think: I will do anything

-ANYTHING – to have my ease of movement restored.

I watch others come and go, lost in prayer.  The sacred dirt

seems to replenish itself from below the sanctuary floor. 

Then I do an uncharacteristic thing: I cry.  No one notices –

except a man with weathered skin and kind brown eyes.

When, moments later, I am unable to get to my feet,

he steps forward and offers me his arm, which I take.

As my hand closes over his wrist, I realize

that his arm is plastic.  We walk together

into the blinding sunlight of the sanctuary’s garden.