Pilgrimage to La Capilla de la Santa Cruz, Peña de Bernal

| Dedicated to my Aunt Mary Lou |

| Inside la Capilla de la Santa Cruz, photo by C. Enns |

I am writing this on Saturday morning, just after 5 a.m. The great Peña de Bernal is shrouded in darkness, mist, and cloud. Over the puebla the sliver of a new moon oriented like the hull of a ship rolls above the clouds before disappearing again into another dark trough. The distant music of the all-night wedding fiesta down the road continues, even now, at this morning hour.

Last night, I heard that my Aunt Mary Lou passed away.

Up on the Peña, small, faint, yellow lights flicker, coming and going, the headlamps, perhaps, of pilgrim climbers, or the lanterns of ancient animas—lost souls of purgatory climbing through the darkness to the tiny Capilla de la Santa Cruz to pray forgiveness and relief for a burdened world.

A pilgrimage requires an early orientation toward an eventual goal, but really, that’s just planning, it’s not the pilgrimage itself. The true journey begins with the great surrender to the here and now, a great surrender to the first step. Whatever comes, whether heat, road blocks, detours, steep hills, or cliffs, the pilgrim continues on, finding the next step. The very purpose of the pilgrimage, in my mind, is to experience viscerally the natural and intuitive reflection of the present moment; in this sense, all pilgrimages are Zen pilgrimages, regardless of religious persuasion. If one gets lost in the thought of the goal, in the dread of the distance, in the fear of hardships to come, the very purpose of the pilgrimage itself—what is here before you—is lost.

Yesterday, we made our own pilgrimage up the mountain …

In the early light, we orient ourselves north/northwest on the Calle Venustiano Carranza, packs on our backs, the large rose-colored granite monolith dominating the morning sky ahead of us. We take our first steps, the cobblestones beneath our feet. The occasional rooster crows. We say buen dia to the señora washing the steps of the miscelánea on the corner. 

We turn up a washed-out old road given over to foot traffic. This feels wild, solitary. To the left is an ancient, crumbling aqueduct left behind from the colonial period. We pass under one of its stone arches. Behind a chain link fence a rail-thin donkey gazes at us from a distance, then approaches to inquire. We stop, say hello to it and its lazy companion dog leashed to a cable. 

The rutted road climbs and leads to other roads. We walk past the old cinder block and stone walls of houses and onto a narrow cobblestone path that starts up the mountain proper. We’ve reached the beginning of the true climb. 

And up we climb, at first using steps created with mountain stone and mortar, at other times scrambling over loose rocks, using both hands and feet to get us up, the trail seeming to disappear. At the most perilous points, cables help keep us upright and moving.

We stop for water and rest, then continue, stop and continue. We cross an old concrete bridge and then head up a sheer section of stone, a seventy- or eighty-degree pitch, with just enough foot- and handholds to keep us leaning against the mountain.

Finally, extending our legs and hands to the next hold, and the next, we pull ourselves up over the crest of the little plateau jutting out from the sheer cliff halfway up the mountain. From here, the great panorama of the valley extends out to the horizon, Bernal and all its red and white rooftops below us, small villages glistening in the haze beyond.

| Capilla de la Santa Cruz, photo by C. Enns |

A short few steps to the base of the cliff is the tiny Capilla de la Santa Cruz. It is a tiny chapel made of the stone from the mountain, plastered smooth and painted a dusty rose color with darker rose trim. The green metal door swings wide, its hinges squeaking. There is room enough for one pilgrim to kneel and pray. Though I’m a Mennonite, when in such a place my liturgical and ceremonial tendencies kick in, and I become a Catholic of sorts. I make the sign of the cross and bow before entering, then kneel down on the soft pad. Here, in front of the statues of Santa Cruz, the clay icons of Jesus and Mary, and the wooden cross lashed together with twine, the only thing left to do is pray. Funny, but I hadn’t thought of what to say before now. Probably as it should be. 

Holy Spirit, be with my children and wife outside this door, with Mom and Dad back home, with my brother and sister and their growing families; be with everyone in the town below and the cities beyond; be with Aunt Mary Lou, may she find peace in the midst of this letting-go of life; be with her family, my cousins who are all with her in a tiny apartment, may they find the consolation they need; may all beings be happy, fulfilled, and content, healed and whole, may their needs be met, may they enjoy inner peace and ease of well-being, and may they be awakened, liberated, and free.

Amen. … 

I didn’t know then that in the coming evening my Aunt Mary Lou would pass away, surrounded by her children. Now, this morning, looking back with the gift of memory, I can dedicate yesterday’s pilgrimage to her. She had an open-hearted, open-minded love, acceptance, and inquisitiveness that meant and continues to mean a great deal to me. Her own life pilgrimage was not an easy one; it had its share of roadblocks and detours, unexpected walls, and cliffs, but in my estimation she managed to expand the chamber of her heart to make room for the people who needed an accepting, unqualified embrace. She knew how to love, how to express an authentic interest in others, how to care.

Our pilgrimage to the chapel on the cliffside was yesterday. This morning, here and now, in the darkness of a new moon, with the flickering yellow lights slowly progressing up the cliff in the distance, I am facing the mountain with fresh eyes.