I had some difficulties with dictation last week! Yes, I experienced difficulties with two aspects: poetry and Spanish words. See what happened.

Difficulties with Dictating Poetry

The second piece I found while rummaging around in files in my bookcase was a poem I wrote April 20, 1991 after driving from Raton, New Mexico to Chimayo, New Mexico on Good Friday. Finding this gem thrilled me, but again I didn’t want to type it up—these old arthritic fingers of mine groaned! So, I continued my experiment with dictating.

Because of the breaks in the lines, I had to deal with that. I tried saying, “Return,” but it just typed the word, so I had to stop reading the poem and press, “Return” for each line. I thought I could give the command and it would work. I need to research that!

Difficulties with Spanish

When I read the Spanish words, Microsoft Word’s dictionary didn’t recognize the word. So, for the word “sanctuario”, it put in “saint.” I had to retype all the other Spanish words because it did the best it could do! In reality, there weren’t that many.

So enjoy my found treasure that I dictated!

A Modern-Day Pilgrimage to Chimayo

April 20, 1991

A modern-day pilgrimage to a 
Very holy New Mexico spot for Good Friday–
El Sancturio de Chimayo!

I drove a car; others did too!
I worried I’d be the only one not walking.
I drove 180 miles – anticipating, wondering
About how absurd this waste of a day was, 
yet compelled to go.

Traditional pilgrims – walking miles
Sore feet and backs,
Walking sticks!
Sweat, blisters and dedication.

I studied the faces as I drove by;
Later, as I stood in line with these dedicated souls.
Old wrinkled faces who had done this many times before,
The young being introduced to a lifelong tradition,
Families – sharing a meaningful experience, 
an event mixed with the air of reverence and the joy of a picnic, 
mostly Hispanics, solemn.

Cowboys, hats, horses – expectant,
Shorts, backpacks – water bottles,
Anglos—capturing a borrowed tradition.
Dogs on leashes. An expectant atmosphere.
National Guard men carrying our two flags –
Blowing in the cool breeze,
United States – red, white, and blue
New Mexico – red and gold
waving softly.

I first saw pilgrims
At the east edge of Santa Fe –
A sprinkle. 
Miles from Chimayo.
A few deserted vehicles parked 
on the roadside.
The farther west, I drove the more they were.
Steadily the number increased
The closer we got to Chimayo.

Clouds hung low, threatening snow on this spring day.

We arrived.

Although I was alone in my car
With Windy, my ten-pound black poodle,
I felt a part – a piece of
Something so holy and special –
A part of a deep, reverent belief 
in a beautiful celebration.

Finding a spot, I parked, pulling off of the main road.
I followed the hordes of people.
I followed the sounds.
A priest saying the words of the day on a PA
System that could be heard from a distance.
I dropped down the hillside on a warn path
Into the sleepy New Mexican village, and

El Sanctuario De Chimayo.

Thousands of people milled around – some in line,
Waiting to enter, eating spicy burritos,
Some had accomplished their task early
 and enjoyed the leisure time afterward.

Large, wet snowflakes, drifted down lazily,
	A New Mexico mountain gift.

I stood in line – silent, hopeful, drinking it all in,
Anticipating the event I had
Driven three hours for, yet wondering.
The Spanish language caught my ear – 
The rhythmic voicing of words, 
So beautiful!

First, we passed through an old wooden gate, 
Worn and sacred with the hands that came seeking,
Old, dilapidated and marked
With weather and time. 
No rush, no hurry, no worry!

I touched it. 
I touched life and pain and times before me. 
Other hands had touched it.
Thousands of hurting, hopeful people ready for the blessings
This place had.

Step-by-step, we meandered our way 
into the courtyard which is a cemetery. 
The buried people here in this place, special and honored. 
Trees shaded this place – peaceful and serene.

We neared the door to the sanctuary, 
Closer and closer,
		Massive wooden doors guarding this mountain treasure.

Now I entered. 
The dirt floor inside the door slanted downward.
A charged energy – anticipation – filled the air –
Solemnity of the moment.
No voices, a holy silence.
Incense, chili, burning cedar – luscious smells mixed 
with our anticipation.
People expectant of something –
A miracle.

Reredos lined the walls of the church.
Faded, colorful pictures – 
Meaning
Sacred stories told.

Shoulder to shoulder, two lines threaded their way toward the altar.
People sat in the pews  
praying, 
absorbing the spirit of the place.

As we approached the altar, first, something appeared
As diamonds laying there, 
Sparkling and shine.
Then I realized – bags of dirt,
Holy dirt
Healing dirt
Why I came!

Finally, the altar rail—
I’m there!

As I touched the bag that is mine, 
I felt it, the power.
On the altar, a bultos stood, El Señor Santiago,
riding his horse, sacred.

We slowly threaded our way
Into a small side room.
0h, be careful—low doorway.
Then another small room to the side.

The source of this holy soil,
The hole in the ground.
I knelt down and touched it,
Prayed with it in my hands, 
Rubbed it in my fingers,
Wondering what I could do 
to commemorate this moment – 
Pray, sing, dance, or scream for joy?
No, out of the place—not appropriate.

Upon leaving, I passed through another room, 
Lined ceiling to floor with evidence – 
Thankful letters, abandoned crutches and braces!
So many pieces of
Evidence of healings – 
Miracles!

I left the church.
Outside, I walked around the grounds,
Shaded with tall cottonwood trees,
Almost in a daze. 

Light puffy clouds still filled the sky.
I felt so peaceful, 
Connected 
Grounded to the Earth.
My hands still dirty and moist.
Alone, no one knew my name – yet a part of something
Larger than me!

I wanted to stay! 
To drink in the peaceful liqueur of the moment
To watch more and soak it all in,
But the snow returned.

Reluctantly, I left – to go home.
Windy slept peacefully in the passenger seat
	But happy for my return.

The mystery of this age-old tradition filled me 
My healing came with a connection with
Like-minded people
A sacred place
And my God!

A day taken from my busy schedule.
A step back in time
A day spent alone— yet a part,
Reflecting –
Listening from my heart –
And fulfilling a dream –

Good Friday at
The Sanctuario de Chimayo.

Ash Wednesday is this Wednesday, February 14. Sharing this poem now is timely as we face the forty days of Lent. Hopefully it inspires you to do something memorable this year to commemorate this special time of the year.

Finally, have you tried dictation on your computer this week? Hopefully, my experiment last week spurred you on. Let me know if you did!

In April 2015, Lin and I visited El Santuario de Chimayo, and once again, I experienced the sacred atmosphere of this holy treasure of New Mexico.

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Enjoy my recent interview on the podcast, The Writing Table

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