A Rainbow of Gladiolas
I woke to the sound of church bells ringing, deep and sonorous; the toll resonated in my bones. I dressed quietly, careful not to wake my tousled gray-haired lover, sleeping peacefully on his back through the ringing bells. A sheet thrown off in the heat of the night lay in a rumpled heap on the floor. I tiptoed around it and slipped through the door and into the street.
The village yawned and began to stretch itself awake. In the distance a rooster crowed and overhead sea gulls sang, "Buenos dias," to each other and to the fishermen in the bay below. A door slammed. A baby cried in an upstairs apartment. The pungent smell of tortillas sizzling in hot oil competed with the fresh scent of sea air, and filled my senses with something sweet, musty, salty.
I padded silently down the nearly empty streets ignoring the rumble in my stomach. I would meet the gray-haired man later, at our favorite small café—La Sirena Gorda—such an endearing name for a fat mermaid. I smiled and nodded to the baritone greeting of the large man selling newspapers on the corner: "Buenos dias, senora." I love the easy way Spanish rolls off the tongue with kind words, tender, like warm, brown arms reaching out to offer a gentle hug.
Morning's sun warmed my face as I strolled toward the small church I spotted a few days ago. At the corner two handsome young men with straight black hair and dark brown eyes sat smoking, hunched over morning's coffee. "Buenos dias, senora," they greeted me politely.
"Buenos dias," I replied, nodding toward the young men, and then smiled as the odor of what they were smoking wafted by on a breeze, reminding me of younger days and other handsome men.
New to this village, I had no firm idea what time Mass would be held, but assumed, as in other cities and villages visited, it was likely any hour, on the hour, until noon.
I arrived at the corner of Jose Manuel and Hidalgo streets, at a wooden structure painted white with a small cupola and a cross on top. The carved, wooden door opened easily when I tried the latch. I slipped through and into the welcome shade. With no priest or parishioners inside, the church echoed empty.
Out of a childhood habit, I dipped two fingers into the small ceramic font filled with tepid water, magically made holy by a priest's blessing. I made the sign of the cross; then wondered why.
Old habits die hard.
I tiptoed down the center aisle. My footsteps echoed in the stillness, the hollow sound resonating as deeply as the bells that had called me out of morning's sleep. I recalled a little girl who loved to slip into an empty church, and sit listening to the silence, especially when the hurtful sounds of home grew loud, and the walls shook with anger.
In the small chapel, I was surrounded by Saints dressed in brighter colors than remembered from childhood days. One, a bearded man in a bright red robe, reached up in a beseeching gesture toward the ceiling. Another wearing turquoise bowed in prayer. I couldn't remember any of their names—this rainbow of brightly colored Saints lining both sides of the church—but easily recognized The Virgin Mary draped in vivid blue, her feet heaped with faded flowers, their brown-tinged edges curled from yesterday's heat.
I stopped at the third row of wooden pews, genuflected, and slipped into the pew and waited. For what? I wasn't sure. I never go to Mass at home. Only in Mexico do I feel compelled, drawn, with equal pull, by both the ornate cathedrals of the cities and the small, simple village chapels.
Do I come, I wondered, to steep in the spirit of a humble people as they celebrate Mass with such conviction of deep truth? Maybe I come seeking my own truth, my own personal version of what every conscious cell in my body already knows, but my mind has forgotten. Maybe I come hoping for something tangible to grab hold of, something to cleave to until the slippery mystic mystery diffuses into the half-filled center of my chest. I don't know why I come, but I do know that I feel a Presence in this little chapel.
The door behind opened. I heard someone come in, pause briefly at the font by the door—probably dipping fingers in the magic water and making the sign of the cross—then rustling sounds, like someone kneeling down on the floor.
An old woman's voice began to pray in a haunting tone—soft, but powerful like a harp's vibrations reaching into painful places I didn't even know I had. "Dios Mio. Dios Mio," the old woman sobbed, her prayers continuing, a long, tortured lament.
I had never heard such a sad sound.
Then came shuffling noises from the back of the chapel as someone crawled on their knees to the first Saint, the bearded one dressed in red, and into my view.
She was an old woman with brown, weather-beaten skin, wearing a shapeless cotton dress, pale yellow with small faded-blue flowers, as though it had been washed often and worn for many years. Her hair was tightly woven into two long gray braids that fell on each side of a hump that rose like an unwanted burden in the middle of her back. Her wrinkled features embodied profound suffering. Tears rolled like rivulets down the deep creases of her checks.
The old woman plucked a gladiola from the bundle of flowers she held in her arms. She laid the flower at the feet of the bearded Saint and continued, on her knees, to the next statue—the praying man in turquoise. Weeping, she bent over, a slow arthritic effort, and kissed his cold plaster feet, then laid a yellow flower on the floor beside the statue and crawled on. Each measured, agonizing movement chafed at my center. In empathy, I felt vulnerable, exposed and raw.
The old woman continued to crawl forward, stopping at every statue, beseeching each with poignant pleas. Then, leaving a gladiola behind, she dragged on to the next statue.
She was oblivious to me sitting in the pew, a captive audience riveted by an old Mexican woman praying painful arias as she heaped brightly colored gladiolas at the feet of Saints. The sad lament continued. Tears ran down her leathered face and fell on the remaining flowers clutched to her breast.
She crawled humbly to The Virgin Mary at the front of the church. The statue, dressed in vivid blue, gazed down with a Mona Lisa smile on the old woman, as if listening to her heartfelt supplication.
"Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios," she began softly, one mother beseeching another, desperately, the words rasping a wretched crescendo as, one by one, she lay the remaining gladiolas, a rainbow of color, at Mary's feet.
I felt a spasm in my chest and realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to exhale, but the vise continued to squeeze.
Leaving Mary's side, the old woman crawled to the baptism font in slow motion, wincing with every movement. She stood up slowly, gasping as she pulled herself up by the wooden edge of the font's base. Her hands now empty; she plunged them both into the font, cupped water in her palms, and ceremoniously doused her head with water three times, wetting the crown of her long gray braided hair, as she exalted, "El Padre, el Hijo y el Espiritu Santo."
I felt my chest squeeze even tighter. The gentle old woman's prayers had touched an empathic chord, but at the same time, I felt the visceral prick of envy. The old woman was crawling through the flames, bravely sticking her head inside the lion's mouth. I envied such complete trust in bright-colored statues and, larger still, unconditional faith in things unseen. I held my own ideology in tight, logical control and had discarded my faith, along with childhood innocence, a long time ago.
But there is something endearing, and completely sensible, in one mother asking for another mother's help. I considered that maybe not everything real could be seen, only felt, like a vise that squeezes your heart until it breaks. I heard my own voice, a childlike whisper, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, please hear her prayer."
The old woman had prostrated herself on the altar beneath a gilded picture of a brown-skinned Christ, heart open for display on the outside of His white robe. She keened a heartfelt lamentation until, finally, catharsis complete; her prayers became soft sighs of acceptance.
Then she slowly rose and crossed herself. "El Padre, el Hijo y el Espiritu Santo." She turned and shuffled back down the center aisle. Her face expressed the serene exhaustion of someone who has weathered a long stormy night, but now sees the sky turn a hundred shades of wonder as the day breaks.
Her footsteps echoed softly. She stopped at the door, dipped her fingers into the holy water and crossed herself, then opened the heavy carved wooden door and walked out into the bright sunlight.
I sat in the pew replaying the drama inside my head. I saw the old woman on her knees offering flowers to The Virgin and heard her haunting voice beg. But, for what? I spoke only a little Spanish. I sighed. The language, like the little chapels, called to me. I knew I must learn more. I hadn't understood most of the old woman's words; but the essence, rich with deep meaning, had penetrated my soul in a way that no lexicon, in any language, could describe.
The bells began to toll, grand and dolorous, announcing Mass to the villagers. I would stay. I would sit in the pew and bask in a humble people's spirit. In the little chapel, I felt at peace and didn't need to understand why.
Maybe I am searching for something tangible to hold on to, or hoping that the elusive Mystery will pour into my soul. Or maybe it is simply that, in another life, I was an old Mexican woman, with long gray braids, carrying a rainbow of gladiolas in my arms.
Copyright 2006 by Nancy Harless
Nancy writes:
