pilgrimage, n.

A journey to a sacred place or shrine

A long journey or search, especially one of exalted purpose or moral significance

To understand the significance of my recent trip to Santa Fe with Mother and Jane, you have to know that the last time we three traveled together, just us girls, was back in 1989.

I was making a 3-day business trip to Tucson (!) and had decided that I would tack on a 10-day vacation, going up to the Grand Canyon and wherever else I felt inclined. I mentioned it to Mother and Jane, and the next thing I knew, my private, meandering exploration of the Southwest had become a fully orchestrated tour with my sister in charge. We had a fabulous trip: Sedona, the Grand Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, Mesa Verde, Taos, Chimayó, and Santa Fe. "The three girls" got along wonderfully, enjoyed the amazing Southwest, and did some great shopping. (I bought my first southwest weavings and my first pottery.)

Shopping, 1989

Twenty years later ... "The three girls" got along wonderfully, enjoyed the amazing Southwest, and did some great shopping.

I had originally suggested that we go to Santa Fe because I knew my mom wanted to, and I knew that it was a short enough flight that she'd be able to handle it. She added in going to Española, Taos, and Bandelier because she loves those places -- she and I had been to them in 2007 with the boys, and she wanted to share them with Jane.

The first two days were spent in Santa Fe, one day at the museums and one day shopping. Mother pushed herself to the limit both days: She saw EVERYTHING. She did EVERYTHING. We had great margaritas and wonderful food.

The third day was spent at Bandelier and Taos. Mother was in pain, but she insisted we go to Bandelier, and that Jane and I make the 2-hour hike necessary to tour the ruins. It was really important to her that we do this, so we did. Jane had never been to Bandelier, but this was my third visit, and she knew how significant the place is to me. She deeply appreciated my sharing it with her.

Climbing up to Alcove House, 2009

I first went to Bandelier with Nick in 1994; we'd been married less than 2 years, and we were transfigured by the beauty and the holiness of the place. Then I went with Mother and the boys in 2007; it was hard to sit with the boys in Alcove House, to remember having sat there with Nick, wishing he were there to show it to the boys. I got terribly choked up walking the trail to Alcove House ... remembering Nick, remembering walking it with Mother. My mouth was silent, but my brain was wailing: I came here with Nick, and he's dead. I came here with Mother, and she's dying. Now I'm here with Jane ... Will she be alive the next time I come? Will I be able to bear coming again?

The view from Alcove House, 1994

I tried to say something to Jane about my memories and how it hurt, but she didn't want to hear it. The pain Mother was in that day had made her coming death more imminent than either of us wanted to contemplate, and for Jane -- with her particular history of having that beast in her own belly -- it was just too much to think about. Nonetheless, the hike was blessed and peaceful, and Jane and I did savor the beauty and the holiness of the place, and that was what mattered.

Mother was better by the end of the day, and she had a good night's sleep. But she woke up on the last day with a sore throat and that ooghy feeling of getting sick. She wanted to go to Chimayó anyway, both to see the sanctuary and for one last shopping spree at Ortega's.

Shopping, 2009

In 1989, we went to Chimayó at the recommendation of one my colleagues; we knew nothing about the place and had no idea what to expect. There is a small church in the town that has become "an American Lourdes," with mystical experiences and healings. When we visited in 1989, we were the only people in the sanctuary: It was a clean, beautiful place.

Chimayó, 1989

Chimayó, 2009

When Nick and I visited in 1994, the grounds were littered with debris left by visitors. When Mother and I went in 2007, we didn't even stop the car: The area in front of the church had become a street bazaar, filled with tourists and vendors of tacky plastic rosaries --- it was awful. I didn't even want to drive by it last week, but I did because Mother wanted to see it again.

The plaza had been transformed. There were discreet shops (no doubt selling the same ticky-tacky rosaries) and pleasant seating areas. A prayer service was underway when we arrived; I went in, but Mother and Jane did not -- Jane later said she was overwhelmed by how strong and holy the place was. I sat for a few moments, walked to the altar, made a metany, and ducked through the low doorway leading to the small sandy hole in the ground that is said to be a font of grace. And found grace.

Chimayó sanctuary, 1989

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful: One more delicious meal in Santa Fe, arrival at the Albuquerque airport with time to spare, an awful horrible flight that felt much longer than 55 minutes, and great relief to be home.

I know there is so much more I could say about this trip --- so much more happened during the trip. But so much of what transpired among us three was outside words, in that place of sacrament and mystery, where words fail love but love does not fail.

The end of the trip, 1989

The end of the trip, 1994

The end of the trip, 2009