John and I traversed the blistered back roads of new Mexico and stopped for some Holy dirt in the small adobe church in Chimayo.

 

Many people had swarmed the small village to partake of the miraculous healing powers of the dirt. 

 

The church in Chimayo (which means “obsidian chief”) was erected upon a Tewa Indian site which, according to folklore, was a pool whose mud had curative powers. The pool dried to dampness when a volcano spewed smoke and ash. The nearby sacred hill was believed by the Tewa Indians to be an entrance to the underworld.

Legend has it that the hole with the dirt perpetually fills itself. John and I surmised that a priest probably sneaks in every night and refills the hole. When I arrived home I did some research and found that the priests are very open about the fact they replenish the small round hole with fresh blessed dirt nightly.

 

Nearby is a gift shop where visitors may purchase an array of holy water, rosary beads, and post cards. I constrained the urge to turn over the money changers’ tables and left the gift shop (and did not weep.)

Rounding the corner from the church are vendors selling bright red chili bunches (Holy Chimayo chilies, Batman!) of course.

 

Apparently everything is holy or sacred in this quaint village. I can recall my 5-year-old son Matthew exclaiming one day, “Mommy, you must be really sacred because you have so many holy things around the house.” To which I replied, “No object will make you holy, Matthew. Holiness comes from what’s in your heart.”

 

The last stop was the small cemetery. I noticed a hand written note attached to the fence surrounding the old cemetery, wherein I received the “holy” message for the day: Take your garbage with you when you go.

“Good advice,” I thought to myself.

all images copyright 2002 by Lisa Ghariani

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