Sacred Mud

This winter will mark the 11th year since my father passed away. I miss him very much. I often think about what we have not been able to share together, especially this year. Marrying the woman of my dreams, having my son Leo, and voting for the first black man to be elected president are 3 of the most incredible moments of my life. In honor of my father and his service as an air force cadet and graduate of the Academy 66', I would like to share one of my greatest moments of wonderment.
In the spring of 98' I decided to travel to the southwestern part of the states and spread my father's ashes in some of the places I knew he had been to and some that I knew he would like to have visited. The previous year, areas in New Mexico and Arizona had experienced many wildfires. The following winter had brought heavy rains, so there had been predictions of a wonderful wildflower bloom. My dad was an avid gardener and loved flowers of all kinds. I loaded my bike in my old Nissan pickup and headed out through Idaho, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada. It was an incredible trip with many memorable experiences. While I was in New Mexico I visited my friend Tina who lived in Santa Fe. She suggested that I visit a town called Taos. At the time, I was not very familiar with this town or the surrounding area. "You will have to decide to take the high or the low road," Tina said. Not realizing the significance of either, nor realizing the timing of my trip, I set out. Soon, I started to notice large numbers of people walking along side the road. Almost all these folks were dressed in traditional southwestern styled outfits and they were all clearly of Indian or of Hispanic decent. It was a beautiful morning and I had a feeling that some type of event was happening. After making the turn onto the high road the number of people walking became to great and I decided to get out of my truck. I asked where they were going and I found out that they were making a sacred pilgrimage to the small village of Chimayo'.. I walked with the people up a beautiful valley to find a long line of people waiting to enter the small church there in the town. Supposedly mud from the floor of this small chapel has healing powers. I did not wait in the line that day, but instead found a small stand that sold buttered corn and large dill pickles. I sat along the road and watched the people and the many low riders that lined the streets, in honor of Good Friday.
It was a wonderful day.
A few weeks later when I arrived back in Oregon a package was waiting for me. It was from an old friend who I had not spoken to for over a year. She was not even aware that my father had died. In the package was a simple note that described how she had felt the urge to send me a small satchel of mud from the church in Chimayo. She no longer lived in the southwest, having moved to the bay area. It was an amazing coincidence. For many years now I have passed on the mud to various people in need or suffering. It is gone now, but the memory of that day at Chimayo and that wonderful gift waiting for me on return, will always be strong.