9. church

It’s 4:37 pm on Christmas Eve. I’m late to write today because we spent most of the day at church. Old school church, that is. Like, ancient school church. 

One of my sacred praying places here in Portugal is a grove of ancient oaks nestled next to a small stream in a fertile valley near our home. The trail that circumnavigates the area is called o trilho do Pedro e Inês. 

Theirs is the quintessential forbidden love story of Portugal: it's a saga of passion, betrayal, and love beyond death, that unfolds between Prince Pedro and Inês de Castro, lady-in-waiting to his wife Constance. Although he was married, the Infante (Prince) would have secret romantic meetings with Inês in the gardens of Quinta das Lágrimas. Long story short, after his wife died in 1345, Pedro and Inês lived as a married couple, a decision which angered King Afonso IV, his father, the court and the people (allegedly). Despite Pedro and Ines living together and having 3 children, the King ordered the murder of Inês in January 1355. Deranged by pain, the Prince led an uprising against the King and when he took the crown in 1357, ordered the arrest and execution of Inês’ murderers by ripping their hearts out. This action earned him the title of “the Cruel”. Later, after swearing that he had secretly married Inês de Castro, King Peter demanded that she be recognized as Queen of Portugal. In April 1360, he ordered the body of Inês to be moved from Coimbra to the Royal Monastery of Alcobaça, where two magnificent tombs were built so that he could rest next to his eternal lover forever. Thus, the most overwhelming Portuguese love story would be immortalized in stone.

It’s said that the trails of this Paço (land holding of the royal family) were places they would meet during their clandestine love affair. The trails are still loosely marked by old stones, and the area is peppered with ruins. Amongst them, eucalyptus trees dance above giant succulents, nopales and the occasional wild rose. The feeling of the area is a mixture of fertile abundance, wild beauty, and old secrets. Over the past two years, I’ve made regular pilgrimages to sit with these old oaks - one of whom is the grandmother. She stands with deep steady presence, wide outstretched open arms. Her body is an entire ecosystem, full of moss and ferns, making a soft place to snuggle in. 

Come on in, granddaughter, young child

come on in and sit in my lap awhile.

Unfurl your limbs, let your body meet mine, 

rest your bones here, just rest - 

your heart and your mind.

Look how the sunlight dances with me, 

dappling and sparkling warm light through my leaves. 

Listen closely, my love, and you’ll hear the rocks speak; 

listen closer and you’ll hear a voice in the breeze. 

Lay your weight upon me, child, let’s stay here like this, 

there’s nothing to do now, there’s nothing you’ll miss. 

Slow down and tune into my pace - deep time - 

and remember I’m your kin - and you are mine.

Today, as we neared the end of our hike, we came to the grove of Oaks, and my two young sons clambered up into Grandmother’s arms. Immediately, their tiredness evaporated and they giggled with delight as they ate messily decorated sugar cookies. 

The Oaks are my oldest known ancestors, and the oldest church of my Irish, Scottish and British bloodlines. Nigel Pennick writes in Celtic Sacred Landscapes:

The natural forest symbolizes the untamed, wild part of the human soul: it is an archetype of wildness. Wildness, however, is not a state of being out of control, rather it signifies innate naturalness existing in balance with natural principles. Eternal, elemental powers reside in the forest, and those who seek may come into contact with them. When people periodically return to the wild, the wild woods give us the possibility of deep psychic healing… when we are supported by the elemental powers of the wood, a rediscovery of forgotten things can take place. But this can only happen when the untouched wild wood still exists. Once it is destroyed, then the wild part of the human soul is no longer accessible. Reintegration is no longer possible, and the Wasteland comes.

I sat watching my children play in the trees, remembering the sense of sacredness, holiness that I felt as a child, attending midnight mass with my mom. I recalled the swelling of the choral hymns, late at night, bundled up warm, in a dark chapel lit only by hundreds of candles. 

What makes a moment magic? What makes a holiday a holy-day? What opens the portal to divine connection? As I watched my children play, I decided that this tradition of visiting our ancestors and watching the winter sun filter through its branches is no less ‘set-apart’ (holy) than those nights in church, wondering at the connection between the magic of Santa and the Christ-child. 

Magic is coming more deeply into our relationship with All That Is. As we walked back toward the car, a tired River-child on my back, I heard Tanner say, “Mama, this is the best Christmas Eve ever. Thank you.” 

Candles and choirs, a fireplace alight, a small winter altar, a grove of old trees - wherever you seek magic and connection with the sacred, I hope you find it today - and I hope it finds you, too. 

Wishing you a very merry-blessed-holy-sacred-cozy-connected-wild portal into magic today and tonight. May you find ‘church’ in a way that nourishes your soul.