June 2021 Newsletter

A Celebratory Birthday Ritual to Honor My Motherlines

You know what I love? Birthdays. And last Sunday was my 38th birthday. I’m an inclusive birthday celebrator and believe everyone should be celebrated on their special day. On my birthdays, I insist on doing something unique to thoroughly mark the occasion as extraordinarily memorable.  

Intriguingly, this way of birthday celebrating is similar to the original meaning of taboo. In Polynesian, the word is actually “tapu,” which means “to mark thoroughly”. Even though today we talk about taboo in negative terms, its original meaning is a simple, but purposeful, recognition of something (or someone) that is out of the ordinary from day to day life. 

So, given the unpredictable circumstances of this year, I challenged myself to come up with plans that would be flexible, adaptable, and thoroughly remarkable. Knowing that distance travel would not be the best option, I turned inward to see what I could do close to home. Then, it came to me. For nearly 25 years, I have been having the same recurring dream: I am traveling down a winding, wooded road on Friday Harbor, WA. I am searching for the house my maternal grandparents built and lived in when I was a child; a place that holds many happy memories. I keep searching, but never find it.

Friday Harbor is an island off the mainland of Washington state and is a gigantic stone’s throw away from the southern tip of Vancouver Island, Canada. Just as my grandparents were preparing to move off the island, my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer and died not too long afterward. I am not sure if she ever lived in her new house. Something about my reoccurring dream, and my childhood memory of her during that time in my life, seems to have been telling me that she never left and has remained there on Friday Harbor, waiting for me. 

Neither my mother nor myself have been to the island since my grandmother died. Remembering this dream, I suddenly realized that the most memorable thing I could do for my birthday would be to travel to Friday Harbor with my mom and perform a ritual together to celebrate my grandmother, as well as the other women up my Motherline who made my life possible. 

This is exactly what we did. After locating my grandmother’s favorite beach, I searched for the perfect piece of drift wood and decorated it with flowers in hues of red, pink and orange. Placing a strand of hair on the flower-decoration, we each whispered a prayer to my grandmother, and then named the mothers and grandmothers in our ancestral line as far back as our memories would allow. We toasted to Grandma Bev, and sipped champagne in her honor. We walked down to the water’s edge. I waded knee-deep in the cold water and gently released her flower-offering into the ocean.

On this side of my birthday, I can honestly say that this might be one of the most memorable birthdays of my life. Celebrating my life by honoring the lives of others was a unique experience. 

What I am certain of is this: Setting my memory of my grandmother free into the ocean, freed something inside of me, too.

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IN THIS NEWSLETTER:

Recent Journey to the Goddess TV Episodes:

• “Devī: Archetype of Life” (Parts 1 & 2) with Mala Setty, PhD

• “The Return of Mary Magdalene” an interview excerpt with April Heaslip, PhD

• “Everyday Goddess” interview with Natasha Thomas

Latest Goddess News:

• Lisa Levart’s interview with me for the Goddess on Earth Oracle Deck

• Fates and Graces Mythologium

Feature: Women to Follow

• Carol P. Christ, PhD

DON’T FORGET . . .

Have you SUBSCRIBED to my YouTube channel yet? It’s Free!!

Become a Journey to the Goddess member on Patreon! Benefits include behind-the-scenes access, goddess gifts, and more!

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Latest Episodes:

“Devi: Archetype of Life” (Part 1)

with Mala Setty, PhD

WATCH

“Devī: Archetype of Life” (Part 2)

with Mala Setty, PhD

WATCH

“The Return of Mary Magdalene”

an interview excerpt with April Heaslip, PhD

WATCH

“Everyday Goddess”

with Natasha Thomas

WATCH

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Latest Goddess News

“Oracle Stories: Mary Magdalene”

Lisa Levart’s interview with me on the making of Mary Magdalene

A conference by mythologists for myth enthusiasts. Run by two fantastic women, Stephanie Zajchowski, PhD and Joanna Gardner, PhD. Register today!

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Feature: Women to Follow

Carol P. Christ, PhD

Feminist Theologian, Goddess Scholar, and Ariadne Tour Leader

(Image: From her website)

I first learned about Carol P. Christ from “Why Women Need the Goddess”, an essay she published in 1979 in a book (Womanspirit Rising) she co-edited with Judith Plaskow. I am currently revisiting this essay—again—for the umpteenth time because it lays the foundation for my doctoral thesis. Needless to say, each time I read her essay I come away from it invigorated, inspired, and feeling as though I am on the right path.

Christ also leads Ariadne Pilgrimage Tours in Crete and has published many books on the Goddess.

Check out her website: goddessariadne.org

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Finding Mary Magdalene

FINDING MARY MAGDALENE BLOG SERIES.

“Languedoc Part 3: Finding Mary Magdalene”

Originally Published: June 19th, 2014

Coming off my “angelic high” from the previous day’s journey to Alet-les-Bains, I awoke and prepared for another driving adventure in France. You may remember that I had previously mentioned the terror I experienced at the mere thought of driving in France. When the time finally came, the only “challenge” I had was finding a gas station among the bountiful vineyards. My second driving experience, however, was not as charming. 

I took a shuttle bus to the Carcassonne airport only to discover the car rental place was not actually located at the airport; and to make matters worse, it required me take a taxi to the rental office. Crisis averted, I got the car, set my GPS in English mode, and took off for the nearest gas station. There was, however, a minor problem. The station had no gas attendant on duty to take my cash, and because my American credit cards lack a “chip,” the French card machine would not take them.

So, off I went in search of a mega gas station. Again, I encountered the same problem. I kindly asked another driver what was going on and he informed me that because it was a national holiday in France, the gas attendant would not be on duty.

Well! That would surely pose a problem with just a quarter tank of gas and several sites to visit.

I drove back to the agency and explained my dilemma, of which he could offer me no solution, but ensured me there would be a station along the way in Limoux.

Off I went. By the seventh try, I was desperate. I sat at the pump wondering what to do. Then, as if by divine intervention, an attractive man with shoulder length curly hair, pulled up in a vehicle I would certainly label a “hippie van.” He must have sensed I have a thing for the gypsy type! I realized this was my chance. As he was pumping gas, I casually got out of my car, and approached him. Turning on the charm, I smiled and asked if he spoke English. “No,” he said, fainning apology. “Okay, no problem,” I mumbled to myself, “I’ll try in French.” So off I went about my “grand problème,” and he got it! Not only did he get it, but he offered to put the gas on his credit card in exchange for my cash! 

Emergency averted, I took off for the destination du jour, Rennes-le-Chateau. To my amazement, and slight embarrasment, the very next gas station I passed had an attendant on duty. Obviously, there was an important lesson I needed to learn regarding flirting and French men.

International fame hit Rennes-le-Chateau with Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. However, decades before, the tiny town had become notorious for the scandalous parish priest, François Bérenger Saunière.  Supposedly, he had discovered a hidden treasure on its grounds. Some say it was actual golden treasure, while others believed it was the remains of Mary Magdalene. Further more, Saunière was said to hold secret information about Jesus and Mary Magdalene.

After several winding turns, I arrived at the little mountaintop village of Rennes-le-Chateau. I walked through the quiet streets toward the abbey, stopping at a gift shop along the route. Decked with books and jewelry and music - pretty much all things spiritual - I had the sneaking feeling that something quite unspiritual was brewing.

Somehow, I ended up buying a ticket for the museum, which was a conspiracy theorist’s dream. The museum gift shop even sold Rennes-le-Chateau wine, bearing Saunière’s face. Despite the lack of depth, I did find delight in the Magdal Tower, built on church grounds by Saunière.

According to Margaret Starbird, Magdal (from Magdala) means “The Tower” in Hebrew. She contends that the town of Magdala did not exist during the lifetime of Jesus and Mary, so it is more plausible that Magdala (Magdalene) was not Mary Magdalene’s given name. For Starbird, this suggests that Magdala was a name given to Mary Magdalene to denote her strength and wisdom within the community of Jesus and his followers, eventually earning her the title of “Apostle to the Apostles.”  

The church of Rennes-le-Chateau was tiny and darkly lit.  I knew in my heart that the spirit of Mary was not there; the energy had become more about the drama and intrigue of the Saunière story and less about her story.  Mid-meditation, a camera crew entered the small church, filming a very important person, and his entourage. Images of Mary Magdalene were numerous, yet I found myself annoyed by the “scene” of Rennes-le-Chateau, and quickly left for solitude just outside the town walls. The surrounding grounds were beautiful and lush, and despite my overall misgivings, I feel there may lay a secret of Mary hidden within the hills of Rennes-le-Chateau.

I eagerly left Rennes-le-Chateau, but first, made time to enjoy a fabulous lavender creme brûlée.  

Next I drove to nearby spa town, Rennes-les-Bains. I was mesmerized by its beauty and vibrant energy. Hippies littered the streets. Inside I jumped for joy. Along the ancient pathways and the river of Rennes-les-Bains, one can find such glorious sites as the Seat of Isis, The Source Madeleine, and the Fountain of Lovers; where, legend has it, if you and your lover bathe naked in its waters, you’ll be lovers for all time.

Sadly, I was out of time. I left Rennes-les-Bains—promising to return soon—for Mt. Bugarach, a supposed former Essene community tucked away in the Pyrenees. I took a stroll through its empty ancient streets, admiring Mt. Bugarach, as it loomed over the city; a stoic protector of an ancient lineage forever in hiding from the ancient Roman Empire.

Severely behind schedule and over my allotted mileage, I decided to head to Montségur. To miss such a sight was not an option for me.  Despite overwhelming car-sickness, I drove like the wind through the endlessly winding roads of the Pyrenees. After much anxiety and doubt that I would ever reach Montségur, my GPS informed me I was 5 kilometers from my destination. A heavy mist hung in the air, as I drove further into the heart of the Pyrenees and Cathar country.

I looked up and was overcome by the view of a fortress nestled high upon a mountain peak. “How stunning!” I exclaimed to myself. “How beautiful and majestic. But that CAN’T be Montségur. I only have 5 kilometers left…I’ll have to visit that site next time I’m in the region.” Ten minutes later, as I approached the town of Montségur, I realized that that fortress was indeed, Montségur.

Seeing the fortress high above me, I parked my car and prepared myself for the ascent. The path was rocky and steep, but I felt encouraged by fellow pilgrims. Along the route I could hear the melodic ringing of bells, dangling from the necks of cows, far off in the distance. As I approached the summit I turned to look out among the sea of mountain peaks, and was rendered nearly speechless. “This must be what Heaven looks like,” I whispered. For as far as the eye could see, were voluptuous green mountain peaks, extending outward past Spain, and reaching what I imagined to be, the Atlantic Ocean.

Face-to-face with the now abandoned majestic fortress of Montségur, I imagined life streaming in and out of it’s stone walls. I entered the fortress and a sudden stillness came over me, as if I were walking into someone’s intimate space. The inner walls of the fortress held the laughter of children. I could almost see them playing hide and seek. I realized there was a presence still lingering from the trauma of long ago.

Montségur gained notoriety for being the last stronghold of the Cathars in the face of the Crusades. History has mixed understanding of the Cathars, with the most commonly held belief that the Cathars were a serious acetic religion that believed the material world to be sinful, and therefore devoted all their attention and energy to the spiritual realm. In esoteric circles it is believed that the Cathars were actually the keepers of an original Gnostic Christianity. Their primary teacher, Mary Magdalene. And, depending on who you talk to, Jesus as well. The Cathar faith and belief held the knowledge of the Holy Grail, which was protected by the Knight Templar, and had connections to the activist medieval love poets, the Troubadours. To read Joseph Campbell’s exciting commentary on the Troubadours, click here: 

https://journey-to-the-goddess.tumblr.com/post/86396881610/marriage-in-the-middle-agesas-in-most-of

The Church launched a full-out crusade against the Cathars and region of Languedoc. They slaughtered and burned them, until only those of Montségur were left. After a year siege, the water supply within the high fortress of Montségur failed, leaving the Cathars with no choice but to surrender. The Church, feeling “generous,” gave the Cathars the option to convert to Catholicism and be saved, or be burned at the stake. After a 15 days truce, it was over. All 200 Cathars - men, women, and children - calmly walked down the mountain and into the burning pyres. And that was, essentially, the end of the Cathars. Some believe a few escaped and kept the knowledge alive. Still others say those who escaped kept the royal bloodline of Mary and Jesus alive.

Upon my descent, I looked out at the endless horizon and wondered what it was like for the Cathars, in the face of certain death, to see this view for the last time. So I chose to honor the Cathars the only way I knew how: by infusing each step I took down the mountain with honor and dignity, for a people willing to die for their beliefs.

My drive home was full of emotion. The mystique of the Pyrenees faded into perfectly manicured rolling vineyards, and country houses made of stone.

I returned my car without problem and made my way back to Carcassonne. Suddenly, I realized my pilgrimage was officially over. I smiled as I reflected on the months of planning and hard work it took to prepare for this pilgrimage, that resulted in a life changing two week adventure. The icing on the cake? On the following day I would be turning 31 in my new favorite French city, Arles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My heart bursting with love, I traveled from Arles to Nice and from Nice down into Italy. An open invitation awaited me in Ischia. Tears fell from my face as I crossed over the French border into Italy. For this self-proclaimed Italophile, something new was blooming inside, something unexpected: a yearning to return to the southern region of France, where Mary Magdalene is honored and revered as a woman of courage, devotion, and passionate love.  Her name and reputation have been dirtied for nearly 2,000 years, as a way to manipulate and control people. One result, women have been placed secondary to men. This, as history is our witness, is a great disservice to women and men alike.

Although back in the states, my quest for Mary Magdalene has only just begun. Many others have come before me, and surely there will be plenty to follow.  To France and back, my search for Mary Magdalene has led me back to me.  My journey is her journey, and from this place of wisdom, I am truly finding myself.

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The Angel Sanctuary of Alet-les-Bains

On day two, I awoke with anticipation for the day’s events. My plan: to rent a car and drive to the famous Mary Magdalene pilgrim site, Rennes-le-Chateau.

Well, that didn’t happen. I couldn’t get a car, so decided to postpone the trip for the following day. Annoyed, but not defeated, I decided to take a day trip by bus to nearby town, Alet-les-Bains. After much difficulty trying to figure out how to get there, how to buy the bus ticket, and where to catch the bus, I finally arrived in the peaceful hamlet of Alet-les-Bains. Reminiscent of a village straight out of Grimms’ fairytales, Alet-les-Bains lay at the foot of the Pyrenees. For centuries, it has been a destination for its natural springs and healing waters, perfect for the skin and digestion. Excellent! Who couldn’t use some special healing water after seven years living in NYC.

Enchanted by its picturesque perfection, I crossed over the ancient stone bridge that stood high above the swift-moving waters below. I made my way to an “island” between the town and the main road where I ate my picnic lunch. Meandering down to the river, I ran my hand along its waters, ceremoniously dipping my feet in its fresh stream.

Happiness filled my heart. I crossed the little pedestrian path back into town and came face-to-face with The Angel Sanctuary. Curious to see the sign written in English, I wondered what could be beyond the gates. Cautiously, I walked through the garden of The Angel Sanctuary and up the steps. As I looked around for where to go next, I noticed a few people sitting in chairs while sipping tea and coffee. 

I walked through a non-descript door into The Angel Sanctuary, and was welcomed by a variety of colorful paintings and an Irishman named Eugene. Suddenly, I felt as if I had come home, fully at ease and welcomed in this serene space. Eugene and I spoke for some time about The Angel Sanctuary: How it came to be and why he and his companion, Lorrie, were there. The Angel Sanctuary was at one time a natural spring and spa. Cultivated by the Romans centuries ago, the spring had been used to remedy many physical conditions.

Lorrie and Eugene had come on vacation to Alet-les-Bains seven years ago and never left. They took over the spring grounds, which had stopped functioning as a spa a few years prior, and transformed it into The Angel Sanctuary, home to Lorrie’s visionary paintings.

Overcome with emotion, I began to cry as I told Eugene why I was in France, and what a miracle it was that I had serendipitously showed up on their doorstep. As some as you know, I don’t believe in coincidence, especially in a case, such as this.

Eugene encouraged me to step next door so I could experience the heart and soul of The Angel Sanctuary. Once next door, Eugene pointed to a tiny enclosed space at the center of the room. It was in fact, an alter, and at the center was a spout that dispensed the special healing waters. He warned me, “You’ll see. The water runs off and on at its own discretion.”

I slowly peaked around the corner and respectfully entered the alter space, as not to disrupt the divine flow. I stood before the water spout, in awe of its simple yet extraordinary abilities to bring about renewed life. Suddenly, the spout gurgled, and sacred water sprang forth from its mouth. In my fragile state, tears fell from my already moist eyes, and I gladly took part in its healing waters.

Taking my leave from the alter, the first painting that caught my eye was, Angels of Love:

“When one calls deep from one’s
own heart, 
and deep from one’s soul,
to meet one’s eternal Love,

The Heavens Sing.

For not only has a true Love been
born,
but a great Love,
to grace the earth.
At that moment the heavenly Angels 
are sent forth 
to unite the eternal ties of Love,
where two truly become one.

And the link from heaven and earth
are bound together 
To give birth to the true essence of
Love.”

Entranced by the serentiy of the space, I hypnotically sat before each painting, reading its inscription, and receiving the grace imparted by the angels of the sanctuary. There, among the paintings, immense love, like I have never known before, filled my heart. Deep-rooted pain dislodged itself from the darkest corners of my psyche, and I felt completely free and taken care of. “This must be what Heaven feels like,” I thought to myself.

After some time, I withdrew from the inner sanctuary and returned to the gift shop next door. It was difficult knowing I would have to leave soon. “I never want to leave this place. Never,” I thought. I went over and over in my mind, trying to figure out how I could stay, how I could remain there in the little sleepy town of Alet-les-Bains, close to the sanctuary, immersed in that deep love for the rest of my life.

I thanked Eugene and promised to stay in touch. For me, a bond had been forged. He told me that year after year, many return to The Angel Sanctuary. Some of whom, like myself, are on the Magdalene quest.

He then directed me to the community fountain, another healing water outlet, direct from the Pyrenees. Once upon a time, people would bathe and wash their clothes in the fountain. Now, it is used exclusively for drinking purposes. To my delight, I discovered people came to collect the water with empty bottles and jugs by the arm-full. “How pure and simple,” I thought to myself. “This is how it is meant to be, direct from nature herself, withouthuman intervention.”

Later, I realized it was the sancturay, the sacred space facilitated by Lorrie and Eugene, that I craved. Not necessarily Alet-les-Bains. The truth is that I can not live the rest of my days only in the house of angels. So the question became, (and still lingers), how do I bring that same feeling, that sense of ease, love and wholeness with me into the world, wherever I am and whomever I am with.

This is my challenge. For I am not meant to meditate it a cave high above the world. Not this time. Now it is time to bring the message of love and grace and light outward, into the world.

With a sadness in my heart, I left Alet-les-Bains. I could not forsake the remainder of my journey, and that which I had come so far to see. In the morning, I would head for the infamous Rennes-le-Chateau, to uncover the secrets of Mary Magdalene.

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Post Script: During a recent conversation with sage and dear friend, Hippie Lou, I began to realize that all of the books I’ve read, the lectures I’ve listened to, and the never-ending philosophical conversations I’ve been a part of, hold little weight until I transform that wisdom into action.

I finally understand the true meaning of a yogi, as described by my dear Indian teacher. A yogi is a person who puts her words in to action, who lives just as she speaks. Words are not mere concepts to a yogi, but an actual moment-to-moment daily practice. And this is when life becomes a meditation.

And my mode of action is the play itself. It IS the Pilgrimage. The transformation comes in how I choose to actualize this wisdom I’ve gathered.

READ NEXT BLOG: Languedoc Part 3: Finding Mary Magdalene

The Fortified Medieval Castle of Carcassonne

Finding Mary Magdalene Blog Series.

“Languedoc, Part 1: The Fortified Medieval Castle of Carcassonne”

Originally Published: June 12, 2014

Because of my hotel mishap in Les Maries, I had an extra day at my disposal. I decided to use that as an opportunity to spend a night in Arles.

Arles has a reputation for being one of the most charming cities in southern France; and boy, does it live up to its reputation! Teeming with life and verve, Arles was the final home and inspiration for some of van Gogh’s most famous paintings. It sits along the Rhone and has been colonized by many peoples, most notably, the Romans. It at once feels very Italian–complete with a fully intact Roman amphitheater–yet oozes French charm.

Hôtel - Musée, my hotel for the night, provided me with the perfect backdrop to complete my French Country Dream. Chic, warm and cozy, my room smelled of lavender. Aged green shutters opened up to a glorious view of the quaint patio below that was adorned with jasmine, roses and climbing vines; terracotta tiles and cast iron patio furniture.

I spent the evening walking in a dream world. I found a neighborhood cafe and quickly made myself at home. A glass of wine and fondue, and viola, my life was complete.

I awoke the next morning with a sadness in my heart, and made my way to Nîmes.

Nîmes is also a former Roman colony, but has the underlying feeling of brute force, lacking the quaint charm of Arles. I stayed an uneventful night there, before heading to my final pilgrim site, Carcassonne.

Carcassonne cite is a fortified medieval city that embodies, among other historically important events and peoples, the wisdom of the Cathars and Templars.

After plopping my stuff in the hotel, I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the medieval castle at the heart of the city. I made my way over the ancient bridge that connected the ville basse with the cite. I explored the park on either side of the river, quietly listening for the hushed voices of the city’s guardians. Following their lead, I sat near the river, digging my hands into the moist earth, absorbing the centuries of history that had traversed this land.

Feeling the “call of the castle,” I made my way to an ancient pathway, that I imagined once welcomed returning heroes along its route. Overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, remnants of the ancient stone way remain. I looked up and felt the brute strength it took to build these walls. I felt the sweat of the hundreds of men who spent their lives building this fortress, in service of the kingdom. And then I sensed him; a knight who had returned from battle, longing to be in the embrace of his secret lover. His presence so strong, I wondered: was that me in a past life?

A force compelled me further along the path. No longer in everyday use, I wondered if I had discovered a secret portal to another realm. I climbed, and to my surprise, found myself at an entry point beyond the first layer of castle walls.

I was called to a large, non-descript wooden door. Reaching out to touch the door, I remembered. I remembered what it was like to be her, the princess or nobelwoman awaiting her knight, in secret. Their love affair, forbidden. In a flash, the entirety of their romance and tragic end came into my consciousness, as I felt her anticipation, and her pain. Every corner I turned, contained more memories of their romance: their hopes and dreams, and their love. 

In my heart, I could hear her say, “I am sorry my love. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.” Tears flooded my eyes, and I felt immense pain for the hurt she had caused this man.

And so, with the encouragement of Mary, I prepared myself to do a ceremony in remembrance, and to release this past trauma. I didn’t know where or how, but I knew the answer would come to me in time.

Continuing on, I toured the contours of the castle. I explored the Basilique of Sainte Nazaire, discovering a magnificent life-size marble engraving of a Knight Templar, supposed protectors of the Cathars. At the right of this knight, stood a statue of Saint Anna, my patron saint, sitting with her young daughter, the Virgin Mary. Stained glass windows seemed to contain the symbols, and messages, of a suppressed wisdom.

For dinner, I splurged on a fabulous pork cassoulet, famous cuisine from the region.

As the sun began to set, I decided to head home. However, my path took me just along the outside of the castle walls. Heeding her call, Mary had found a place for me to perform a small ceremony, softly illuminated by the last remaining orange and pink rays of sun.

Not-so-elegantly, I waded through the tall grass, reaching out toward the castle wall for support. I pulled out my stones–some of which I had found earlier by the river–and looked out over the town below. Crying, I felt a burden lift from my spirit.

Upon my descent, I took the same route down, as I had up. Acknowledging that this was the last time I would ever need to walk these steps, I left a poppy in the wall–a gift she would have given him long ago–as a remembrance of the love shared between the star-crossed lovers. 

As I approached the parking lot, the sun had nearly set, and I turned to have one more glance at the castle. In my mind’s eye, I could see the couple waiving me goodbye. Happy and liberated, they were free to live in their bliss for eternity, and I free to find my own.

That night, I slept well. With two more days left, and many sites still to visit, I felt at peace, and wondered what the next days would bring.

READ NEXT BLOG: The Angel Sanctuary of Alet-les-Bains

Saint Sara’s Final Procession to the Sea

FINDING MARY MAGDALENE BLOG SERIES.

“Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, Part 3: Saint Sara’s Final Procession to the Sea”

Originally Published: June 9, 2014

Sunday I awoke feeling as if the day before had all been a dream. Celice and I had a LUXURIOUS breakfast complete with freshly baked croissant, creamy yogurt, fresh juice, and house-made cappuccino topped with whipped cream. The proprietor of our family-run hotel was more than willing to make our stay memorable. He even offered to drive us into town, saying for him, it is only a “promenade.”

Having experienced the grand procession the previous day, I walked into town feeling light, and free of expectation. As it turned out, Saint Sara granted us the privilege to re-witness the procession, from beginning to end.

This time, we came face-to-face with the same head priest who had led the procession the previous day. As before, he was blessing the pilgrims along his processional route. Once again, he was followed by men riding atop those same beautiful white horses. The men on horseback parted the crowds, allowing the statue of the Two Marys to pass through, toward the sea. I thought this curious that the third Mary, Our Lady Mary Magdalene, was not represented as well.

Quickly, Celice and I ran ahead, cutting through town, in an attempt to beat the head of the procession to the sea. In a matter of moments, we made it to the shore to witness the sea-bound processional ceremony unfold before our eyes.

Along their route, the priests chanted over blow horns, “Long Live Les Saintes Maries!” and “Long Live Saint Sara!” The crowd soulfully repeated the chant.

Suddenly, a waive of an other-worldly spirit took over the crowd. Time and space seemed to expand, taking me and my fellow pilgrims back to the moment the Three Marys landed upon the shores of French Gaul, greeted by our lady of honor, Saint Sara.

Entranced, I watched as the pilgrims steadily processed the Two Marys, followed by Saint Sara, into the sea. Moments later, the procession turned face, and began its march back toward the town. I turned to see that Celice and I, just as the day before, were surrounded on all sides by the riders and white horses. To me, this double experience was a clear sign that the spirit of Saint Sara was taking special care of us.

The next moments passed like a blur: Saint Sara approached me, flanked on all sides by pilgrims willing to carry her load. My body filled with the chanting of her name and my heart ached to embrace her. Suddenly, I rushed toward her and reached out my hand. One of the young women carrying Saint Sara grabbed my outstretched hand and placed it upon Saint Sara’s dress. Tears flooded my eyes as I gently backed away, feeling into the immensity of the moment.

Time stood still as I watched the procession disappear into the streets of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. In a moment of clarity, I took a tiny glass bottle, and dug it into the sand, collecting a bit of the earth that once welcomed “The Three Marys of the Sea.”

Trying to catch my breath, I turned to Celice with tears in my eyes. She pulled my hand, and off we went in the direction of the basilica.

Once there, I took myself down to the crypt. I wanted to see Saint Sara one last time. I quickly made my way to the front of the line and looked Her in the eye. She spoke words of love to my heart for having completed another piece of my soul’s journey.

Before leaving the church, I noticed numerous rose garlands descending from the ceiling. They seemed to point to a large wooden box, placed high upon the altar, delicately painted with the story of the Marys. Following the motions of others around me, I gently placed my hand upon the box, thanking the women one final time for their great love and courage.

Later, I learned the box is said to contain the remains of Mary Jacobe and Mary Salome. This led me to deduce that the reason Mary Magdalene was not “physically” included in the procession is because her journey did not end at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Rather, it is believed she was guided by angels to the cave of La Sainte-Baume, where she continued to pray and work in the name of Love.

Celice and I made our way to the Arles train station, the place in which we had met three days earlier. We hugged goodbye, knowing in our hearts that our time together had been a reconnection, rather than an introduction. She left for her final pilgrim site, Rennes-le-Chateau, while I remained in Arles, the city that would quickly steal my heart.

READ NEXT BLOG: The Fortified Medieval Castle of Carcassone

The Procession of Saint Sara

Finding Mary Magdalene Blog Series.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, Part 2: The Procession of Saint Sara

Originally Published: June 7, 2014

Celice and I awoke in excited anticipation for the day’s events, as if children on Christmas morning.

We quickly readied ourselves for the walk into town. The streets were lined with parked campers and horses stood in stalls awaiting riders. The outskirts of town were calmly buzzing with the hum of flamenco music. As we approached the center of town, we entered the festivities. There, it was packed with people: tourists, gypsies, free spirits, photographers, and those anticipating a little piece of magic.

We followed the music to discover it came from inside the basilica. 11am Mass was under way and the church was packed to the brim, reminiscent of my morning subway commute. Celice and I tried to enter, with no avail.

Suddenly, the service ended and the wall of people broke. People began to flood out of the church and onto the streets, followed by ornately robed priests. Within his orbit a priest administered blessings amongst the oldest and youngest of the crowd, softly touching their foreheads with sincerity and warmth.

Celice and I made our way into the church. The space had a quality of arid lightness to it, similar to that of the churches I remember visiting in Sicily. The church was strewn with various depictions of Saint Sara greeting the Three Marys on the shores of France. A real sense of the feminine spirit was at play in this space.

I found myself meander toward the crypt. I descended the steps, touching my hand along the arched ceiling as I entered the cavernous space below. A thick wave of moist heat enveloped me. Votive candles baring Saint Sara’s image lined the cavernous wall. The crowd of people pushed forward into the furthest-most right corner of the crypt. The ceiling was low and the temperature stifling. I lit my candle and began a quiet prayer for Saint Sara. The move toward her was a dance - or more like a shuffle - with people moving in and out. Eventually, I heard the cries of the people in the back, “Avancé! Avance!” Advance! Advance!

Steps away from Saint Sara, I pulled out my camera in time to snap a few shots of pilgrims touch their hand to Saint Sara’s face…And then, my turn. I gently placed my hand upon Sara’s anja chakra, or third-eye chakra, and then over her heart. Closing my eyes, I then placed that same hand over my own heart. I prayed that Saint Sara would deliver me a message of meaning or purpose to my life. Or at least to assure me that my search for Her, the Divine Feminine, was not in vain.

Thanking Her, I quickly left the crowded underworld for the fresh air above ground. Natural light hit my face and I found Celice, calmly preparing herself for the descent into the crypt.

I sat in meditation on the stone floor for some time. Hundreds of people meandered by, approaching Saint Sara in the crypt below for their turn at a blessing.

Reunited, Celice and I gradually made our way to the shore, resting on the sand, waiting for the event of the day.

Crowds began to gather on the rocky breeches that overlooked the center of the ritual activity. Celice and I hurried to find the perfect vantage point. Minutes stretched into eternity as we waited for the procession of Saint Sara. At last, the procession approached the shore. Celice and I preened our necks to catch a sight, any sight! “Alas,” I thought to myself, “perhaps I’ll see a splash from her dive in the Mediterranean.” Disappointed, I resigned myself to being a far observer of the main event.

Suddenly, I heard Celice call out to me, “Anna, follow me! We did not come all this way not to see Her.” We weaved our way through the crowd to find an opening along the sand. Swarms of people pushed me this way and that as Celice and I continued to move ourselves closer to the shore. Miraculously, we broke through and found ourselves at full view of the procession. The Priest came through, followed by several more clergy. And then, there she was: The Black Madonna–Saint Sara, adorned in white, and held high above the crowds, for all to admire. 

We furiously snapped photos as she passed by. There was a commotion in the crowd as the procession suddenly turned about face. The statute of Saint Sara had been submerged in the Mediterranean and would now make her return to the crypt within the basilica. The crowds pushed and shoved as a throng of men atop white horses came out of the water and lead the procession back into town. Celice and I found ourselves as if a two-person island, surrounded on all sides by beautiful white horses. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the procession receded. My head spun as I tried to process what has just taken place.

Celice looked at me, a smile spreading across her face, and said, “See, I told you. We couldn’t stay on that rock. Sara was calling us.”

That night held laughter, music, and dancing. We played and listened, losing ourselves in the passion of the place and the people. But little did I know that Saint Sara was not quite done with me.

READ NEXT BLOG: Saint Sara’s Final Procession to the Sea

The Gypsy Festival of Les Maries

Finding Mary Magdalene Blog Series.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, Part 1: The Gypsy Festival of Les Maries

Originally Published: June 2, 2014

As Provençal legend has it, Mary Magdalene arrived on the shores of Gaul with Mary Salome and Mary Jacobe, and possibly Joseph of Arimathea. The mystery and intrigue of this legend involves a woman named Saint Sara. Some claim she was a native of Gaul who greeted the party fleeing the Roman Empire. Others say she arrived on the boat with the Marys, either an Egyptian handmaiden to Mary Magdalene, or better yet, the secret daughter of Jesus and Mary. Either way, Saint Sara has become the patron saint of the Romani people the world round, and I was headed there for the annual festival in honor of Saint Sara.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer is a tiny beach town in the Camargue region of France. It is surrounded by a national park that is filled with long green grass and canals, all of which accommodate migratory birds from Africa. The feel is somewhere between American west and Spanish Conquistador.

But before I found myself in Les Maries, I first had to find a way to get there from Arles–an exquisitely BEAUTIFUL town in France. So, I made my way to the tourist office and started a conversion with another woman looking to get to the festival. As it turns out, Celice, a Venezuelan national, was also on a pilgrimage. Hers revolved around the Camino de Santiago in Spain, but overlapped with the western French sites associated with my Mary Magdalene pilgrimage. Celice and I became fast friends. In fact, we were inseparable for those few days at the festival.

Celice and I found the bus, (super easy and way cheap), to Les Maries. We chatted the whole time about our pilgrimage experiences thus far, and also about all we hoped would happen at the festival.

As the bus approached our destination, it turned out that our hotels were right next to one another. (Kind of strange for a small town with several hotels). I laughed at the synchroncity. She told me she stopped seeing our similarities and meeting in Arles as coincidences, but as something more predestined. I walked her to her hotel first, and made a plan to meet her in two hours, but she insisted on walking me to my hotel for check-in, as well.

The moments that followed were very telling of what would come: My hotel had never received my reservation and down payment from the third party site I had originally booked through. And to top it off, they were completely booked for the festival. In her fashion, Celice said, “No problem, she’s staying with me.” In disbelief, I gladly accepted her offer.

My ex-hotel invited us to their private dinner/flamenco show that night. We gleefully arrived amongst the colorful guests, and were seduced by the home-cooked food and soulful Spanish gypsy music. Gypsies from the crowd, including a family from Brazil, danced and sang, as we shared wine and a love for the beautiful music.

Exhausted, yet in anticipation for the following day’s culminating fesitval event,The Procession of Saint Sara, Celice and I returned to the hotel, hardly able to sleep a wink. For my part, I thanked my guardian angels for the new friend, and angel, they sent my way.

READ NEXT BLOG: The Procession of Saint Sara

The Relics of Sainte Marie Madeleine

FINDING MARY MAGDALENE BLOG SERIES.

“Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume: The Relics of Sainte Marie Madeleine”

Originally Published: May 31st, 2014

I arrived in Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume with a pep in my step. I had just an hour to experience the Magdalene presence there before returning my car in Aix-en-Provence.

First, I decided to find a pastry to enjoy with my morning coffee. As luck would have it, I walked into the best artisinal patisserie in all of France! The shop was full of beautiful meringues adorned with pines nuts and delicate-looking tartes. My stomach only wanted a pain-au-chocolat, but my eyes feasted on them all. I walked across the way to a sidewalk cafe and ordered a cafe creme, which tasted somewhere like a caffè latte. After an exquisite moment of cafe life à la française, I was off in the direction of the basilica of St. Maximin.

St. Maximin has at its medieval core a basilica that is seemingly basic from the outside…that is until you enter, unsuspecting, through its doors. Prepare yourself to be dazzled by the glory of its grandeur in praise of the Magdalene. Walking into the large, dark, and cavernous space, I felt as if I was entering the underworld or perhaps the womb of Mother Earth.

I was mesmerized by the magnificent stained glass windows at the front of the church. The rays of the sun hit the windows and illuminated the “underworld” interior of the church. As I admired the way the light from the outside world lit up the interior space, I suddenly realized why the Church constructed these sacred spaces in this fashion. These churches were built to convey such ominous darkness so that the partitioners would feel as if the priest, who stood completely illuminated by the rays of the sun, was their only hope for salvation.  

AHA! I thought. The church was the first indoor theater house! They created a spectacle of heaven and hell right before the public’s eyes; complete with a psychological and spriitual sensation of purgatory.  

After this realization, I found myself nearly back where I started. That is, until I turned toward the central pews, and saw it: the staircase that led to the crypt and the skull of Mary Magdalene. Touching the arch above my head, I cautiously descended the staircase, into the depths of the basilica.

The small crypt contained Christian artifacts protected by glass on all sides. Hidden behind thick glass and a golden iron gate, was the blackened skull of Mary Magdalene. It was encased in glass and adorned with stiff golden hair, and some sort of “ancient” outfit. I looked into where her eyes would have been, and thought it so strange that this skull was kept and honored in such a way. Whether it actually Mary or not, we may never know. I bowed my head in respect for Magdalene, and left the mysterious chamber. 

St. Maximin and La Stainte-Baume had shared qualities that I felt drawn to: an energy; a presence; a reverence for a person who showed such love, compassion, devotion, and strength, and taught this to the world through her actions.

I left the basilica and traveled down the tiny streets of St. Maximin. On the way I passed souvenir shops, bakeries, and eye glass stores–the French love their eye glasses. I found my car and went onward for Aix-en-Provence. Before nightfall, I would be in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer for the annual gypsy festival honoring Saint Sara. This proved to be my biggest adventure yet!

READ NEXT BLOG: Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, Day 1

The Anointed

FINDING MARY MAGDALENE BLOG SERIES.

“THE GROTTO OF LA SAINTE-BAUME, PART 2: THE Anointed”

Originally Published: May 29th, 2014

I awoke with excitement on my final full day at La Sainte-Baume. However, the night had not been kind to me; I had been kept up by the loud talking and banging of doors by private school teenagers, staying at the Hostellerie for an extended school field trip. After 9 PM class ended, the teens liked to play loud American music, laugh and play. The monastery had a policy of quiet hours after 10 PM, which the kids clearly didn’t observe, and I wondered why the school found it necessary to bring the kids to the Hostellerie when most did not care to be there. When, clearly, there were serious spiritual seekers longing to have a peaceful and connected experience. :)

That aside, I had a job to do. I gathered my crystals and stones, and picked a single poppy in the field for Mary, gently setting it in the folds of my scarf. As I looked up toward the cave, hidden behind a heavy mist, I wondered what Mary had in store for me.

The climb was challenging. I thought maybe because I had made the trek twice the day before. Either way, I made it to the top, and again went directly to my statue of Mary. I didn’t know what I was going to do, so I allowed my intuition to lead the way. I lit a candle and set it before the statue. I took my stones - both from my home in NYC and the few I collected from the ancient forest - and ran them over the flame and then touched them to Mary, and finally myself.

I found some paper and wrote a note of gratitude to Our Lady Mary. I set it comfortably with the poppy, next to the many other notes of respect, curled up beside the statue.

Mary spoke to my heart and I knew in that moment my job was done at La Sainte-Baume. I stood up and reached over to gently touch the statue one last time, when at the exact moment my hand touched her, a drop of water fell from the cavernous ceiling, and landed directly on my third eye. “I’ve been ANOINTED!” I nearly screamed out loud. Laughing to myself, I knew Mary had given me this gift.

I prepared to descend the mountain and had a feeling of accomplishment, thinking: had this been the only site I visited in France, my pilgrimage would have been complete.

As fate had it, I was not quite done with La Sainte-Baume. At several communal meals, I had sat near a luminous woman with bright blonde hair, and one blue feather dangling from her ear. Chris was her name, and she was a Reiki practitioner and Shaman. As I was walking out the main gate leading to the cave, I saw Chris, walking-stick in hand, wrapped in a deep purple robe. We smiled and finally began a conversation. Chris spoke absolutely no English, but due to our shared passion we were able to communicate deep truths about Mary and the workings of the universe. I left Chris to have her moment with Mary knowing in my soul I had connected with my Kindred Spirit!

Later that afternoon I decided to make the hike to the cave once more, in case there was anything I missed. The atmosphere from the lingering mist gave the cave and it’s surroundings an other-worldly feel. I sat just outside the cave, happy for those last few moments.

The following morning, it was time for me to depart. I brought my books on Mary Magdalene to breakfast, in order to show them to Chris and her companion. She and I discussed our personal cosmology and healing modalities. 

Jean, mother of Marie, had strongly urged me to speak to the Brothers about Mary, saying it would give me grace. Unsure, yet, wanting to follow her advice, I knew I needed to find a way to do this beyond the way of confession.

So, at the end of my stay, with my new friend Axel, we asked a Brother about a mysterious pillar at the entrance of the forest, that appears to be of Free Masonry origin. He explained that they don’t know where the pillar came from but that many people come to La Sainte-Baume for several reasons: to pray to Mother Earth, to pray to a Sacred Feminine, or to leave gratitude for the woman closest to Christ. I told him I thought that it was beautiful that they accept all people with varying beliefs at the Hostellerie. And above all, I felt, that the driving principle behind Mary Magdalene is Love. And he countered, “But what is love?” Without thought, I responded, “God. God is love.” And he told me that it is a point of research for people, to meditate and pray on the meaning of Love.

With that, I packed up and left the Hostellerie. Excited to reacquaint myself with my English-accented GPS guide, I set the route for Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume, and the supposed relics of Mary Magdalene.

END NOTE: Of course there were MANY others along this path to La Sainte-Baume that went unmentioned in my blog: Sapine, the Austrian energy worker and spiritual seeker; the three older fellows, who invited me for a drink and a conversation “en Franglais;” the two women, who taught me how to request a quiet room: “Je veux une chambre au calme;”  two reiki practitioners, who critiqued how “practical France has become, to even consider using Reiki in a hospital setting is unthinkable;” Axel, the German physicist with an interest in the Magdalene legends; and the countless others, whose very presence made Mary come alive at that quiet outpost of La Sainte-Baume.

READ NEXT: The Relics of Sainte Marie Madeleine

The Pilgrimage Begins

Finding Mary Magdalene Blog Series.

“The Grotto of La Sainte-Baume, Part 1: The Pilgrimage Begins”

Originally Published: May 27, 2014

The Legend of Mary Magdalene post crucifixion is sort of a “choose your own adventure” story. However, what is commonly held as truth, in the South of France at least, is that Mary Magdalene, along with Mary Salome and Mary Jacobe were set assail in a boat belonging to Joseph of Arimathea. They were in exile, fleeing the Roman Empire, and determined to spread the message of The Way, as expressed by Jesus. Their ship landed upon the shores of what was once known as Gaul, but today is known as the Camargue region of France, in a little sea-town called Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

Although there are many variations on the Mary Magdalene legend throughout the region, the dominant version is that, after preaching the gospel to the inhabitants of Provence, Magdalene eventually made her way to the cave, La Sainte-Baume. There she spent thirty years in prayer and meditation, taken to the heavens by angels every hour of the day for material and spiritual sustenance. And this is where my story begins:

La Sainte-Baume is a pilgrim site at the base of Le Plan d’Aups. One must rent a car to get there, which, admittedly scared the crap out of me. For months I had been worrying about driving in France. Well, long story short, I finally made it to the Aix-en-Provence train station to pick up my car:  a compact citroen diesal engine - tiny, lightweight, and non-descript. After several deep breaths, as if preparing myself for child-birth, I began my engine and took off for La Sainte-Baume.

Wanting to ease into my European driving experience, I chose to avoid the highways and instead took the back route from Aix to Saint-Maximin and then onto La Sainte-Baume. After about ten minutes, the English-accented GPS guide and I had a running joke about his constant command to “Cross the round-about.”

The drive to Le Plan d’Aups was stunning. I drove through vineyards and unpaved countryside roads. After climbing from Nans-les-Pins to the base of Le Plan d’Aups, on what was practically a single-lane road, I came upon it: La Hostellerie de La Sainte Baume. The Hostellerie is a functioning monastery run by the Dominican order. They hold daily mass in the Hostellerie as well as in the cave of Sainte-Baume.

After depositing my baggage, I took a walk outside. The cave-turned-monastery lay just above the tree tops, awaiting my arrival the following day. I walked through the ancient untamed grass strewn with poppies and crickets. I felt the wind upon my face–which I was later told was coming eastward from Greece…ahhh, only a French man could make such a statement sound so romantic! I imagined Mary Magdalene walking upon this land 2,000 years ago. I slept well, knowing I was in the care of Mary.

The following day at the communal breakfast–which included a morning prayer and Sunday School songs–I met 17-year-old Marie, her mother Jean and grandmother Marie-Therese. This encounter put my French language skills to the test, as these ladies spoke almost no English. So, I braced myself, and allowed our mutual passion for Mary Magdalene guide the way.

Jean asked me why I had come all this way, by myself, to La Sainte-Baume. I told her, “For Mary Magdalene. Why? Because I love her.” Jean looked me with piercing intensity, and said, “It is because she had so much love for Jesus.” Taken aback by the simple, yet deeply resonate statement, I could do nothing but nod in sincere agreement. It was then I understood the real impact Mary Magdalene has had on her beloved followers for millennia.

I looked around the room and suddenly realized that it was full of people with a deep love and reverence for one of the most important women in Jesus’s life. Many of us had different interpretations of this love, but it was the pureness of Mary’s love–not a religious pureness, but the pure potential of unconditional love–that brought us together. And it wasn’t just me. Hundreds of people come to La Sainte-Baume every day to hike to the cave and honor her.

Marie and I climbed to the top, so deep in our conversation, alla Franglais, that I didn’t notice the challenge of the steep climb. As we reached the base of the monastery, a stillness came over us.

The potency of the Sacred Feminine was in the statues of women surrounding and grieving at the foot of the cross. A life-sized scuplture of Mother Mary holding the lifeless Jesus with Mary Magdalene weeping at his feet sits across from the entrance to the cave.

As Marie and I entered the cave, a cool dampness embraced us. I could hear the dripping of water. The haunting glow of the candles allowed the presence of Mary to become very real.

I felt drawn to the furthest most corner of the cave down at the base of the staircase. Walking in silence, I turned the corner, and saw the statue of Mary Magdalene, cross in hand, in agony over her loss.  After investigating the rest of the cave, I soon returned to this corner, feeling Mary’s presence strongest there. There I remained, in prayer and gratitude, for such a woman; a woman who has been misinterpreted and debased for too long.

The four of us stayed on for 11 AM Mass. The chanting of the priests rang like bells in the cavernous space….At the end of the day, France is a Catholic country, and the Dominicans are a Catholic order. And for many of them, Mary is important because of the profound love and devotion she had for Christ. Officially, she showed this love and devotion through her act of penance, as well as for her role as the “Disciple of the Disciples,” who spread the message of Jesus throughout the region. SHE brought the message of The Light and The Way–which was synonymous with her profound love and devotion–to France.

Marie eventually asked me my beliefs concerning Christ and Mary, to which I gently explained that, for me, Jesus and Mary represent the masculine and feminine faces of God. She told me she believes that Jesus is the one and true God and that Mary was his devoted disciple. I smiled and told her that I respect all points of view and at the end of the day, it is Mary’s profound love, devotion, and strength that connects us all.

After parting ways with my companions, I had lunch, but did not feel at ease. I heard the call in my heart and knew I needed to return to Mary, in that cave, and in that moment. I practically ran up the mountain. Reaching the top, out of breath, I entered the cave and was embraced by her love. I went directly for my hidden corner and prayed and asked for guidance. As I sat in meditation, she responded, “Just listen.” I laughed to myself at this simple and often repeated advice. Then and there, I stopped asking questions and surrendered to the way she would have me go and be.

Some time later, I discovered I had missed a statue of Mary behind the Priest’s altar.  Here Mary appeared to recline in a somewhat erotic manner. Many notes and flowers were left, along with engravings–the oldest of which from 1863–bearing her gratitude.

And then, suddenly, I heard it. I listened, and she spoke. She asked me to give her a ceremony the following day upon my return to the cave.

Suddenly all was well. I knew the mission I had before me. I descended the mountain light-filled with joy.

That evening was filled with laughter as I met several new pilgrims; all forcing me to express my adoration for Mary in simple, yet direct ways, allowing our shared passion to do the talking.

READ NEXT POST: “The Anointed”

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