samedi

I fell down the stairs today, the steep entry to my house. An hour later I stood in a sanctuary lit with votives, mesmerized by a collection of crutches piled across from St. Andre's tomb. And I pick up a giant wad of what I'll call sainthood playing cards: the front bearing a suspiciously Soviet-looking portrait of Father Moreau, and on the back, a small purple dot and the reassurance that said purple dot "has touched the bones of Fr. Moreau." This is not comforting information to me. In fact, I hope this purple dot, having touched Moreau's relics, never touches anything else in my bag or in my room. Call me J. Edgar Hoover, but I'm not a big fan of germs.

Germ-collecting cloth and all, today was a big day. I embarked on a high-profile adventure. Packing two clementines and a demi baguette, and following trails serpenting through the mountain, I came out on the other side of the hill to discover the St. Joseph Oratory. "It's a long way," said Susanne, doubting my tenacity on foot and my ability to bundle up (it's bloody cold here!) and my irrepressible energy to discover the city and all its new corners. Despite the potential for Donor Family-esque misadventure (by the way, I think they've been poorly portrayed in the media!), or perhaps because of this, I found the journey marvelous and necessary.

Pilgrims have in the past come to the Oratory in search of healing. History speaks of cripples crawling on their knees up the sprawling stairs to the basilica, only to leave their crutches at the door on the way out. My pilgrimage had little to do with healing--I walked five miles to get there and avoided any knee-climb dramatics to enter the sanctuary. But the reward was the long walk through the woods (perhaps I would have done well to pick up an abandoned crutch on the way out), and the trading cards (I can't wait to discover their gift-giving value), and arriving (almost) in time for mass, just in time to see government workers with earpieces walking around with wicker baskets to collect change [Museum fees or offering? It's a fine line these days], and after Communion, watching a man pray at the feet of a Jesus sculpture, running his hands up the marble legs, kissing the feet and curtsying before returning to his seat.

Having watched too much Six Feet Under the past few days, and having begun to feel too much a part of it, living vicariously through their tragedies, it was wonderful to be back in the real world and to create my own plotline. And mine involves relic-rubbed cloth and crutches and old fashioned smoked meat sandwiches at Lester's Deli (I didn't tell you about that magic!), so take that HBO, I have a life, too!