Buscando santidad...

11:45 am, Tuesday - I'm sitting in a chapel adjacent to el mercado. Ya vine de la Catedral que es exquisito, pero esta capilla es diferente--es que me parece mas intima y mas sagrada, en alguna manera...no se que es. Hay mas gente aqui que habia en la catedral, aunque la capilla es mas pequeno. Porque es asi? No se...pero creo que es que el ambiente aqui es diferente. Somebody just kneeled down right behind me and I suddenly feel exposed. My hand automatically shifts to cover the words on the page from what I'm probably just imagining as probing eyes behind me. This man is here to pray and probably has very little interest in the languid ponderings of a gringa. Still, I switch to English, weighing the probababilidad de que el puede leer ingles. La mayoria de gente aqui son mujeres que a mi me parecen tener mas que cuarenta anos. Son madres? Esposas? Estas son las que son mas religiosa, no? O solo es una estereotipo? Hay un hombre--he kneels in the pew, head bent--What is he thinking? It seems that something is weighing heavily on his mind as he reverently approaches the statue of some saint dressed in dark blue with blood speckling his forehead. Should I recognize this saint? I feel a bit guilty as my Catholic roots cringe at my ignorance. But the man knows him and kneels at his feet. Trembling (in despair? in reverance? in hope? I'll never know.) he touches the saint's robe cord to his forehead. I have heard of this--of mothers touching sacred statues and then rubbing their children's foreheads. The man presses the cord to his face, his hair, almost grinding it into his skin as if perhaps somehow the sanctity of this place will remain in his skin. This practice is foreign to me, strange and illogical, but then isn't that the essence of religion?

I want to approach the statue, to read the name and the sign beneath it, but everyone is concentrated right in front of it, and I feel alien, like there is a specific way to approach--a code that everyone understands but me. My curiosity conquers my sense of insecurity, however, and I creep up to the first pew where a woman has just risen to go. I cross myself, something that has grown foreign to me over my years of absence from Church, but it seems like the proper thing to do. I kneel because it seems irreverant not to, and fold my hands even though they no longer seem to fit that way. I feel a little wrong--a little pretentious. I don't believe in this, in the rituals and prayers that make sense and give purpose to so many lives. But then, if I am not this, what am I? This WAS my religion, and even though I don't consider it mine anymore, it is still a part of me. I still feel my roots tugging at me, beckoning from open chapel doors from time to time. I miss the spirituality that seems so intrinsic to the men and women here.

What do they think of me kneeling here with my pink backpack in my perhaps indecently short shorts? Are they disgusted? Insulted? Embarrassed? I don't want to be irreverant, but in reality, I can't detect any hints of disapproval. Maybe they just don't care. They are here to worship I think, after all. They are here to feel their GOD, here to bathe in that aire sagrado that is somehow different in holy places, that makes the silence transcendent. I am after all, just part of the scenery, aren't I? They aren't here to wonder about the silly vulgar gringa, estan aqui para reunirse con su salvador.