We are going to the Madonna del Deserto, a place I had been once with my aunt and uncle many years ago. It is a monastery, and it’s not in a desert but in deep, deep woods.
After some debate on how to get there, we decide to ask the gardener, a young man who is known to know everything, and it turns out he does know this at least—don’t know about everything else but I can testify that he knows this. It’s good to have such a person around, the proverbial know-it-all, who is annoying when he tells you things he knows but useful when he knows what you don’t know, which by definition is a lot.
We are referring to the place incorrectly as the Madonna del Deserto, it’s really the Eremo del Deserto. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it. Eremo, schmeremo. Once we get that straightened out, so we are clear on where we really want to go, he directs us, “Take the road to Le Faie, and then turn right.” Indeed.
We are headed inland from the coast, uphill. As we turn off the more “main” road, the road gets narrower and more curvy, basically a one-lane two-way road where because of the curves you can only see a few meters in front of you. Harrowing. My aunt tells me to honk on the corners, that’s how it’s done. I feel it’s not manly so I don’t do it, until I get a good scare from an oncoming car, and then I get with the program, I do how it’s done.
After many, many curves, we arrive. It’s a plain fairly large building in an open spot in the woods. There is an old caretaker tending to the front of the building. We walk into the church, light a candle. Then we walk up a short Via Crucis, up a little incline in the woods. There’s something about a Via Crucis that I like. It’s not the spirituality of it, I’m not spiritual, that doesn’t grab me, but there’s something about it, the structure, the symbolism, the fact that in unexpected places you see a cross, then another cross, and you realize it’s a Via Crucis. It’s a universal understanding. In Doylestown, Pennsylvania, there’s a little garden next to the church with a Via Crucis. You see one cross, then another cross, and you realize it’s a Via Crucis.
We go in the little shop. My aunt buys my mother a little medallion and I buy two soaps. George has really no use for any of this. A building in the woods, what?
On the return home, we decide to proceed forward along the road rather than retracing our itinerary. The road continues to be delightfully narrow and frightening. I honk constantly, one hand on the wheel, one hand on the horn—not easy to do.
We get to a little stream with a little room to park the car, so we stop. George loves the stream, finally something he can appreciate. We go to streams all the time in Bucks County, here is something familiar--finally something with which he has a connection!
