Holy Dirt!

Once a year my grandmother Carmen (my mom’s mother) would make a pilgrimage to a tiny church in New Mexico to gather up…dirt.

Yup, dirt.

The church is called El Santuario de Chimayo. El Santuario means The Sanctuary and is tucked away off a main road outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was built in 1813 on a site where a crucifix was found three times in the early 1800s. Those of faith come to this shrine to collect dirt that seems to be infinite in supply. People either eat or mix the dirt with water or rub it on their bodies to cure various maladies. Many, like my grandmother, take a portion home with them.

My mother would offer portions of her supply to whom ever would ask, to those that believed. When I would overhear those conversations as a child I would silently scoff, “Ha, dirt!”

I was reminded of El Sanctuario in my mid thirties when I came upon in a book titled “The Power to Heal: Ancient Arts & Modern Medicine” (Smolan Moffitt Naythons) that had been gifted to my dad after his heart attack. I felt called to visit the church in honor of my grandmother, so my husband and I made a point to visit the shrine during our travels around the United States.

I didn’t know what to expect. Would this church be grand and elaborate? Would it have an air of importance? Fancy dressed people? Nope, it’s a small, rather cozy church. The only air of ambience inside is that the place is old; in a profound, energetically powerful way.

Prior to entering the small room where one gathers the dirt, I decided to sit in the pews and meditate. I could feel the layers of energy from all the people who had visited - their prayers, intentions and hopes for well being. There was a sense of a warm golden light that created an almost detectable filter to the human eye. As I sat, I connected to the spirit of my grandmother. I thanked her for her faith in prayer, for believing in the element of this dirt and how in her own way she has guided me all along on my path of healing. Then, I felt her. A warm, soft hand rested on my back, at my waist. I felt a deep, connective love. Almost as though she was saying, “I see you, I hear you and I am here with you, now and always.”

When I knelt down to gather the dirt, I felt the ritual of that motion; releasing the ego of the mind and surrendering to the heart of infinite hope and faith. I gently scooped and gathered a small amount of dirt into a plastic bag. The dirt is not like a dirt I have ever seen, even to this day.

The color is almost sand-like; a soft gray, speckled with tones of black and brown. The texture is refined - smooth - almost like flour. It feels like it is meant to shift in the shape of your hand but doesn’t easily fall away. It’s…special.

I tendered that small bag of dirt as carefully as I could during our travels and still have it. It rests in my healings space. It holds a particular energy of its own and, for me, is also infused with my grandmother’s faith and love.

After our return, I shared some dirt with my father who applied to his knee. He said the pain and swelling went away. I have applied it to my abdomen a few times in regards to my uterine fibroids and, I swear, while they didn’t disappear, the one on my lower right side did get smaller.

I have not readily offered the dirt because I believe those in need will come to me and ask, when ever that time is meant to be. In all honesty, I have also not openly said, “Hey, I have blessed dirt that can help you feel better!” - not because I am afraid of people thinking I am crazy, but more out of the fear of “what if I run out? When would I return to the shrine?” And that is all non-sense my ego is proliferating because the real fear is that letting go of all the dirt would separate me from my grandmother.

Silly, I know, but I am human.

In writing this, I know it’s time to share the dirt to whom feel called to it, to those who believe.

The way the dirt can help heal cannot be proven. People come from all over the world to El Santuario; that is a faith far traveled. The fact that the dirt still appears and never runs out is a miracle in itself. I believe is the power of one’s faith. That which is spirt or other-worldly does not need to make sense in order for it to be true.