Sunday Scribblings.... Pilgrimage

There was only one place outside of Buenos Aires that I really wanted to get to during my visit to my son at Christmas-time, and that was the town of Quilmes. And specifically, I wanted to visit the cemetary there, to pay my respects at the resting-place of May Maxwell. An American Baha'i, who lived most of her life in Canada, and was known as the "Mother of the Canadian Baha'i community", she passed away in Buenos Aires in 1940, and knowing I would be that close to her grave, I felt drawn to go to pay my respects, to say a little prayer.

Sylvia, the tour guide who took us around the city one day, knew nothing about a cemetary in Quilmes, but said she'd find out, and make arrangements for a driver to bring us out there. It's normally a 40-minute drive, but we chose to leave at noon, which of course, had us sitting in slow traffic as we traversed the city. I didn't mind that much, as it gave me a chance to people-watch. How do people manage to look so cool and elegant in this heat? was my constant wondering question!


We passed by skyscrapers and bridges, parks and schools, the port, blocks of apartments... out to the city's outskirts where odd little groupings of rough huts were obviously also home to some of the poorest of the city's people. On we went, and soon found ourselves traversing the streets of Quilmes, which was a far bigger town than we'd expected. I was glad we hadn't opted to travel by train. Who knows how far we'd have had to walk to get to the cemetary from the station?

As soon as our driver had left us off, just inside the gates of the cemetary, I began to walk down the path, and just a short distance along, I spotted what I knew was May Maxwell's gravestone. I'd seen a picture, and it is very distinctive.

What a peaceful spot it was. The only sounds were gentle birdsong and what seemed like far-distant traffic. There was no special ritual I needed to perform. A few silent prayers, a few moments communing with the spirit of a woman who had given so much to my faith, whose daughter became the wife of the Guardian of the Baha'i Faith, (and whose home I had the pleasure of visiting during my 1991 pilgrimage to the Holy Land).

As I began to explore the area around the grave, I realised that quite a few Baha'is have been buried in the vicinity, so the gravestones about bore, in Spanish, phrases and quotes from our Writings. Some, I could identify, and others I could only repeat the words without being sure of their meaning. I found it very comforting to encounter the symbols and words of my Faith here, and I was so glad that my son and I had made this small pilgrimage, that I had visited her resting-place and paid my respects.

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This "pilgrimage" is for this week's Sunday Scribblings. There was a problem with Mr Linky on the site, but it seems to be fixed now. If not, check the Sunday Scribblings comments section for links to other pilgrimages.

A Pilgrimage

First: If you haven't yet read my post about Jen Ballantyne, please do. She's an incredible woman who needs help, support, caring, prayers, people to witness her experience of cancer. Thank you.
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This past weekend, I went to spend a few days in Sligo, a town I'd once lived in for 16 years. That's where I moved to when I first left home. It's where I had my first home of my own, where I grew up really: where I became responsible for my own life - paying my own electricity bill and buying my first TV and washing-machine. That's the town where I got married, where we set up home together, and where my son was born. He lived the first 9 years of his life there.

We left almost 13 years ago, and of course I've been back since - for family things, to visit friends, and so on, but I began to feel lately a real urge to go and spend a few days there, going to the places we used to take our Sunday drives to; revisiting not in nostalgia, but in order to claim these places now for myself.

I didn't create a real itinerary. The friend I stayed with was working on Friday, so I had all day to go where the wind might blow me, and that's what I did. I had vague ideas about where I might go, but wasn't sure until I saw where my car took me. I began at the cemetery where my erstwhile husband's parents are buried and paid my respects. It was my first chance to be there since my father-in-law's passing last year.

From there, out of town, and heading up a hill and around by Lough Gill, I found myself at a special place that I've always loved to visit. The Holy Well at Tobernalt is a peaceful little space which shelters a mass rock. A stream flows through the area, and dotted around are "rag bushes" where people leave tokens - ribbons, hair-ties, beads.There are 2 or 3 holly trees with branches laden with all sorts of things. I noticed a toy car, a glove, a harmonica, a tea-bag wrapper. Lately, I've become a candle-lighter, so I lit a candle. I walked through the area, soaking up the atmosphere of peace and prayer that pervades this spot.

At Dooney rock, I found violets peeping out of the growth of wild garlic leaves, moss and ivy. I love violets. Spring is here.

I stood on the shore of the lake, looking towards the spot where I'd had my first flat. (On the far shore, to the left)

Driving on around the lake, a drive that was so familiar to me at one time, I just enjoyed being in that countryside again. I stopped at another graveyard, where friends had buried their little daughter, Grace Alice, who died a scant couple of weeks before my own son was born. Her white gravestone bears an epigraph from Baha'i writings: "Let her drink deep from the cup of Thy love"

Rain started up, and I took to the road again, back around the lake to come into the town from another direction. I decided to go to Drumcliffe, one of my favourite stops. I've shared photos HERE from a previous visit to WB Yeats' resting-place. Nearby is the remains of a round tower, and a fine 11th century Celtic Cross

I had my lunch in Drumcliffe, and then drove out towards the sea, through the grounds of Lissadell house (and noted I'll be wanting to visit there later in the season, when the gardens begin to show themselves at their best). I came to the stoney beach at Raghley. I'd only ever visited here a handful of times in the past. The wind was literally howling at this stage, and I needed to wrap my scarf tight around me, fasten up my coat, wear my fleece hat in order to walk that beach even for a short stroll. It was worth it. The wind blew away my cobwebs. I gathered some stones. By the time I turned to go back to town, I felt renewed, revived. My pilgrimage was complete.

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On Saturday, my friend and I went for a seaweed bath. That completed the renewal for me! I felt like a mermaid, emerging from the sea! Glorious! Add to that good company and good food for the remainder of the weekend, why wouldn't I feel revived, restored? It was wonderful!