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WINTER PILGRIMAGE TO TEPEYACby Amy Martin
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The grounds of the Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Guadelupe in Mexico City -- also called La Villa de Guadelupe -- is the site of the largest pilgrimage to the Virgin Mary in the world, an estimated 12 million people each year. I'd heard about the tremendous devotion, pilgrims walking the last mile on their knees, people coming in with crutches, wheelchairs, all hoping for a miracle or giving thanks for one. None of that prepared me for intensity of the crowds. From where our Goddess GATE tour group exited the subway to the gates of the Basilica, vendors lined both sides of the walkway hawking Virgin of Tepeyac merchandise. Between them was a slowly moving river of elbow-to-elbow bodies. Once inside the gates, it was more throngs of humanity and even more vendors, filling an absolutely huge plaza with a noisy din of talking people, shouting salesmen and competing boomboxes, including one with an incredible feedback buzz. I was crestfallen. Was this really the sacred omphalos of Our Lady of Tepeyac and Tonantzin, the spiritual navel where a large part of the Great North American Goddess originated? I tried to imagine it back in 1500. Approaching from the south, I would have been paddling along the verdant Lake Texcoco, with the Mexica stronghold of Tenochitlan (teh-no-chit-lan) far to the south. Ahead of me, the jagged bluff of Tepeyac jutted out over the waters, its rocky folds hinting at the caves within. A modest temple stood open to the sky with a simple stone icon of Tonantzin inside. Men and women followers of the Earth goddess gathered at the intersection of water and earth around a small fire, incense smoking in the air, drawing upon these elemental powers in hopes of a good harvest and safe pregnancies. Located at that time in a rural area, the hill of Tepeyac was a wild place where native people had mystical encounters and drew healing water from the spring, where the Divine Feminine spoke to them in their language and sheltered them from harm. Barely 20 years later,the temple would be leveled, the goddess icon shattered and a cross put in its stead. Now swamped with people and developed with plazas, buildings and other structures, most of them in the ornate 17th century colonial baroque style, Tepeyac itself is hard to see. The top is covered by a cemetery and the Capilla del Tepeyac church. Across the front of the hill, on what used to be the Lake Texcoco shoreline, stands the original basilica along with a church and school for the natives (who weren't allowed in the main buildings). The small Capilla del Pozo encloses the well over the now-dry spring of Tepeyac, vanished with the lake which was drained by the Spanish so that Mexico City could be built on top. The original basilica, now no longer in use, visibly lists on one side, sinking into the former lake bed. It is an odd, disorienting sight. Nearby on higher ground, the new Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Guadelupe an elegant example of modern architecture the size of a football stadium oversees a huge contemporary plaza. I came to the basilica with an open heart. Not a believer in the apparition and miracle-imprint story as written, I knew how meaningful her image on the cloak had become, full of archetypal resonance and deep power, and approached it with great awe and respect. Upon entering the immense basilica, though, I was struck by the coldness of the architecture, the remoteness of the image hanging high on a back wall, and the bevy of male priests on chancel below where nary a woman had ever stood. I could not get past that schism. The flow of humanity funneled alongside dozens of pews, sloping down to a wide pedestrian way beneath the chancel where a series of moving sidewalks shuttled viewers past the image over their heads. If you're willing to put up with a crick in your neck and do the "Virgin shuffle," sidestepping madly to stay in one spot on the rolling surface, you can actually get a good look at it. I shuffled for quite some time, hoping to be absorbed in a spiritual presence, to be moved by its meaning. It never happened. I rejoined the pilgrimage flow with yet another mass of people, all headed through a doorway to the outside grounds. Children scampered everywhere as the flotsam of the faithful moved steadily up a wide stairway toward the chapel on the hilltop. Roses bloomed beyond the metal fences which enclosed any lawn or garden area on the grounds. The steps seemed to go on forever and people gathered in clusters on the numerous landings to talk and catch their breath. The hill may not have been easy to see, but I sure felt it now! Policemen prodded the masses along, periodically shrieking their whistles at rambunctious kids. Finally reaching the top, with Mexico City sprawling on the flat floodplain to the south, I could see how Tepeyac acquired its name, which means promontory. The hill was starting to feel like a classic sacred site of emergence, one that facilitates the spirit of the Earth to burst into the tangible realm. Somewhere in the forested reserve behind the chapel was a cave where the Divine Feminine spirit was said to be especially strong. But any attempts to go past the building grounds were halted by more fences; the park was closed for environmental reasons. Dismayed, I ventured into the small hilltop chapel. Built atop a temple to Tonantzin, the circa-1600s walls held great resonance, creating an aura intimate and secure. I hurried past the crowded pews to take a seat on thefloor in front. While a young priest led a service. droning on and on in Latin and Spanish, two young children and a nervous-looking older woman with indigenous features slipped into the area beside me. I had been pouting in disappointment over my Tepeyac visit until parishioners started singing "Ave Maria" in praise of the Virgin Mary. It made the hairs on my neck stick up. A sense of spirit seemed to dart above everyone's heads in the room. I started singing, too. The indigenous woman looked at me quizzically, but her body posture softened. We nudged a little closer, pressed by the thickening crowd, until the singing stopped and I departed, letting her small charges get off her lap and into my spot on the floor. Sudden shifts seemingly the theme of the day, the afternoon sunlight and expansive vista outside was in high contrast to the chapel's dim intimacy. Disoriented, I headed down the other set of broad steps, once again just passively going with the flow of pilgrims. Halfway down the hill, the stair landing spread out into a small plaza before a beautiful fountain carved right out of the promontory rock. Water burst from the stone face, cascading over boulders into a broad, gently curved reflecting pool. In the center of the spray was a larger-than-life bronze statue of the Virgin of Tepeyac. Her arms were not up in the usual prayer position, but held open to receive the carved likenesses of pilgrims before her: Spanish conquistadors, mestizos, natives, women and men, young and old, all presenting offerings with great tenderness. A vibrant, open, rock-and-water oasis amid the confining fences and manicured gardens of the basilica grounds, it was if the soul of sacred site just opened up. This receptive, rather than reflective, depiction of Our Lady of Tepeyac seemed to move people as much as the cloak in the basilica, the designing artist once again serving as a conduit to spirit. Pilgrims leaned over the reflecting pond edge, sampling the water to anoint themselves. One person dipped an infant's feet in, as if to bless its path through life. Children played, groups posed for pictures, and tourists, like rocks in a river, stood nose deep in their books as the crowd flowed around them. Someone with sad eyes kissed a flower and placed it upon the water to float away. The din of vendors‚ boomboxes and sales spiels was not to be heard here, only children's laughter and the sound of rushing water. I stood stunned at the portrait of an afternoon before me, feeling lost in time and space. Something was deeply compelling beyond this display of faith and tenderness. Linda from the tour group stepped up behind me and whispered: "Chalchiuhtlicue of the flowing waters." That was it! Centuries before she had been worshipped at this hill and now because a wealthy Mexican man wanted to memorialize his late Catholic brother with a public sculpture at the basilica, she'd been released, alive in the fountain and its faithful worshipers, merging with the Blessed Mother amid the waters on the hill of Tepeyac. Linda hustled me to where the group was lunching nearby, an outdoor café area with an incongruous Spanish galleon replica towering overhead. Scattering afterwards to squeeze in just a bit more exploration out of the little pilgrimage time left, my goal was Capilla del Pozo, or Chapel of the Well, built over the spring which was the setting for a shrine of Tonantzin. Minutes ticking away, lost amid the masses of people, I stumbled through several buildings, none of them my destination, until finally I reached the small church. I rushed past a crowd in the entry way, wandering around the chapel with its ornate baroque details, until I stepped up into an elevated area and happened to look back. The buzzing mass of people at the entry was actually huddled around an old stone well, all looking down into the lapsed spring of Tonantzin with reverence and awe. I joined them, standing next to a Mexican man showing the well to his infant daughter. I looked at the baby, she looked at me and we both peered over the edge, deep into the darkness -- into the past and the heart of the Great North American Goddess. But I had to move on. The tour group was preparing to go. In just a few hours, instead of the usual soul's pilgrimage up the mountain, this had been a journey down, from the top of Tepeyac and the Virgin's song, through the waters of Chalchiuhtlicue, to Tonantzin's underground depths. . . It was over all too soon.
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