My Prayer in Chimayo: Finding Spirituality Beyond Religion
A journey through New Mexico’s sacred places, where faith, nature, and a connection to the past converge
A deep, earthy smell emanated from the small room in front of me. I waited as two crouched women used a small black hand shovel to scoop fine soil into small silver boxes. They noticed me and hurried to finish up, being the first ones in this small adobe room for the day.
They placed the decorated silver boxes in their bags, smiled, and bent low to exit the room. I, too, bent low and entered. The room was no more than five feet square, with dark brown adobe walls.
A small four-paned window opposite the door allowed soft light to spill onto a circular pit in the center of the hardened clay floor. The light illuminated the pit, filled with “dirt.”
I knelt before the pit, picked up a handful of the “dirt,” and placed it in my palms. Pressing my hands together, I closed my eyes. A surge of energy seemed to rise from the ground and blast into my mind.
I lowered my head, and then I did something I hadn’t done in decades — I prayed.
“You’re old enough now to not go if you don’t want to,” my father said as he sat in his lawn chair by the garbage cans outside. He lifted a beer bottle to his mouth and took a long, hard pull. It was Sunday morning, and my mother was pestering us to get ready for the Kingdom Hall.
She had converted, along with my aunt, seven years ago to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. My sister and I were dragged along every Sunday to listen to sermons about the ills of “the system.”
This conversion was a major point of contention between my father and mother, one of the key issues that strained their marriage. He despised the Jehovah’s Witnesses and saw how their preaching began to warp his wife’s mind.
I wouldn’t understand what my father went through until years later, but on that day, he had my back because he knew I couldn’t stand spending three hours there every Sunday.
I went inside and told my mother that I wouldn’t be going anymore. At first, she didn’t believe me and just said, “Stay home this week,” but that was the first Sunday I left the cult. I was lucky; my sister wasn’t. She stayed in the cult until her divorce decades later.
I’m a man of science, reason, and logic. In my current view, religion and “woo-woo” stuff have no place. That’s not to say I didn’t explore my spiritual side and different religions in my mid-teens through my early 30s — I did.
For a while, I thought all religions were ladders to God, that invisible man in the sky. I tried to be a peaceful person and believed that wisdom could come from all sides.
But as time went on, I realized that organized religion is a bane to society.
I watched how modern organized religions were used to control people. I saw how violent rhetoric spread from pulpits worldwide, used to justify everything from killing infidels to bombing abortion clinics. I witnessed friends, colleagues, and co-workers become convinced that their particular brand of religion was the only right one.
I remember telling a friend, a converted Mormon, about a South Park episode where all the religious people end up in Hell and wonder why they’re there. The Hell director says that the correct answer — the right religion — was being Mormon. I thought he’d find it funny. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and, with a serious, matter-of-fact tone, said, “Yes, that’s right.”
I was stunned at what he said and I didn’t believe that Mormonism was the right answer, so I kept searching for the right answer.
I explored Buddhism, then Shamanism, then back to Christianity. I even paid $10 to become a minister of the Universal Life Church. I was all over the map, trying to piece things together, trying to satisfy my spiritual hunger.
The only thing that truly soothed my hunger pangs was being outside in the New Mexico deserts, the mountains, and the canyons. The inner chatter in my head would quiet, and I would feel connected and happy.
In the book Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya, the wise curandera Ultima explains to the main character, Antonio, about the “presence”. It’s the feeling sensitive people pick up in nature or its surroundings.
It’s that feeling of awe, beauty, and the realization of how small we humans are in this vast world. It’s the connection to the web of life, to something ancient, deep, and mysterious beyond our understanding. It’s a sense of appreciation for the world we call home.
We got up early that morning and had a delicious breakfast burrito with green chile from the hotel kitchen. My partner and I, along with another couple, planned to drive the high road to Taos and explore this scenic route. Our first stop was Chimayo, a small town with a sanctuary that boasts having magical “dirt” to heal the sick.
I’ve loved Chimayo ever since I lived in New Mexico, not for the magical dirt, but because it’s home to a rare heirloom chile plant and a vibrant community of local artists. It’s a place where the man roasting your piñon coffee in the morning might also be a beloved local artist. It’s a place of humility and kindness, where tradition, religion, and community are tightly woven together.
Chimayo has a presence all its own, whispering history, magic, and a deep connection to the land.
We arrived just after 10 AM, parked along a ditch, and walked to the Protrero plaza. Early morning worshipers were gathering for mass as more tourists arrived, strolling around the church grounds. My partner and friends wandered while I felt drawn to a small room on the left side of the church building.
Inside, I saw religious paraphernalia hanging on the walls. There was a steel pot with a lid and spout for holy water and, of course, a donation box. Photos of young men and women, lost to war or tragedy, adorned the walls, urging visitors to pray for them.
Ahead of me was the small room where the magical healing “dirt” lay in a circular pit. The story goes that this pit was where an ancient cross of Jesus was found, and its holy nature blessed the dirt. Believers think the soil can heal the sick and spiritually afflicted.
I noticed the two women shoveling dirt into small, ornate silver boxes. As the ambient morning light shone onto the pit, they noticed me and quickly finished up, ducking low with a smile before hurrying outside.
I, too, ducked low and entered the small room. The weight of religious tradition pressed down on me, but I tried to shrug it off. Yet, the moment my hand touched the dirt on that cool, hard floor, my eyes welled up with tears. I felt compelled to scoop a handful, clasp my hands in prayer, and bow my head.
A surge of energy shot through my body, and I saw my place in the web of life, illuminated and connected across time and space. I opened my heart and mind and prayed.
I prayed not to God or Jesus or any organized deity — I prayed for the people. I prayed for the sick children, for those fighting against the odds for a chance to live. I prayed for the young who sought guidance and protection.
I prayed for my aging mother and my family. I heard the voices of my grandparents, aunts, and uncles who had passed, their presence a gentle chorus reaching out.
I felt my father’s presence, too.
I prayed for our Mother Earth and all the people — the kind and compassionate, and those striving to be. I asked for forgiveness for my mistakes and for the times I had hurt others.
I was overwhelmed. My tears streamed down my cheeks, and a single drop fell onto the cold floor, mingling with the dirt falling from my hands.
At that moment, I felt my prayer take flight, and I felt forgiven.
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