I know what you’re thinking but it’s not that kind, though that would be nice.
I’m talking human kindness—that kind of love. Let me explain:
Yesterday I was invited to travel to San Sabastian Bernal with my new friends, Carol and Gracie. Bernal was designated by the Mexican government as a Pueblo Mágico in 2005. This is an initiative led by Mexico's Secretariat of Tourism to promote a series of towns around the country that offer visitors a “magical” experience—by reason of their natural beauty, cultural riches, or historical relevance and is supposed to help broaden Mexico’s tourism beyond sun and beaches. Aside from the hype, Bernal truly is magical.
Overlooking Bernal is Peña de Bernal. I’ve heard conflicting statistics about Peña de BernaI: First that it’s the third tallest rock in the world, following Gibralter, then Ayers. But then I found an article about a new study led by researchers at the National Autonomous University of Mexico released in 2013 that stated Peña de Bernal is actually the tallest freestanding rock in the world at 1,421 feet (433 meters). Gibralter is 1,398 feet (426 meters).
I had to climb it and I had to take Michael and Ben. Of course I couldn’t climb to the top—that takes a qualified rock climber. We drove up as far as we could go, then started following the crowd up the rocky path, past the baños, vendors, eateries, and trash receptacles. I felt like I was on my own Mexican Camino de Santiago. Up we went. I registered our little party of three in a small shack, and then continued on. As we clambered up the steep rocky steps, the crowd grew thinner and I lost my companions. High up on the side of the mountain, there was a flat rock that might do—an alter of sorts. I could leave Ben’s and Michael’s ashes there, but something tugged at me to keep climbing. I could see people high up on the side of a ridge. Up steep steps and a sign: Peligro! Valore su Vida. Danger. Value your life. Of course, the perfect place for my son, and I’m pretty sure Ben too. I carefully climbed out on the (luckily) dry, smooth, rock to an outcropping and sat with my son and my friend, interspersing their ashes high up on the side of this magical place.
I didn’t cry. I felt peace, sadness, and deep, deep loss. But I didn’t cry. As I turned to leave this aerie high up on the side of Peña Bernal, a young woman who must have been watching me looked up at me with tenderness and smiled. It reminded me of the strong, strong love I sensed after Michael died; how I realized it is why we are here; it is the god we try to explain, the essence of our existence. I broke. I sobbed as I crawled my way across the slick rock. Then, as I stumbled down past the danger sign, a young man reached out and took my hand to help me down the steep slope to the path. Love.
The night previous to our trek to Bernal, as I was walking I noticed a gathering of people outside a home. When I had passed earlier in the day, two men were inside, joking and happy, engrossed in something. As I walked by about four hours later there was a truck stopped outside in the middle of the road, a big black car behind it, and a crowd of grief-stricken people gathered around. Somebody pulled a stretcher out, then a coffin. I stopped for as long as I could but didn’t want to intrude, so continued on my way, a deep sadness engulfing me—remembering the shock of Michael’s death and how our little family gathered on the front porch as dozens of neighbors and friends made their way over to grieve with us, an impromptu wake. This morning, on my way to meet my ride to Bernal, I noticed a few of the crowd still sitting outside, this time in folding chairs, the wake continuing. Wanting to convey the love I felt, I walked up to the nearest group of people and said in my inelegant and imperfect Spanish that I was sorry for their death and that I loved them. They cried and held my hand. Love.
