Rocamadour; My Own Journey

Rocamadour is a tiny medieval village perched high above on a cliff, overlooking one of the most beautiful deep green valleys below.  It sits so precariously on the edge, almost dangling,  that one fears it could topple off.  I went there this weekend to be refreshed and restored and feel called to share my own story of Rocamadour and me.

It is one of the most visited sites in southwestern France, but that is not what keeps drawing me there. I happened upon Rocamadour purely by accident in 1989.

I was driving in the south of France year with daughter Aimée, who had just finished her sophomore year at Tulane.  We were without any precise travel plans and in need of a stop for the night.

Flipping through a travel book, I came across Rocamadour, and with only a brief description, and decided to head there.  I was unfamiliar with the area and It was getting dark driving through the zig zag roads that wind all over the countryside.   It was close to 9:30 pm and I  was getting worried that I might be lost.

Before long, I found myself trailing a long line of cars, which was strange as earlier I had felt alone on the road.     Stalled in line, suddenly someone tapped on the window and asked if a had a ticket.   A ticket to what I thought?  To enter into the town?

As it turned out, I was in line to the entrance of the valley, where all had come to a sound and light spectacle detailing the history of Rocamadour.  The beauty of the village lit only by candlelight that night suddenly came alive and was caught in an energy that would later guide me on a journey I never expected.

It was August the 14, the eve of Assumption of Mary Holy Theotokos, the most crowded time in Rocamadour. Therefore not a room to rest my head could be found.   Obliged to sleep in the valley in my little car,  we awoke to tinkling bells of Ave Maria and the strange sounds I had never heard before.  They sounded like magnified breath sounds one hears in a stethoscope.

Peering out the car, I saw the top of a hot air balloon slowly be rising with hot air.  Blackberries awaited to be picked made for a meager breakfast before climbing the many steps up to the city.  The steps were steep and seemed endless as we slowly made our way upward.

Finally to the top, we stumbled into the tiny Chapel of Notre Dame de Rocamadour. It was now August 15 th, a very special day for  Catholics, who celebrate the Assumption of Mary into Heaven.  It was very dark inside, lit only by the flames of votive candles and a Mass was being said in English, which I considered rather strange.

Afterwards, I said hello to the Priest and learned he was Irish leading a small pilgrimage from his parish.   He looked at me astoundingly and asked what were Americans doing in these parts.  Before I could answer, a women said with much assurance ” but Father, the Lady must have called her”.

Driving away I kept hearing her words echo in my ears and the seeing the image of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour etched in my memory  Back home in Louisiana, I knew something was stirring in me that was different but was never able to put it in words and give it a specific meaning.

As it turned out, there was indeed a seed planted in my heart that sprouted in its own time.    Although I grew up Protestant, a devout little Episcopalian girl, I always had a strong reverence for Mother Mary.  I wanted to become Catholic at age 18, but was dissuaded by my mother.   Perhaps it was not my time.

I became fascinated by the history of  Notre Dame de Rocamadour which is mysterious as all things of the Spirit.  Even before 800, there was a tiny chapel built out from the wall of the cliff that had a small black statue of the Vierge Noire.    A hermit, Saint Amadour, whose body was found intact and incorrupt around 1166 was said to have created the enclove that is today the  chapel Notre Dame de Rocamadour.   Soon stories of miracles associated with Her circulated wide and far.

There is a strong and widely believed tradition that the south of France was Christianized by several followers of Jesus who sailed across the Mediterranean sea and arrived at Saints Maries de la Mer not far from Marseille. Most prominent was Saint Mary Magdalen who remained in the region and was buried near a grotto at La Saint Baume.

One of several who accompanied Mary Magdalene, was said to have been  Zacchaeus, the tax collector who had climbed a tree in Jericho and spoke to Jesus when he arrived, inviting him to his house for dinner.  His wife Veronique, who was healed by touching the garment of Jesus, was with him.

From the Mediterranean coast, they traveled northwest and settled on the  rocky cliff, where he preached the gospel.  He certainly had a penchant for high places with a view! Zacchaeus was said to be one and the same Saint Amadour, and the black statue of the Virgin Mary was believed to have been carved by Saint Luke.

By 1166, the fame of Rocamadour has so spread that kings of France and popes made pilgrimages there.  It became the most important and visited Marian spiritual retreat for those in need of healing or seeking solace from their pain.

Notre Dame de Rocmamdour is also noted for saving those lost at sea. There is a bell that would ring on its own denoting that a rescue had taken place because of her intercession, the dates verified by survivors listed on a wall of the chapel.

This past weekend was the celebrated birthday of the Blessed Virgin, so there is always a torch and candlelight procession at night as there is for the eve of Assumption.  Holding my little candle flickering in the wind, and singing Ave Maria, I felt transported in a trance like state, while walking on the old stones.

The tiny medieval streets were lined with candles and  in climbing the many stairs up to the sanctuaries and chapel, I felt an unexplainable peace and joy to  participate again in this ancient ritual.   It is very sobering to me to retrace the footsteps of millions of pilgrims who have gone before me.

Rocamadour has welcomed for over a hundreds of years year pilgrims on their way to St. Jacque Compostela and one can see fossilized scallop shells embedded in the steps. It was a custom many years ago to crawl on your knees up the 216 steps as a sign of reverence and probably for penitence too, as it must have been very painful to do!

This past weekend, I met several other pilgrims, who unlike me,  were walking the ancient paths of St. Jacques Compostela.  They had their little scallop shell fixed on their backpacks, and told me that they covered about 20  kilometers a day.   I must say I have much admiration for their courage and the physical strength to accomplish such a feat.

We all have need to create within our world a spiritual space and journey to lead us beyond the day-to-day problems and chores.   A time to rearrange our priorities of life and seek the sacredness dwelling within ourselves.

Rocamadour is a place that has such sweet energy.  Soft clouds of maternal tenderness fill the air. Touching the old walls and pillars of the chapel pulls me into a time before me, where many have passed with the same human burdens and pains we all carry in life.

Rocamadour is a place of miracles as testified by the many plaques of thanksgiving adorning he walls.  Something mysterious happens to those who hearts are open and seeking.  When writing or talking about our mystical experiences, I find there can not be adequate words to explain and maybe with good reason.

Our hearts know a language that has no words.  We are more than just bodies and brain moving aimlessly through our lives.  We each are interconnected to a universal divine Spirit that goes beyond any religious dogma or doctrine.

It is that Spirit and the maternal tenderness of Notre Dame de Rocamadour that keeps calling back to be refreshed and nourished by her Love.  Even when I am not physically present in her chapel, Her image I carry with me always.  With much gratitude I was able to be back this weekend and pray that I return to Her source.