stop in the name of love
You shall not pass, Hasta Aquí, Madre Mia
enough already
The earthquake that I first read about in Sagres - the famous earthquake of 1755 - I am meeting a new story about it here in Cádiz.
It was the morning of All Saints Day. November 1.
Wind. Waves 8 feet high lashing the city of Cádiz, breaking the beach, approaching closer to the streets, the people mute with terror. The ripple effects of an earthquake that had already destroyed much of Lisbon. In the barrio of La Viña, in the parish of La Palma, the people were at church, praying for death, hoping for life. Enter the parish priest, el párroco, I love the sound of that word in Spanish -párroco,. He clutched his rosary and went out to face the sea and the waves - just himself. He held out his hand and said to the waves:
De aquí, no pases. Wave, you shall not pass. In another version of the story, he says, Hasta aquí, Madre mia.
And the wave fell down, and the sea stopped and calm came to the barrio. So the story goes.
I went to that street, that spot last Sunday. There is a painting of the Virgen de La Palma, a sign showing how high the waves were and two plaques, one old, one new telling the story of the priest of La Palma. And there are tables laid out for afternoon lunch. The name of the párroco was Francisco Macias. You shall not pass. Wild to imagine that scene long ago. The day I went, I passed a slew of restaurants that seem - to me- to cater to Sunday day trippers. There are big signs with menus and prices and they seem extra expensive.
When I was in Jerez in winter of 2018 for 2 months, I used to come to Cádiz to sing at the side of the sea. I remember the café on this street where I would sit and have coffee.
Today, I went there again. A couple was sitting across from me, the girl laughing and kissing, nestled into her boyfriend. She couldn’t seem to stop touching him, her whole body was hunched over into his. She seemed so the epitome of simper, a giggly girl and I judged her for it. But I smiled anyway into my coffee, and wrote in my journal. Her voice was high pitched as she talked on the phone and laughed some more. Then her boyfriend got up and paid and went out on the street and she went to the bathroom. I relished having an empty table beside me, giggle free.
Then she returned from the bathroom, went out to the street and paused for a second. I happened to look up and she caught my gaze as if she had been watching me too. She nodded at me as if she had wanted to be seen by me, as if she had registered something in me. It was a really beautiful scene. This young girl with a shock red hair, standing in profile, looking back at me, wanting to connect somehow. I smiled at her, totally disarmed. I don’t know what it was about me that had resonated with her. I had felt so distant and disconnected from her. But when she looked at me, I felt so humbled and so moved to see her fully — and to be conscious of my quick judgement. She was artless in that moment, just herself and I was just myself. She stood straight as she looked at me, there was not one hint of giggle or simper in her body. Natural. Defenseless. True.
Saeta. Arrow. That word comes to mind as I write now. In flamenco, it is a song sung seco, dry, without any musical accompaniment, and it is sung often during Lent. I heard a saeta yesterday sung by David Pino in a class by Faustino Nuñez, about the different palos, styles of flamenco. David also sang por tónas, which are some of the earliest sounds of flamenco, unadorned, simple, fierce, and then he sang fandangos personales - all songs that arrow straight into the heart. One of them, first sung by El Carbonerillo, goes like this:
Te quiero porque te quiero y no porque tú me quieras
Te quiero porque te quiero y no porque tú me quieras
I love you because I love you and not because you love me
love. always love. love to the sea, love to who is not present, love to who are living and dying in Ukraine, in Russia, in Palestine, in Syria, in Yemen, love to all the wars I’ve never known, love to the peace I hope for. Stop war in the name of love. And so the story went, one Sunday in Cádiz by the sea.
