Mary Magdalene's Feast Day and... Beauty

On this day in Provence, in the South of France,

this reliquary, said to house part of the tibia 

and a lock of hair of Mary Magdalene,

is brought out and sent through the town in procession. 

And around the world, she is honored

as representing the Divine Feminine and its resurgence.

While there are probably countless definitions of this concept,

for me it is about bringing back balance,

with both masculine and feminine energies, 

to the patriarchal world and time we find ourselves in. 

It's about living within our power,

about empathy and understanding, forgiveness of others, 

about healing and the sacred of your own feminine energy. 

It's about High Priestess energy. 

(Visitor's notes to Mary Magdalene in her cave at La Baume)

And this weekend, on the eve of the Magdalene's Feast Day,

we also celebrated and honored another red-headed Marianne.

My friend of thirty years passed last week

and many of her friends gathered in her backyard garden, 

filled with the flowers, images, fairy lights and people that she loved,

to honor her, to feel her, speak of her,

to hold on and to let her go with love. 

She was/is a High Priestess of Beauty, 

creating it everywhere she turned,

from morning to night. 

And many of the things I mentioned about the Divine Feminine

are the things people spoke about my friend and honored her for. 

In one area of her decorated yard sat a table 

with a bouquet of beautiful pieces of paper 

and a canister of colored pencils. 

And from her pear tree, budding with fruit, hung colored ribbons. 

The tree, surrounded with bouquets of flowers, 

 became a Blessing Tree where many of us wrote wishes or blessings to her

and hung it from the tree's ribbons. 

Go in peace, Beauty! 

Your heart has filled us with such richness.

May you soar high and free

and tease us often with glimpses. 

I will miss you forever!  

Marianne 'Octavia Hunter' Galloway 

* 1/7/67- 7/15/18 *

(Photos copyright: Kirsten Steen)

Happy Magdalene Feast Day~ July 22nd

Two years ago in June, I made the journey to La Baume, 

Mary Magdalene's cave in the South of France. I started out nervous though excited to make the trip to the cave in Provence alone but in the end, I was determined to protect that sacred space of my own pilgrimage. And I've struggled to process what the journey meant for me. 

It was a breaking out... of my perpetual fear, out of my comfort zone and my reluctance and avoidance of "religion." It was a diving in... to Gratitude, into the Sacred, into myself. It was a partial melding of my own spirituality, which I've been cultivating since I was 19, with the powerful spirituality of the ages. 

Everything I needed while there opened itself up to me literally within seconds, as if there were absolutely no lag time between the thought of what one wants or needs and the universe providing it. It was twenty four hours of pure awe and full on Power. In fact, everything I needed to get myself there to make the journey opened itself up to me easily as well. And I've been there in my mind nearly every day since. And been changed by it. I have felt called, as one of the many voices, to help bring forth her message which is why she became part of my novel. And I'm excited to have made the commitment to make the journey again with someone who has wanted to go and with my partner who had to miss the trip last time. 

You can read about my journey and see photos of the cave and surrounds here in 

Part 1 and Part 2.

(Photo copyright: Kirsten Steen) 

Happy St. Mary Magdalene's Feast Day (and MM's Cave Part 2)

***Continuation from Mary Magdalene's Cave in Provence Part 1***

Arriving back at the abbey (l'Hostellerie de la Sainte Baume) after my first trek to the cave, there was not enough time to shower before dinner so I cleaned up as best I could and hoped there might be other weary travelers at the table as possibly ripe as myself.

Meals at the hostellerie are served cafeteria/family style at specified times. Guests are seated along several long tables in a large window-filled room while the nuns sit together at their own table, secluded amongst themselves.

 While each day of the week offers a different menu,

 my one evening here, dinner began with a plate of tiny cubed beets with vinaigrette, baskets of sliced baguette and a carafe each of red and white wine.

 Across the table from me, three middle-aged women were clearly together and next to me an older gentleman, all of whom spoke quietly in French as they passed the bread and wine. The only woman to speak English ventured to ask me a few questions and then tried, occasionally, to keep me informed of the conversation.

 

The women were staying through the week and talked about the paths they had chosen up to the cave, their curiosity about the building next to it (what I guessed were the Priest's accommodations in between services), and what each did for a living. The older gentleman talked about how difficult it had been to find the abbey (on which we all agreed) and a book he had found about the cave at another site.  

Dinner arrived in the form of thick chicken cutlets, semolina and fruit for dessert. Meals are for specified times and the young nuns who served began clearing away food while the older man was still eating. The women at my table tsk'd as they talked, pointing their fingers at him. The English-speaker told me they were unhappy that he wasn't allowed to finish his dinner in his own time.

After dinner I desperately wanted to retire to my room for a hot shower but stopped to peruse the many plaques hanging in the foyer. Each one told of a different century in the care-taking and history of the cave. 

And as I looked around, I realized that every plaque, every piece of artwork, every bit of information centered on Mary Magdalene and the history of the cave.

 I stood in front of the glass door to the chapel and peered in. The English-speaker at dinner opened the door, then turned to me and said, "You can enter." I followed her in and noticed several murals on the walls along the pews. Again, each one was a part of Mary's story. Not having spent much time in churches during my childhood, it seemed to me that the ones I had been in usually told the story of Christ, he being the central figure. I loved that here, Mary was central. 

The murals depicted Magdalene in a boat, standing outside the cave and surrounded by angels. The chapel itself took the shape of a cross with the pews and murals along the base with two wings creating the T. In the left wing sat a piano where a young man played classical tunes, a young woman by his side. In the right wing, another small chapel with the 3 women from my dinner table. I watched them as we listened to the music and they whispered quietly together, staring peacefully at the altar and eventually separating to pray and wander alone. 

I sat in one of the pews taking in the paintings of MM and listening to the pianist practice classical pieces I didn't recognize but which didn't sound like religious hymns. At one point, an older nun came in, stopped suddenly in the center of the aisle, cocked her head as if trying to place the music and then huffed right back out the door (by which I took to mean it was not her kind of music.)

I finally retired to my room and took the best hot shower I can remember, still not having gotten warmed up after my trip to the cave. I settled into my single bed with my lap desk to jot down notes about my first cave visit, occasionally peering out my window to watch a herd of tiny kittens scamper together in the nun's courtyard. 

The next morning I joined the same group for breakfast, then hurried to pack up my room for their rather early (9am) checkout time. I packed the car and went in to the nearby gift shop where I'd seen a purple amethyst gem tree like the one I had as a kid. As a young adult, I'd given mine to a friend (who had long since lost track of it) and I hadn't seen another like it until I arrived here. 

So I bought it, packed it in the car and went to the Hostellerie's gift shop where I picked out 2 medallions of Mary Magdalene, 2 of the Archangel St. Michael and 2 bookmarks. One of each for myself and one for a friend who lives outside of Paris and whose eyes lit up when I told her of my upcoming journey. She told me her aunt made the trek to MM's cave every single year. I stuffed the medallions in my pocket to make the journey back up to the cave with me and I set out once again.

This time I took the path to the left, knowing what I would find at the top but like last time, not knowing what it would do to me, how it might change me. Again I chanted words in my head. The words Merci. And Mary Magdalene. And Thank You. My pilgrimage of gratitude and guidance. 

 I stopped for short breaks and took photos of hearts I found continuously along the path. When I got to the top, I again arrived during a service and waited outside in the courtyard with a few others.

 I watched one of the women from my dining table crouch before the courtyard's statue of Mother Mary holding the body of her crucified son, Magdalene crying at their feet. The woman rocked back and forth and held her hands together in prayer. One of the other women joined her and they locked hands, crouching together. 

I finally edged my way into the cave and slid into the nearest pew to watch and listen until the service was over. Then I wandered the cave for a 2nd time... and looked for places where a woman could have slept inside a freezing cave. 

This time when I went downstairs, I pulled the 4 medallions from my pocket and held them in one hand while I dipped the other in the pool of cave water the monks had tried to fence off. Using my right hand, I cupped the cave's own holy water to my left hand and soaked the medallions with it. Then I did what I always do with holy water in any church I enter wherever I am traveling: I rubbed a drop of it at the site of the 3rd eye, the 6th chakra, the place of intuition and wisdom. And from the small pile of leaves that had fallen from the two potted olive trees, I pocketed a couple which now sit on my altar at home near the amethyst gem tree and medallions, all of which I consider my gifts from Mary Magdalene.

(The identical medallions blessed with the cave's holy water I sent to my friend in France.)

On the backside of the altar, I took a staircase I'd missed the day before. 

At the top sat another statue of Mary Magdalene,

the area beneath her strewn with notes written to her

or the names of those prayed for in her name.

Each of the stained glass windows depicted a story with MM.

And a laminated poster board told the locations of each statue 

and stained glass window and its history. 

Most of my 2nd day in the cave I spent asking for guidance, praying for my channels to be open, for help finishing my novel (which includes MM) and for my writing to grow. And for the people I loved and my deep appreciation and gratitude for the blessings in my life.

When I first put Mary Magdalene in my novel, it was with what felt like guidance to do so. But when I began asking for further guidance about her role in the book, I heard very little. I meditated on it, I prayed, I listened, I got scared in the quiet. Finally, I did a meditation putting myself in the cave with her... and   the   Guidance.  Was.  Huge.  Apparently, I had to come to her. And I decided someday, some way, I would get myself to her cave in the South of France.

When my family announced they were spending 2 months in Provence in the summer of 2015

and inviting all family and friends to come visit for any length of time,

I put us down for a couple of weeks about a year before the scheduled date. 

As it drew near, I began to question the wisdom of taking 2 weeks vacation 

when things were feeling tight

and my partner wasn't sure yet he could make it. 

Then I looked at a map...

and suddenly realized 

MM's cave 

was not far from Aix en Provence,

which was not far from Avignon

which was very close to where we were staying. 

And I KNEW why I had to go. 

And somehow I am different...

not only for having made this journey,

but for making it alone. 

I was able to break through barriers of fear,

so many fears of doing this by myself:

of making reservations by phone with a monk who doesn't speak English,

of driving myself there alone, of finding it alone, 

walking it alone. 

And now at any given time or place at any moment's notice,

I am back there in my mind. In her cave. Back there in the mystical, special, holiness of it.

And I am changed again.

When I returned to my family's vacation house, the first question to me was,

"Well, was it for real??!!" 

And I had to answer that it doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter because the centuries of prayer to her, with her, for her still linger in the air, 

painted onto wet walls, dripping and skimming the surface of the pools making them holy,

filling them with the magical essence of prayer. 

The people who inhabit it every single day to offer services, 

to sing and pray and feel what is there all make it real. 

Their belief, CENTURIES of belief and prayer, makes it real.  

I can't say if she truly slept there,

if she spent the last years of her life and widowhood there

or if her relics actually grace the inside of the stunning reliquary

but today,

on St. Mary Magdalene's Feast Day,

crowds of believers will carry what they believe to be her relics 

through the town in communal reverence. 

And I will return to see her again.

Happy Feast Day! 

(Photos copyright: Kirsten Steen)

Mary Magdalene's Cave in Provence, Part 1

     (My favorite scene right outside my bedroom door)

My partner and I had hoped this past late spring to make the 45 DAY pilgrimage through France and Spain along the Camino to Santiago de Compostela but work had kept him too busy. I was spending two weeks in Provence with family so decided to make the 45 MINUTE  pilgrimage to Mary Magdalene's cave (the time it takes from the Hostellerie up the mountain path to the cave) on my own.
                                                      
                             I was off on an adventure to La Baume... BY MYSELF!

The story is that after Christ's death, Mary Magdalene, with several others, set sail on a small boat (one legend says they were set afloat with no sails or oars) landing in the South of France where they spread the teachings of Christ. Mary is said to have lived the remaining 30 years of her life in the cave of La Baume. 

So this summer, from my family's rented compound (an exquisite mini-chateau built in the 1600's... and pigeon house from the 1100's... near Blauvac,) I headed for the cave and my own personal pilgrimage. 

After a few hours of driving myself through the south of France, (I am not usually the driver in our travels) getting lost, stuck in Aix, backtracking, driving in circles, stopping for lunch and asking directions (received in the form of a drawn map on the table's white paper-covering from the only waiter to speak English,) I finally checked in to the Hostellerie de la Sainte-Baume, an abbey run by the Dominicans now caring for La Baume. Whew! Realizing there was enough time to get to the cave that afternoon before it closed for the evening, I quickly unpacked a few things in the small, sparse room with a view of the nuns quarters and courtyard, repacked a small backpack, grabbed a little sweater just in case, and made my way toward the path.

View from my room.

At the trail's entrance, I found a long meandering walk around the field or the straight path directly toward the forest. I walked the straight path along a field of white butterflies alighting over nearly every blade and leaf. When I entered the forest, the path went both left and right. I stood looking both ways, hoping for a sign that would tell me which way to go.  An older French gentleman stood talking to a young couple nearby, his feet in hiking shoes, a backpack over his shoulders.

As I stood feeling the familiar doubt that said I would end up going the wrong way, the gentleman approached me and told me in French that the left was the easier path and the right the harder one with stairs to climb but either way… 'c'est magnifique!' Thanking him, I started on the path to the right, grateful for my 'sign' that had actually approached me, literally 'telling' me the way to go.

Excited to get to this place I'd only seen and read about online and exhilarated and proud to be making the trip alone, I began the walk, taking the stone-terraced steps, working to raise my vibration as I climbed higher up the mountain. With each step, I thanked God, Mary Magdalene and the Universe for getting me here, grateful for every single circumstance that had put me right here on this path with no one else to rely on or think of as I made my journey to my own experience, my own pilgrimage. I became a walking meditation of gratitude, working to be worthy of, and vibrate high enough, for whatever I found at the top

Warm air and birdsong filled the forest and soon my little sweater was tied around my waist, the balmy weather leaving my sweat on the trail. When I arrived at the first doorway and real set of steps, a plaque to the left of the door told of the different religious orders who had cared for the cave over the centuries. From a source online, I'd been surprised to learn that Kings had made this pilgrimage in past centuries to pray to Mary Magdalene. Now I was stunned to find that, according to the plaque, a religious order I'd never even heard of began caring for the cave in her name in the 400's. Two more sects had taken it over after them, the last being the Dominicans. People of devout faith had been walking these same paths hoping to be worthy for over 1600 years.

These first steps opened up to a landing under the rock with statues in a scene of the crucifixion and beside it a garden of statuary ruins. 








 Further steps led to the courtyard outside the cave with a magnificent view, another statue and small buildings built into the rock. Yet another set led from the courtyard into the cave itself,  the entrance covered with a wall, stained glass windows and set of double doors.

View from the courtyard outside the cave.

I heard music coming from inside and realized I had arrived during the middle of a service which was my first realization that the cave is used just like a church with services every day and holidays.

 I inched my way in, hoping not to disturb the service. Seating myself at a pew near the open door, I sat listening to the service in French while craning my neck to see as much of the cave as I could from my spot.

Looking out from my pew.

 In front of the pews stood a large, stone altar with a statue of Christ on the cross and the Magdalene in prayer at his feet. To the left of the altar along a raised, rocky surface, a statue of Archangel Michael and another of the Magdalene. Everywhere candles glowed in front of the statues, each in lighted prayer.

Altar inside the cave.

After marveling awhile at the service and now anxious to see the rest of the cave, I began to worry about taking photos with the time I had and that my photo flashes would offend those assembled for religious worship. Within moments of this thought, the service ended and the priest and entire, small congregation LEFT.  I was alone.

I wandered toward the back where I found another statue of Mary Magdalene with angels and more lit candles. And along the cave wall, a magnificent blue and gold container holding the relics of Mary Magdalene.

Reliquary.

 I had read online that the reliquary, decorated with lovely gilded angels, holds a piece of the tibia of Mary and a lock of her hair.  Religious orders are notorious for exaggerating the truth about its precious relics and fabricating particular bone's importance when in need of money so who knows for sure?  But these relics are brought down to the town and paraded through the crowds every July 22nd, Mary Magdalene's Feast Day. They have, in fact, traveled their own pilgrimages to different parts of the world in order for large crowds to be near them.

I ran around the cave taking photos while I was alone and found myself standing in front of a chained-off stairway to the lower level. While barely even thinking, "I wish I could see what's down there," another robed priest burst through a nearby door adjoining the cave, leading to what must have been the Priest's quarters built into the rock. He hurried straight to the stairway I stood in front of, unchained it and waved me entrance to go down. His actions were as swift and perfectly-timed as the elderly gentleman at the beginning of the path giving me directions
and the entire congregation leaving the cave after I wished to be alone. 
It seemed that everything I needed here
arrived within seconds of my silent asking for it, 
as if there were absolutely no lag time 
between the thought and its manifestation. 

I thanked the priest, descended below and wandered the lower level with more lit candles and a small altar flanked with mini, potted olive trees. Near the end of the wall, plastic orange fencing tried to keep pilgrims away from a walled off water source. But the fencing had been torn back, offering a tiny entrance to the small pool of run-off.

After sweating profusely on the climb up the mountain, my thin sweater was now of little use against the natural cold of the cave. I could see my breath in the air. Back up on the main level and within 15-20 minutes of having the place to myself (just the amount of time I'd needed to get a few photos,) both priests and two others from the earlier service arrived for Vespers.


As I seated myself again at the pews nearest the cave's entrance (at a slanted perpendicular direction from the altar, with views of both the altar and cave and out the door to the courtyard overlooking the vast terrain and view below,) the four of them began some of the most gorgeous singing which rang throughout the cave. As I listened, a storm gathered outside, throwing a light rain and hurling its thunderous voice inside and out.

The beauty of the singing and the storm's thunder echoing each other pierced my soul so achingly, at one point I feared I might sob out loud. I looked toward the only other woman in the cave, one of the three of the congregation, and found her face covered by her hand as her shoulders rocked up and down.

On the path.

When Vespers was over, I had just enough time to get down the mountain for the family-style dinner the nuns serve daily at the Abbey. The storm delivered enough rain that I was freezing as I made my way down, practically running, my little sweater again providing no protection against the cold after a couple of hours in the cave and now a wind and rainstorm. But the beauty and the magic of my experience kept me smiling. And one day soon, I'll continue the story of my first ever pilgrimage... on my own. 

For now, let me wish all a very Merry Christmas. This seemed the perfect day to finally post about the location of Mary Magdalene's alleged final resting place. 

Happy Holydays.

'It may be that the satisfaction I need depends on my going away, so that when I've gone and come back, I'll find it at home.'

 ~~Rumi

For Part 2, Click HERE.

(All Photos Copyright: Kirsten Steen. Please do not reproduce.)