Faith, Science and Fiction

I've spent the last three days in Santa Fe. I've been staying with my old friend Dana's mom. Dana, as you may remember, lives in Seattle and came to Vancouver with me. (Immediately Mrs. Smith insisted that I call her Phillis. This is a perfectly reasonable request since I am no longer 5 years old. But, no surprise to anyone who knew me during the Mr. Bryant/Frank era, I just couldn't do it. I'm not sure if she noticed, but I spent the entire visit in 'Hey, you' mode.) Dana's brother Chris also lives in Santa Fe, with his wife and two kids. If this trip has yielded nothing else, it has been a wonderful chance to catch up with all these people who I have not seen in years. Chris and I idled away an entire morning chatting under the pretext of taking down Mrs. Smith's Christmas tree. (I was shockingly useless at this oddly complicated task.) I spent that afternoon at the Santa Fe History Museum and learn everything that I will ever need to know about the history of the state during an hour and a half long tour. (I think I was asking too many questions.)

The next morning I was up early and headed north to visit a handful of small churches that are on the road to Taos. The first was the Sanctuary at Chimayo. Chimayo is known for it's healing dirt. "Huh?" you say. Me too. There's a legend that I won't bother relaying, but next to the beautiful, small sanctuary, is a little room filled with crutches and casts. In the center of the floor is a dirt filled hole with a tablespoon in it. Pilgrims are allowed/encouraged to fill up the little jars that they sell in store with the sacred dirt. It was early and there were few people in the church with me, but I couldn't bring myself to even touch the dirt. I question a lot about the Catholic faith in general, but I know I don't believe in healing dirt. I respect other people's beliefs and I felt my heathen curiosity was bad ju-ju. Maybe I do believe, because I was almost certain that if I touched the dirt it would infect some tiny cut that I didn't know I had and I would end up losing a swollen, gregarious arm. Apparently I think God is vengeful.

After a couple more churches and breakfast in Taos, I drove along the Rio Grande to Los Alamos. Los Alamos has a wonderful science museum mostly dedicated to the Manhattan Project. It was interesting to learn about the town during the war. It's entire existence was top-secret and the resident's driver's licenses, marriage certificates and even birth certificates stated that they lived at P.O. Box 1663. The average age of the town was 25 years old. Although the museum expends a lot of energy justifying the use of the bomb to end WWII, it also contains personal anecdotes from the staff who seem less certain about creating such a destructive force after the fact. The most famous quote is from the project manager Oppenheimer who, after witnessing the first successful nuclear test repeated the Sanskrit line, "Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."



Looking at the photos of 1940's safety precautions and replicas of Fat Man and Little Boy, I was once again wigged out. Suddenly I was sure that the town was poisoned. How many of these people got sick from their work here? Has anyone tested the dirt or air lately? I suddenly regretted not having a jar of sacred dirt in my car! It felt like a good time for a healing mud bath.

Back in Santa Fe, I went to the Loretto Chapel with it's 'miraculous' staircase. The chapel was build with only a ladder leading up to the choir balcony. This proved too much of a struggle for the nuns at the girl's school and when they tried to have a staircase built it was declared impossible without taking up most of the small chapel's seating. The nuns said a novena to St. Joseph (patron saint of carpenters) and a mysterious man appeared who built a staircase that defied all engineering concepts of the time and left without being paid. My skepticism was back. It looks like a larger, wooden version of a staircase found in any typical Manhattan duplex. Granted, it has no center support and has only been reinforced to the side walls after almost a hundred years of use.

This morning I left Santa Fe and headed to Roswell. I went straight to the International UFO Museum and Research Center. This is one of the more ridiculous places I have ever been. It is located in an old movie theater and works very  defensively to bolster it's claims about the local alien crash. The museum is overwhelmed with written affidavits attesting to the truth of the UFO crash. It details the Army "cover up" in the 40's and continues by refuting a 1994 government report that attempted to finally resolve the rumors and speculation. The 'museum' has wall after wall of UFO photos, even showing the ones that have been deemed fakes. They seemed to be saying "If we declare these pictures fakes, you must believe us that these others are not." It is one preposterous exhibit after another before they finally make the argument about the vastness of space and the odds against earth being home to the only intelligent life. I think this was where they should have started. I love kitsch, but this place was too much.