From the glass canyons of downtown L.A., with their sheer walls of windows reflecting the sky, we took Metro bus 487 fourteen stops through the tangle of freeways to San Gabriel, at the foot of hazy blue mountains, one capped / captivating with snow, and when the traffic signals allowed crossed two railway tracks to Mission San Gabriel Arcángel—one of the last two missions we hadn't seen. In the city of angels, in this time of terror when we need angels more than ever (to paraphrase Rilke, below), this pilgrimage to visit the now suburban archangel was important.
Let not one god pass away. We all need each of them now,
let each be valid for us, each image formed in the depths.
Don’t speak with the slightest disdain of whatever the heart
(from The Sonnets to Orpheus, translated by Stephen Mitchell—who I met one year at BEA there in downtown Los Angeles)
We made our journey midmorning, after an appropriate Los Angeles breakfast of huevos rancheros, fried eggs with a corn tortilla, salsa, and pinto beans. Not quite the chilaquiles I loved in Cancun years ago, but satisfying my sense of right-being.
It's not one of the lovelier missions, but it was a poem, inspirational in many ways.
. palms and bells and old adobe-covered stairs
. giant white clam shell basins in the courtyard, holding water with flower petals
. learning that in carpentry dovetailed means made without nails
. little blue tiles around the shrine
. colors in sacred paintings made from wildflowers, olive oil
. baked floor tiles
. cistern, millrace, aqueduct
. soap and tallow vats
. Our Lady of Sorrows
. many charming signs, as below.
"No longer do caravans of traders come lumbering up to the gates of Mission San Gabriel as in the days of the Franciscans. No longer are fiestas and siestas the order of the day.* But Mission San Gabriel Arcángel continues to enlarge its niche in the hearts of all, be they casual visitors or members of the Parish, which it has served for these many years."
*(again, recalling Rilke's "When everything we create is far in spirit from the festive, / in the midst of our turbulent days let us think of what festivals were.")
"The five fire circles are original and once held large iron kettles, such as the one seen here, wherein daily 'Pozole' or popcorn soup was made over the fires. Upon the sounding of the 'Angeles' bell at noon and the prayer which it commanded, the Indians came to be fed."
"One of the original church doors stands (retired) here. Made of California redwood. The bronze bosses were brought from New Spain, Mexico. If the door is closely observed, it will be noticed that rain-storm and sun have worn the wood away from the bosses. This door swung on the south side main church entrance. Look . . . its mate is over yonder."
And more than anything, I loved hearing the native guide playing what he called the River Song on a flute in the mission church, for his small group of visitors. Explaining that the notes trickled, as did the sacred river, water vital in that dry land, and the music perfect for the day. (Tellingly, I've learned, the erosion of the San Gabriel mountains, into and along the river, provided gravel, sand, and rock for the construction of the modern city: all those roads, freeways, and parking lots; coliseum and harbor.)
The visit was evocative, reminding me of
. visiting the mission in the desert south of Tucson, Tucumcacori, the winter after my father died; the mission and nearby spice shop
. visiting the San Diego mission other years, when I was selling books at the Asian Studies conference, and drinking genmai cha I'd brought along to ice, in afternoon sunlight, the luxurious warmth of a southern California early spring
. finding the paintings of our birthday saints (Eliseo, by Tintoretto; and an Annunciation by Titian), another February, in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco in Venice
. our class making a film in a canyon with a little private adobe church one rainy day in high school, before we went our separate ways
. coming across the father of the California missions again back in his home church in Palma de Mallorca one September, orange trees in the cloister
. the artist in my Bonnard novel, Charles San Gabriel Girard, named for the mountains his mother came to from Quebec—the beloved San Gabriels of Eugenie, matriarch of the reclusive Girards.
Gabriel was, as it happens, the angel of the Annunciation. Clothed in blue or white, he carries variously a lily, a trumpet, a shining lantern, a branch from Paradise, a scroll, a scepter. He is patron of telecommunication workers, radio broadcasters, messengers, postal workers, clerics, diplomats, stamp collectors, Portugal, ambassadors—so, clearly, much needed today.
I hope we have made friends. Though as Rilke (surely among the angels himself) writes at the beginning of the Duino Elegies:
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.
And, in the next:
But if the archangel now, perilous, from behind the stars
took even one step down toward us: our own heart, beating
higher and higher, would beat us to death. Who are you?
images: Christie B. Cochrell, Mission San Gabriel
Archangel Gabriel, Hagia Sophia