By the time the cathedral's clock struck midnight, the group around us had grown considerably. We were almost a hundred people—some of them priests and nuns—standing in the rain, gazing at the statue.

“Hail, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception,” someone close to me said, as soon as the tolling of the bells ceased.

“Hail,” everyone answered, with some applause.

A guard immediately came forward and asked that we be quiet. We were bothering the other pilgrims.

“But we've come a long way,” said one of the men in our group.

“So have they,” answered the guard, pointing to the others who were praying in the rain. “And they are praying silently.”

I wanted to be alone with him, far from this place, holding his hand and telling him how I felt. We needed to talk more about the house, about our plans, about love. I wanted to reassure him, to make clear how strong my feelings were, and to let him know that his dream could come true—because I would be at his side, helping him.

The guard retreated, and one of the priests began to recite the rosary in a low voice. When we reached the creed that closes the series of prayers, everyone remained silent, their eyes closed.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“Charismatics,” he answered.

I had heard of them before but didn't know exactly what their name meant. He could see that I didn't understand.

“These are people who accept the fire of the Holy Spirit,” he said, "the fire that Jesus left but that is used by so few people to light their candles. These people are very close to the original truth of Christianity, when everyone was capable of performing miracles.

“They are guided by the Woman Dressed by the Sun,” he said, pointing with his eyes to the Virgin.

The group began to chant quietly, as if in response to an invisible command.

“You're shivering from the cold. You don't have to take part in this,” he said.

“Are you going to stay?”

“Yes. This is my life.”

“Then I'm going to participate,” I answered, even though I would have preferred to be far from there. “If this is your world, I want to learn to be a part of it.”

The group continued to sing. I closed my eyes and tried to follow the words, even though I couldn't speak French. I repeated the words without understanding them. But their sound helped the time to pass more quickly.

It would end soon. And we could return to Saint-Savin, just the two of us.

I went on singing mechanically—but little by little, I began to feel the music taking hold of me, as if it had a life of its own. It was hypnotizing. The cold seemed less bitter, and the rain no longer bothered me. The music made me feel better. It transported me back to a time when God had felt closer to me and had helped me.

Just as I was about to surrender completely to the music, it stopped.

I opened my eyes. This time, instead of a guard, there was a priest. He approached one of the other priests in our group. They whispered to one another for a few moments, and the padre left.

Our priest turned to us. “We have to say our prayers on the other side of the river,” he said.

Silently we walked across the bridge directly in front of the grotto and moved to the other bank. It was a prettier place, on the bank of the river, surrounded by trees and an open field. The river now separated us from the grotto. From there, we could clearly see the illuminated image, and we could sing loudly without disturbing others' prayers.

The people around me began to sing louder, raising their faces to the sky and smiling as the raindrops coursed down their cheeks. Some raised their arms, and soon everyone joined in, waving their arms from side to side in rhythm to the music.

I wanted to give in to the moment, but at the same time I wanted to pay close attention to what they were doing. One priest near me was singing in Spanish, and I tried to repeat the words. They were invocations to the Holy Spirit and the Virgin, requesting their presence and asking that they rain down their blessings and their powers on each of us.

“May the gift of tongues befall us,” said another priest, repeating the phrase in Spanish, Italian, and French.

What happened next was incomprehensible. Each of the many people present began to speak a language that was different from any I had ever heard. It was more sound than speech, with words that seemed to come straight from the soul, making no sense at all. I recalled our conversation in the church, when he had spoken about revelations, saying that all wisdom was the result of listening to one's own soul. Perhaps this is the language of the angels, I thought, trying to mimic what they were doing—and feeling ridiculous.

Everyone was looking at the statue of the Virgin on the other side of the river; they all seemed to be in a trance. I looked around for him and found him standing at some distance from me. His hands were raised to the heavens and he was speaking rapidly, as if in conversation with Her. He was smiling and nodding his head as if in agreement; occasionally he looked surprised.

This is his world, I thought.

The whole scene began to scare me. The man I wanted at my side was telling me that God is also female, he was speaking an incomprehensible language, he was in a trance, and he seemed closer to the angels than to me. The house in the mountains began to seem less real, as if it were part of a world that he had already left behind.

All of our days together—starting with the conference in Madrid—seemed to be part of a dream, a voyage beyond the space and time of my life. At the same time, though, the dream had the flavor of the world, of romance, and of new adventures. I had tried to resist; now I knew how easily love could set fire to the heart. I had tried to stay unreceptive to all of this in the beginning; now I felt that since I had loved before, I would know how to handle it.

I looked around again, and it dawned on me that this was not the Catholicism I had been taught at school. And this was not the way I had pictured the man in my life.

A man in my life! How strange! I said to myself, surprised at the thought.

There on the bank of the river, looking across at the grotto, I felt both fear and jealousy. Fear because it was all new to me, and what is new has always scared me. Jealousy because, bit by bit, I could see that his love was greater than I'd thought and spread over places where I'd never set foot.

Forgive me, Our Lady. Forgive me if I'm being selfish or small-minded, competing with you for this man's love.

But what if his vocation wasn't to be with me but was to retreat from the world, locking himself in a seminary and conversing with angels? How long would he resist before he fled from our house to return to his true path? Or even if he never went back to the seminary, what price would I have to pay to keep him from returning to that path?

Everyone there, except me, seemed to be concentrating on what they were doing. I was staring at him, and he was speaking the language of the angels.

Suddenly, fear and jealousy were replaced by calm and solitude. The angels had someone to talk with, and I was alone.

I had no idea what pushed me into trying to speak that strange language. Perhaps it was my strong need to connect with him, to tell him what I was feeling. Perhaps I needed to let my soul speak to memy heart had so many doubts and needed so many answers.

I didn't know exactly what to do, and I felt ridiculous. But all around me were men and women of all ages, priests and laypeople, novices and nuns, students and old-timers. They gave me the courage to ask the Holy Spirit for the strength to overcome my fear.

Try, I said to myself. All you have to do is open your mouth and have the courage to say things you don't understand. Try!

I prayed that this night—the night following a day that had been so long that I couldn't even remember how it had begun—would be an epiphany. A new beginning for me.

God must have heard me. The words began to come more easily—and little by little they lost their everyday meanings. My embarrassment diminished, my confidence grew, and the words began to flow freely. Although I understood nothing of what I was saying, it all made sense to my soul.

Simply having the courage to say senseless things made me euphoric. I was free, with no need to seek or to give explanations for what I was doing. This freedom lifted me to the heavens—where a greater love, one that forgives everything and never allows you to feel abandoned, once again enveloped me.

It feels as if my faith is coming back, I thought, surprised at the miracles that love can perform. I sensed that the Virgin was holding me in her lap, covering me and warming me with her mantle. The strange words flew more rapidly from my lips.

Without realizing it, I began to cry. Joy flooded my heart—a joy that overpowered my fears and was stronger than my attempts to control every second of my life.

I realized that my tears were a gift; at school, the sisters had taught me that the saints wept with ecstasy. I opened my eyes, gazed at the darkness of the heavens, and felt my tears blending with the raindrops. The earth was alive and the drops from above brought the miracles of heaven with them. We were all a part of that same miracle.

How wonderful that God may be a woman, I said to myself, as the others continued to chant. If that's true, then it was certainly God's feminine face that taught us how to love.

“Let us pray in tents of eight,” said the priest in Spanish, Italian, and French.

Once again, I was confused. What was happening? Someone came over to me and put his arm around my shoulders. Another person did the same on my other side. We formed a circle of eight people, arms around each other's shoulders. Then we leaned forward, our heads touching.

We looked like a human tent. The rain fell harder, but no one cared. The position we had taken concentrated all our energies and heat.

“May the Immaculate Conception help my child find his way,” said the man embracing me from the right. “Please, let's say an Ave Maria for my child.”

“Amen,” everyone said. And we eight prayed an Ave Maria.

“May the Immaculate Conception enlighten me and arouse in me the gift of curing,” said a woman from our circle. “Let us say an Ave Maria.”

Again, all of us said “Amen” and we prayed. Each person made a petition, and everyone participated in the prayers. I was surprised at myself, because I was praying like a child—and like a child, I believed that our prayers would be answered.

The group fell silent for a fraction of a second. I realized that it was my turn to make a petition. Under any other circumstances, I would have died of embarrassment and been unable to say a word. But I felt a presence, and that presence gave me confidence.

“May the Immaculate Conception teach me to love as she loves,” I finally said. “May that love grow in me and in the man to whom it is dedicated. Let us say an Ave Maria.”

We prayed together, and again I felt a sense of freedom. For years, I had fought against my heart, because I was afraid of sadness, suffering, and abandonment. But now I knew that true love was above all that and that it would be better to die than to fail to love.

I had thought that only others had the courage to love. But now I discovered that I too was capable of loving. Even if loving meant leaving, or solitude, or sorrow, love was worth every penny of its price.

I have to stop thinking of these things. I have to concentrate on the ritual.

The priest leading the group asked that we disband the tents and pray for the sick. Everyone continued to pray, sing, and dance in the rain, adoring God and the Virgin Mary. Now and then, people went back to speaking strange languages, waving their arms, and pointing to the sky.

“Someone here… someone who has a sick daughter-in-law… must know that she is being cured,” cried one woman.

The prayers resumed, along with chants of joy. From time to time, we would hear the voice of this woman again.

“Someone in this group who lost her mother recently must have faith and know that she is in the glory of heaven.”

Later, he would tell me that she had the gift of prophecy, that certain individuals can sense what is happening at some distant place or what will happen in the future.

Secretly, I too believed in the power of that voice that was speaking of miracles. I hoped that voice would speak of the love between two of those present. I hoped to hear that voice proclaim that this love was blessed by all the angels and saints—and by God and by the Goddess.

I'm not sure how long the ritual lasted. People continued to speak in tongues and to chant; they danced with their arms held up to the sky, prayed for the people around them, and petitioned for miracles.

Finally, the priest who was conducting the ceremony said, “Let us chant a prayer for all of those here who are participating for the first time in a Charismatic renewal.”

Apparently I was not the only one. That made me feel better.

Everyone chanted a prayer. This time I just listened, asking that favors be granted to me.

I needed many.

“Let us receive the blessing,” said the priest.

The crowd turned toward the illuminated grotto across the river. The priest said several prayers and blessed us all. Then everyone kissed, wished each other a “Happy Day of the Immaculate Conception,” and went their separate ways.

He came to me. His expression was happier than usual.

“You're soaked,” he said.

“So are you!” I laughed.

We walked back to the car and drove to Saint-Savin. I'd been so eager for this moment to arrive—but now that it was here, I didn't know what to say. I couldn't even bring myself to talk about the house in the mountains, the ritual, the strange languages, or the tent prayers.

He was living in two worlds. Somewhere, those two worlds intersectedand I had to find where that was.

But at that moment, words were useless. Love can only be found through the act of loving.

“I've only got one sweater left,” he said when we reached the room. “You can have it. I'll buy another for myself tomorrow.”

“We'll put our wet things on the heater. They'll be dry by tomorrow. Anyway, I've got the blouse that I washed yesterday.”

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.

Clothing. Nakedness. Cold.

Finally, he took another shirt out of his bag. “You can sleep in this,” he said.

“Great,” I answered.

I turned out the light. In the dark, I took off my wet clothes, spread them over the heater, and turned it to high.

By the light from the lamppost outside the window, he must have been able to make out my silhouette and known that I was naked. I slipped the shirt on and crawled under the covers.

“I love you,” I heard him say.

“I'm learning how to love you.”

He lit a cigarette. “Do you think the right moment will come?” he asked.

I knew what he meant. I got up and sat on the edge of his bed.

The light from his cigarette illuminated our faces. He took my hand and we sat there for some time. I ran my fingers through his hair.

“You shouldn't have asked,” I said. “Love doesn't ask many questions, because if we stop to think we become fearful. It's an inexplicable fear; it's difficult even to describe it. Maybe it's the fear of being scorned, of not being accepted, or of breaking the spell. It's ridiculous, but that's the way it is. That's why you don't ask—you act. As you've said many times, you have to take risks.”

“I know. I've never asked before.”

“You already have my heart,” I told him. “Tomorrow you may go away, but we will always remember the miracle of these few days. I think that God, in Her infinite wisdom, conceals hell in the midst of paradise—so that we will always be alert, so that we won't forget the pain as we experience the joy of compassion.”

He took my face in his hands. “You learn quickly,” he said.

I had surprised myself. But sometimes if you think you know something, you do wind up understanding it.

“I hope you won't think I'm being difficult,” I said. “I have been with many men. I've made love to some I've barely known.”

“Same here,” he said.

He was trying to sound natural, but from his touch, I could tell that he hadn't wanted to hear this from me.

“But since this morning, I feel as if I'm rediscovering love. Don't try to understand it, because only a woman would know what I mean. And it takes time.”

He caressed my face. Then I kissed him lightly on the lips and returned to my bed.

I wasn't sure why I did. Was I trying to bind him even closer to me, or was I trying to set him free? In any case, it had been a long day, and I was too tired to think about it.

For me, that was a night of great peace. At one point, I seemed to be awake even though I was still sleeping. A feminine presence cradled me in Her lap; I felt as if I had known Her a long time. I felt protected and loved.

I woke at seven, dying of the heat. I remembered having turned the heater to high in order to dry my clothes. It was still dark, and I tried to get up without making a sound so that I wouldn't disturb him.

But as soon as I stood, I could see that he wasn't there.

I started to panic. The Other immediately awoke and said to me, “See? You agreed, and he disappeared. Like all men do.”

My panic was increasing by the minute, but I didn't want to lose control. “I'm still here,” the Other said. “You allowed the wind to change direction. You opened the door, and now love is flooding your life. If we act quickly, we'll be able to regain control.”

I had to be practical, to take precautions.

“He's gone,” said the Other. “You have to get away from this place in the middle of nowhere. Your life in Zaragoza is still intact; get back there quickly—before you lose everything you've worked so hard to gain.”

He must have bad some good reason, I thought.

“Men always have their reasons,” said the Other. “But the fact is that they always wind up leaving.”

Well, then, I had to figure out how to get back to Spain. I had to keep my wits about me.

“Let's start with the practical problem: money,” the Other said.

I didn't have a cent. I would have to go downstairs, call my parents collect, and wait for them to wire me the money for a ticket home.

But it was a holiday, and the money wouldn't arrive until the next day. How would I eat? How would I explain to the owners of the house that they would have to wait for several days for their payment? “Better not to say anything,” said the Other.

Right, she was the experienced one. She knew how to handle situations like this. She wasn't the impassioned girl who loses control of herself. She was the woman who always knew what she wanted in life. I should simply stay on there, as if he were expected to return. And when the money arrived, I would pay the bill and leave.

“Very good,” said the Other. “You're getting back to how you were before. Don't be sad. One of these days, you'll find another man—one you can love without taking so many risks.”

I gathered my clothes from the heater. They were dry. I needed to find out which of the surrounding villages had a bank, make a phone call, take steps. If I thought carefully about all of that, there wouldn't be time for crying or regrets.

Then I saw his note:

I've gone to the seminary. Pack up your things, because we're going back to Spain tonight. I'll be back by late afternoon. I love you.

I clutched the note to my breast, feeling miserable and relieved at the same time. I noticed that the Other had retreated.

I loved him. With every minute that passed, my love was growing and transforming me. I once again had faith in the future, and little by little, I was recovering my faith in God. All because of love.

I will not talk to my own darkness anymore, I promised myself, closing the door on the Other. A jail from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth.

If I have to fall, may it be from a high place.

“Don't go out hungry again,” said the woman.

“I didn't realize you spoke Spanish,” I answered, surprised.

“The border isn't far from here. Tourists come to Lourdes in the summer. If I couldn't speak Spanish, I couldn't rent rooms.”

She made me some toast and coffee. I was already trying to prepare myself to make it through the day—each hour was going to seem like a year. I hoped that this snack would distract me for a while.

“How long have you two been married?” she asked.

“He was the first person I ever loved,” I said. That was enough.

“Do you see those peaks out there?” the woman continued. “The first love of my life died up in those mountains.”

“But you found someone else.”

“Yes, I did. And I found happiness again. Fate is strange: almost no one I know married the first love of their lives. Those who did are always telling me that they missed something important, that they didn't experience all that they might have.”

She stopped talking suddenly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“I'm not offended.”

“I always look at that well there in the plaza. And I think to myself that before, no one knew where there was water. Then Saint Savin decided to dig and found it. If he hadn't done that, this village would be down there by the river.”

“But what does that have to do with love?” I asked.

“That well brought many people here, with their hopes and dreams and conflicts. Someone dared to look for water, water was found, and people gathered where it flowed. I think that when we look for love courageously, it reveals itself, and we wind up attracting even more love. If one person really wants us, everyone does. But if we're alone, we become even more alone. Life is strange.”

“Have you ever heard of the book called the I Ching?” I asked her.

“No, I haven't.”

“It says that a city can be moved but not a well. It's around the well that lovers find each other, satisfy their thirst, build their homes, and raise their children. But if one of them decides to leave, the well cannot go with them. Love remains there, abandoned—even though it is filled with the same pure water as before.”

“You speak like a mature woman who has already suffered a great deal, my dear,” she said.

“No. I've always been frightened. I've never dug a well. But I'm trying to do that now, and I don't want to forget what the risks are.”

I felt something in the pocket of my bag pressing at me. When I realized what it was, my heart went cold. I quickly finished my coffee.

The key. I had the key.

“There was a woman in this city who died and left everything to the seminary at Tarbes,” I said. “Do you know where her house is?”

The woman opened the door and showed me. It was one of the medieval houses on the plaza. The back of the house looked out over the valley toward the mountains in the distance.

“Two priests went through the house about two months ago,” she said. “And…” She stopped, looking at me doubtfully. “And one of them looked a lot like your husband.”

“It was,” I answered. The woman stood in her doorway, puzzled, as I quickly left. I felt a burst of energy, happy that I had allowed the child in me to pull a prank.

I soon stood in front of the house, not knowing what to do. The mist was everywhere, and I felt as if I were in a gray dream where strange figures might appear and take me away to places even more peculiar.

I toyed nervously with the key.

With the mist as thick as it was, it would be impossible to see the mountains from the window. The house would be dark; there would be no sun shining through the curtains. The house would seem sad without him at my side.

I looked at my watch. Nine in the morning.

I had to do something—something that would make the time pass, that would help me wait.

Wait. This was the first lesson I had learned about love. The day drags along, you make thousands of plans, you imagine every possible conversation, you promise to change your behavior in certain ways—and you feel more and more anxious until your loved one arrives. But by then, you don't know what to say. The hours of waiting have been transformed into tension, the tension has become fear, and the fear makes you embarrassed about showing affection.

I didn't know whether I should go in. I remembered our conversation of the previous day—the house was the symbol of a dream.

But I couldn't spend the whole day just standing there. I gathered up my courage, grasped the key firmly, and walked to the door.

“Pilar!”

The voice, with a strong French accent, came from the midst of the fog. I was more surprised than frightened. I thought it might be the owner of the house where we had rented the room—although I didn't recall having told him my name.

“Pilar!” I heard again, nearer this time.

I looked back at the plaza shrouded in mist. A figure was approaching, walking hurriedly. Perhaps the ghosts that I had imagined in the fog were becoming a reality.

“Wait,” the figure said. “I want to talk to you.”

When he had come closer, I could see that it was a priest. He looked like a caricature of the country padre: short, on the heavy side, with sparse white hair on a nearly bald head.

“Hola,” he said, holding out his hand and smiling.

I answered him, a bit astonished.

“Too bad the fog is hiding everything,” he said, looking toward the house. “Since Saint-Savin is in the mountains, the view from this house is beautiful; you can see the valley down below and the snow-covered peaks. But you probably already knew that.”

I decided that this must be the superior from the monastery.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “And how do you know my name?”

“Do you want to go in?” he said, trying to change the subject.

“No! I'd like you to answer my questions.”

Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he sat down on the curb. I sat down next to him. The fog was growing thicker by the minute. The church was already hidden from sight, and it was only sixty feet away from us.

All I could see was the well. I remembered what the young woman in Madrid had said.

“She is present,” I said.

“Who?”

“The Goddess,” I answered. “She is this mist.”

“So, he must have talked to you about that,” he laughed. “Well, I prefer to refer to Her as the Virgin Mary. That's what I'm used to.”

“What are you doing here? How do you know my name?” I repeated.

"I came here because I wanted to see you two. A member of the Charismatic group last night told me you were both staying in Saint-Savin. And it's a small place.

“He went to the seminary.”

The padre's smile disappeared, and he shook his head. “Too bad,” he said, as if speaking to himself.

“You mean, too bad he went to the seminary?”

“No, he's not there. I've just come from the seminary.”

For a moment, I couldn't say anything. I thought back to the feeling I'd had when I woke up: the money, the arrangements I needed to make, the call to my parents, the ticket. But I'd made a vow, and I wasn't going to break it.

A priest was sitting beside me. As a child, I used to tell everything to our priest.

“I'm exhausted,” I said, breaking the silence. “Less than a week ago, I finally learned who I am and what I want in life. Now I feel like I've been caught in a storm that's tossing me around, and I can't seem to do anything about it.”

“Resist your doubts,” the padre said. “It's important.”

His advice surprised me.

“Don't be frightened,” he continued, as if he knew what I was feeling. “I know that the church is in need of new priests, and he would be an excellent one. But the price he would have to pay would be very high.”

“Where is he? Did he leave me here to return to Spain?”

“To Spain? There's nothing for him to do in Spain,” said the priest. “His home is at the monastery, only a few kilometers from here. He's not there. But I know where we can find him.”

His words brought back some of my joy and courage—at least he hadn't gone away.

But the priest was no longer smiling. “Don't let that encourage you,” he went on, again reading my mind. “It would be better if he had gone back to Spain.”

He stood and asked me to go with him. We could see only a few yards in front of us, but he seemed to know where he was going. We left Saint-Savin by the same road along which, two nights beforeor could it have been five years before?—I had heard the story of Bernadette.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To find him,” he answered.

“Padre, you've confused me,” I said, as we walked along together. “You seemed sad when you said he wasn't at the seminary.”

“Tell me what you know about the religious life, my child.”

“Very little. Only that the priests take a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience.” I wondered whether I should go on and decided that I would. “And that they judge the sins of others, even though they may commit the same sins themselves. That they know all there is to know about marriage and love, but they never marry. That they threaten us with the fires of hell for mistakes that they themselves make. And they present God to us as a vengeful being who blames man for the death of His only Son.”

The padre laughed. “You've had an excellent Catholic education,” he said. “But I'm not asking you about Catholicism. I'm asking about the spiritual life.”

I didn't respond for a moment. “I'm not sure. There are people who leave everything behind and go in search of God.”

“And do they find Him?”

“Well, you would know the answer to that, Padre. I have no idea.”

The padre noticed that I was beginning to gasp with exertion, and he slowed his pace.

“You had that wrong,” he said. "A person who goes in search of God is wasting his time. He can walk a thousand roads and join many religions and sects—but he'll never find God that way.

"God is here, right now, at our side. We can see Him in this mist, in the ground we're walking on, even in my shoes. His angels keep watch while we sleep and help us in our work. In order to find God, you have only to look around.

"But meeting Him is not easy. The more God asks us to participate in His mysteries, the more disoriented we become, because He asks us constantly to follow our dreams and our hearts. And that's difficult to do when we're used to living in a different way.

“Finally we discover, to our surprise, that God wants us to be happy, because He is the father.”

“And the mother,” I said.

The fog was beginning to clear. I could see a small farmhouse where a woman was gathering hay.

“Yes, and the mother,” he said. “In order to have a spiritual life, you need not enter a seminary, or fast, or abstain, or take a vow of chastity. All you have to do is have faith and accept God. From then on, each of us becomes a part of His path. We become a vehicle for His miracles.”

“He has already told me about you,” I interrupted, “and he has taught me these ideas.”

“I hope that you accept God's gifts,” he answered. “Because it hasn't always been that way, as history teaches us. Osiris was drawn and quartered in Egypt. The Greek gods battled because of the mortals on earth. The Aztecs expelled Quetzalcoatl. The Viking gods witnessed the burning of Valhalla because of a woman. Jesus was crucified. Why?”

I didn't have an answer.

“Because God came to earth to demonstrate His power to us. We are a part of His dream, and He wants His dream to be a happy one. Thus, if we acknowledge that God created us for happiness, then we have to assume that everything that leads to sadness and defeat is our own doing. That's the reason we always kill God, whether on the cross, by fire, through exile, or simply in our hearts.”

“But those who understand Him…”

“They are the ones who transform the world—while making great sacrifices.”

The woman carrying the hay saw the priest and came running in our direction. “Padre, thank you!” she said, kissing his hands. “The young man cured my husband.'”

“It was the Virgin who cured your husband,” he said. “The lad is only an instrument.”

“It was he. Come in, please.”

I recalled the previous night. When we arrived at the cathedral, a man had told me I was with a man who performed miracles.

“We're in a hurry,” the padre said.

“No! No, we're not,” I said, in my halting French. “I'm cold, and I'd like some coffee.”

The woman took me by the hand, and we entered the house. It was simple but comfortable: stone walls, wood floors, and bare rafters. Seated in front of the fireplace was a man of about sixty. As soon as he saw the padre, he stood to kiss his hand.

“Don't get up,” said the priest. “You still need to convalesce a bit.”

“I've already gained twenty-five pounds,” he answered. “But I'm still not able to be of much help to my wife.”

"Not to worry. Before long, you'll be better than ever.

“Where is the young man?” the husband asked.

“I saw him heading toward where he always goes,” the wife said. “Only today, he went by car.”

The padre eyed me but didn't say anything.

“Give us your blessing, Père,” the woman asked. “His power…”

“The Virgin's power,” the priest corrected.

“The Virgin Mother's power is also your power, Père. It was you who brought it here.”

This time, he didn't look my way.

“Pray for my husband, Père,” the woman insisted.

The priest took a deep breath. “Stand in front of me,” he said to the man.

The old man did as he was told. The padre closed his eyes and said an Ave Maria. Then he invoked the Holy Spirit, asking that it be present and help the man.

He suddenly began to speak rapidly. It sounded like a prayer of exorcism, although I couldn't understand what he was saying. His hands touched the man's shoulders and then slid down his arms to his fingertips. He repeated this gesture several times.

The fire began to crackle loudly in the fireplace. This may have been a coincidence, yet it seemed that the priest was entering into territory I knew nothing about—and that he was affecting the very elements.

Every snap of the fire startled the woman and me, but the padre paid no attention to it; he was completely involved in his taskan instrument of the Virgin, as he had said. He was speaking a strange language, and the words came forth at great speed. He was no longer moving his hands; they simply rested on the man's shoulders.

The ritual stopped as quickly as it had started. The padre turned and gave a conventional blessing, making the sign of the cross with his right hand. “May God be ever here in this house,” he said.

And turning to me, he asked that we continue our walk.

“But you haven't had coffee,” the woman said, as she saw that we were about to leave.

“If I have coffee now, I won't be able to sleep,” the padre answered.

The woman laughed and murmured something like “It's still morning.” But we were already on our way.

“Padre, the woman spoke of a young man who cured her husband. Was it he?”

“Yes, it was.”

I began to feel uneasy. I remembered the day before, and Bilbao, and the conference in Madrid, and people speaking of miracles, and the presence that I had sensed as we embraced and prayed.

I was in love with a man who was capable of performing cures. A man who could help others, bring relief to suffering, give health to the sick and hope to their loved ones. Was I distracting him from his mission just because it was at odds with my image of a house with white curtains, cherished records, and favorite books?

“Don't blame yourself, my child,” the padre said.

“You're reading my mind.”

“Yes, I am,” the padre said. “I have that gift too, and I try to be worthy of it. The Virgin taught me to penetrate the turmoil of human emotions in order to control them as well as possible.”

“Do you perform miracles, too?”

“I am not able to cure. But I have one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit.”

“So you can read my heart, Padre. And you know I love him, with a love that is growing every minute. We discovered the world together, and together we remain in it. He has been present every day of my life—whether I wanted him there or not.”

What could I say to this priest who was walking beside me? He would never understand that I had had other men, that I had been in love, and that if I had married, I would be happy. Even as a child, I had found and forgotten love in the plaza of Soria.

But the way things looked now, I hadn't forgotten that first love very well. It had taken only three days for all of it to come rushing back.

“I have a right to be happy, Padre. I've recovered what was lost, and I don't want to lose it again. I'm going to fight for my happiness. If I give up the fight, I will also be renouncing my spiritual life. As you said, I would be putting God aside, along with my power and my strength as a woman. I'm going to fight for him, Padre.”

I knew what that little man was doing here. He had come to convince me to leave him, because he had a more important mission to accomplish.

No, I couldn't believe that the padre walking at my side wanted us to marry and live in a house like the one in Saint-Savin. The priest had said that to trick me. He wanted me to lower my defenses and then—with a smile—he would convince me of the opposite.

He read my thoughts without saying a word. Or perhaps he was trying to fool me. Maybe he didn't know what others were thinking. The fog was dissipating rapidly, and I could now see the path, the mountain peak, the fields, and the snow-covered trees. My emotions were becoming clearer, as well.

Damn! If it's true that be can read someone's thoughts, then let him read mine and know everything! Let him know that yesterday he wanted to make love to me—that I refused and that now I regret it.

Yesterday I had thought that if he had to leave, I would still at least have the memory of my childhood friend. But that was nonsense. Even though he hadn't entered me, something even more profound had, and it had touched my heart.

“Padre, I love him,” I repeated.

“So do I. And love always causes stupidity. In my case, it requires that I try to keep him from his destiny.”

“That won't be easy, Padre. And it won't be easy in my case, either. Yesterday, during the prayers at the grotto, I discovered that I too can bring forth these gifts that you were talking about. And I'm going to use them to keep him with me.”

“Good luck,” said the padre, with a smile. “I hope you can.”

He stopped and took a rosary from his pocket. Holding it, he looked into my eyes. “Jesus said that we should not take oaths, and I am not doing so. But I'm telling you, in the presence of all that is sacred to me, that I would not like him to adopt the conventional religious life. I would not like to see him ordained a priest. He can serve God in other waysat your side.”

It was hard for me to believe that he was telling me the truth. But he was.

“He's up there,” the padre said.

I turned. I could see a car parked a bit further ahead—the same car we had driven from Spain.

“He always comes on foot,” he said, smiling. “This time he wanted to give us the impression that he'd traveled a long way.”

The snow was soaking my sneakers. But the padre was wearing only open sandals with woolen socks. I decided not to complain—if he could stand it, so could I. We began to hike toward the top of the mountains.

“How long will it take us?”

“Half an hour at the most.”

“Where are we going?”

“To meet with him. And others.”

I could see that he didn't want to say any more. Maybe he needed all of his energy for climbing. We walked along in silencethe fog had by now disappeared almost completely, and the yellow disk of the sun was coming into view.

For the first time I had a view of the entire valley; there was a river running through it, some scattered villages, and Saint-Savin, looking as though it were pasted against the slope of the mountain. I could make out the tower of the church, a cemetery I had not noticed before, and the medieval houses looking down on the river.

A bit below us, at a point we had already passed, a shepherd was tending his flock of sheep.

“I'm tired,” the padre said. “Let's stop for a while.”

We brushed the snow from the top of a boulder and rested against it. He was perspiring—and his feet must have been frozen.

“May Santiago preserve my strength, because I still want to walk his path one more time,” said the padre, turning to me.

I didn't understand his comment, so I decided to change the subject. “There are footsteps in the snow.”

“Some are those of hunters. Others are of men and women who want to relive a tradition.”

“Which tradition?”

“The same as that of Saint Savin. Retreat from the world, come to these mountains, and contemplate the glory of God.”

“Padre, there's something I need to understand. Until yesterday, I was with a man who couldn't choose between the religious life and marriage. Today, I learn that this same man performs miracles.”

“We all perform miracles,” he said. “Jesus said, 'If our faith is the size of a mustard seed, we will say to the mountain, ”Move!“ And it will move.'”

“I don't want a lesson in religion, Padre. I'm in love with a man, and I want to know more about him, understand him, help him. I don't care what everyone else can do or can't do.”

The padre took a deep breath. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "A scientist who studied monkeys on an island in Indonesia was able to teach a certain one to wash bananas in the river before eating them. Cleansed of sand and dirt, the food was more flavorful. The scientist—who did this only because he was studying the learning capacity of monkeys—did not imagine what would eventually happen. So he was surprised to see that the other monkeys on the island began to imitate the first one.

“And then, one day, when a certain number of monkeys had learned to wash their bananas, the monkeys on all of the other islands in the archipelago began to do the same thing. What was most surprising, though, was that the other monkeys learned to do so without having had any contact with the island where the experiment had been conducted.”

He stopped. “Do you understand?”

“No,” I answered.

“There are several similar scientific studies. The most common explanation is that when a certain number of people evolve, the entire human race begins to evolve. We don't know how many people are needed—but we know that's how it works.”

“Like the story of the Immaculate Conception,” I said. “The vision appeared for the wise men at the Vatican and for the simple farmer.”

“The world itself has a soul, and at a certain moment, that soul acts on everyone and everything at the same time.”

“A feminine soul.”

He laughed, without saying just what he was laughing about.

“By the way, the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was not just a Vatican matter,” he said. “Eight million people signed a petition to the pope, asking that it be recognized. The signatures came from all over the world.”

“Is that the first step, Padre?”

“What do you mean?”

“The first step toward having Our Lady recognized as the incarnation of the feminine face of God? After all, we already accept the fact that Jesus was the incarnation of His masculine side.”

“And so… ?”

“How much time must pass before we accept a Holy Trinity that includes a woman? The Trinity of the Holy Spirit, the Mother, and the Son?”

“Let's move on. It's too cold for us to stand here,” he said. “A little while ago, you noticed my sandals.”

“Have you been reading my mind?” I asked.

“I'm going to tell you part of the story of the founding of our religious order,” he said. "We are barefoot Carmelites, according to the rules established by Saint Teresa of Avila. The sandals are a part of the story, for if one can dominate the body, one can dominate the spirit.

"Teresa was a beautiful woman, placed by her father in a convent so that she would receive a pure education. One day, when she was walking along a corridor, she began to speak with Jesus. Her ecstasies were so strong and deep that she surrendered totally to them, and in a short time, her life had been completely changed. She felt that the Carmelite convents had become nothing more than marriage brokerages, and she decided to create an order that would once again follow the original teachings of Christ and the Carmelites.

"Saint Teresa had to conquer herself, and she had to confront the great powers of her day—the church and the state. But she was determined to press on, because she was convinced that she had a mission to perform.

"One day—just when Teresa felt her soul to be weakening—a woman in tattered clothing appeared at the house where she was staying. The woman wanted to speak with Teresa, no matter what. The owner of the house offered the woman some alms, but the woman refused them; she would not go away until she had spoken with Teresa.

"For three days, the woman waited outside the house, without eating or drinking. Finally Teresa, out of sympathy, bade the woman come in.

" 'No,' said the owner of the house. 'The woman is mad.'

“ 'If I were to listen to everyone, I'd wind up thinking that I'm the crazy one,' Teresa answered. 'It may be that this woman has the same kind of madness as I: that of Christ on the cross.'”

“Saint Teresa spoke with Christ,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered. “But to get back to our story: the woman was brought to Teresa. She said that her name was María de Jesus Yepes and that she was from Granada. She was a Carmelite novice, and the Virgin had appeared and asked that she found a convent that followed the primitive rules of the order.”

Like Saint Teresa, I thought.

“María de Jesus left the convent on the day of her vision and began walking barefoot to Rome. Her pilgrimage lasted two years—and for that entire period, she slept outdoors, in the heat and the cold, living on alms and the charity of others. It was a miracle that she made it. But it was an even greater miracle that she was received by Pope Pius IV. Because the pope, just like María de Jesus, Teresa, and many others, was thinking of the same thing,” he finished.

Just as Bernadette had known nothing of the Vatican's decision and the monkeys from the other islands couldn't have known about the experiment that was being conducted, so María de Jesus and Teresa knew nothing of what the other was planning.

Something was beginning to make sense to me.

We were now walking through a forest. With the fog all but gone, the highest tree branches, covered with snow, were receiving the first rays of the sun.

“I think I know where you're going with this, Padre.”

“Yes. The world is at a point when many people are receiving the same order: 'Follow your dreams, transform your life, take the path that leads to God. Perform your miracles. Cure. Make prophecies. Listen to your guardian angel. Transform yourself. Be a warrior, and be happy as you wage the good fight. Take risks.'”

Sunshine was everywhere. The snow was glistening, and the glare hurt my eyes. Yet at the same time, it seemed to support what the priest was saying.

“And what does all this have to do with him?”

“I've told you the heroic side of the story. But you don't know anything about the soul of these heroes.”

He paused.

“The suffering,” he picked up again. “At moments of transformation, martyrs are born. Before a person can follow his dream, others have to make sacrifices. They have to confront ridicule, persecution, and attempts to discredit what they are trying to do.”

“It was the church that burned the witches at the stake, Padre.”

"Right. And Rome threw the Christians to the lions. But those who died at the stake or in the sand of the arena rose quickly to eternal glory—they were better off.

“Nowadays, warriors of the light confront something worse than the honorable death of the martyrs. They are consumed, bit by bit, by shame and humiliation. That's how it was with Saint Teresawho suffered for the rest of her life. That's how it was for Maria de Jesus, too. And for the happy children who saw Our Lady in Fátima, Portugal—well, Jacinta and Francisco died just a few months later; Lucia entered a convent from which she never emerged.”

“But that's not how it was for Bernadette.”

“Yes, it was. She had to live through prison, humiliation, and discredit. He must have described that to you. He must have told you the words of the visitation.”

“Some of them.”

“In the visitations at Lourdes, the phrases uttered by Our Lady wouldn't fill half a page of a notebook, but one of the things the Virgin said clearly to the girl was 'I do not promise you happiness in this world.' Why did she warn Bernadette? Because she knew the pain that awaited Bernadette if she accepted her mission.”

I looked at the sun, the snow, and the bare branches of the trees.

“He is a revolutionary,” he continued, sounding humble. "He has the power, and he converses with Our Lady. If he is able to concentrate his forces well, he can be one of the leaders in the spiritual transformation of the human race. This is a critical point in the history of the world.

“But if he chooses this path, he is going to go through a great deal of suffering. His revelations have come to him before their time. I know the human soul well enough to know what he can expect.”

The padre turned to me and held me by the shoulders. “Please,” he said. “Keep him from the suffering and tragedy that lie in store for him. He will not be able to survive them.”

“I understand your love for him, Padre.”

He shook his head. “No, no. You don't understand anything. You are still too young to know the evils of the world. At this point, you see yourself as a revolutionary too. You want to change the world with him, open new paths, see the story of your love for each other become legend—a story passed down through the generations. You still think that love can conquer all.”

“Well, can't it?”

“Yes, it can. But it conquers at the right time after the celestial battles have ended.”

“But I love him. I don't have to wait for the celestial battles to end for my love to win out.”

He gazed into the distance.

“On the banks of the rivers of Babylon, we sat down and wept,” he said, as if talking to himself. “On the willows there, we hung up our harps.”

“How sad,” I answered.

“Those are the first lines of one of the psalms. It tells of exile and of those who want to return to the promised land but cannot. And that exile is still going to last for a long time. What can I do to try to prevent the suffering of someone who wants to return to paradise before it is time to do so?”

“Nothing, Padre. Absolutely nothing.”

“There he is,” said the padre.

I saw him. He was about two hundred yards from me, kneeling in the snow. He was shirtless, and even from that distance, I could see that his skin was red with the cold.

His head was bowed and his hands joined in prayer. I don't know if I was influenced by the ritual I had attended the night before or by the woman who had been gathering hay, but I felt that I was looking at someone with an incredible spiritual force. Someone who was no longer of this world—who lived in communion with God and with the enlightened spirits of heaven. The brilliance of the snow seemed to strengthen this perception.

“At this moment, there are others like him,” said the priest. "In constant adoration, communing with God and the Virgin. Hearing the angels, the saints, the prophecies and words of wisdom, and transmitting all of that to a small gathering of the faithful. As long as they continue in this way, there won't be a problem.

“But he is not going to remain here. He is going to travel the world, preaching the concept of the Great Mother. The church is not yet ready for that. And the world has stones at hand to hurl at those who first introduce the subject.”

“And it has flowers to throw on those who come afterward.”

“Yes. But that's not what will happen to him.”

The priest began to approach him.

“Where are you going?”

“To bring him out of his trance. To tell him how much I like you. To say that I give my blessing to your union. I want to do that here, in this place, which for him is sacred.”

I began to feel sick with an inexplicable fear.

“I have to think, Padre. I don't know if this is right.”

“It's not right,” he answered. “Many parents make mistakes with their children, thinking they know what's best for them. I'm not his father, and I know I'm doing the wrong thing. But I have to fulfill my destiny.”

I was feeling more and more anxious.

“Let's not disturb him,” I said. “Let him finish his contemplation.”

“He shouldn't be here. He should be with you.”

“Maybe he's communicating with the Virgin.”

“He may be. But even so, we have to go to him. If I approach him with you at my side, he will know that I have told you everything. He knows what I think.”

“Today is the day of the Immaculate Conception,” I insisted. “A very special day for him. I saw his happiness last night at the grotto.”

“The Immaculate Conception is special for all of us,” the padre answered. “But now I'm the one who doesn't want to discuss religion. Let's go to him.”

“Why now, Padre? Why at this moment?”

“Because I know that he is deciding his future. And he may make the wrong choice.”

I turned away and began to walk down the same path we had just come up. The padre followed me.

“What are you doing? Don't you see that you're the only one who can save him? Don't you see that he loves you and would give up everything for you?”

I hurried my steps, and it was difficult for him to keep up. Yet he fought to stay at my side.

“At this very moment, he is making his decision! He may be deciding to leave you! Fight for the person you love!”

But I didn't stop. I walked as fast as I could, trying to escape the mountains, the priest, and the choices behind me. I knew that the man who was rushing along behind me was reading my thoughts and that he understood that it was useless to try to make me go back. Yet he insisted; he argued and struggled to the end.

Finally, we reached the boulder where we had rested a half hour earlier. Exhausted, I threw myself down.

I tried to relax. I wanted to run from there, to be alone, to have time to think.

The padre appeared a few minutes later, as exhausted as I was.

“Do you see these mountains surrounding us?” he started in. "They don't pray; they are already a part of God's prayers. They have found their place in the world, and here they will stay. They were here before people looked to the heavens, heard thunder, and wondered who had created all of this. We are born, we suffer, we die, and the mountains endure.

“There is some point at which we have to wonder whether all our effort is worth it. Why not try to be like those mountains—wise, ancient, and in their place? Why risk everything to transform a half-dozen people who will immediately forget what they've been taught and move on to the next adventure? Why not wait until a certain number of monkeys learn, and then the knowledge will spread, with no suffering, to all the other islands?”

“Is that what you really think, Padre?”

He was silent for a few moments.

“Are you reading my thoughts now?”

“No. But if that's the way you feel, you wouldn't have chosen the religious life.”

“I've tried many times to understand my fate,” he said. "But I haven't yet. I accepted that I was to be a part of God's army, and everything I've done has been in an attempt to explain to people why there is misery, pain, and injustice. I ask them to be good Christians, and they ask me, 'How can I believe in God when there is so much suffering in the world?'

“And I try to explain something that has no explanation. I try to tell them that there is a plan, a battle among the angels, and that we are all involved in the battle. I try to say that when a certain number of people have enough faith to change the scenario, all of the others—everywhere on the planet—will benefit. But they don't believe me. They do nothing.”

“They are like the mountains,” I said. “The mountains are beautiful. Anyone who beholds them has to think about the grandness of creation. They are living proof of the love that God feels for us, but their fate is merely to give testimony. They are not like the rivers, which move and transform what is around them.”

“Yes. But why not be like the mountains?”

“Maybe because the fate of mountains is terrible,” I answered. “They are destined to look out at the same scene forever.”

The padre said nothing.

“I was studying to become a mountain,” I continued. “I had put everything in its proper place. I was going to take a job with the state, marry, and teach the religion of my parents to my children, even though I no longer accepted it. But now I have decided to leave all that behind me in order to be with the man I love. And it's a good thing I decided not to be a mountain—I wouldn't have lasted very long.”

“You say some very wise things.”

“I'm surprising myself. Before, all I could talk about was my childhood.”

I stood and started back down the trail. The padre seemed to respect my silence and did not try to speak to me until we reached the road.

I took his hands and kissed them. “I'm going to say good-bye. But I want you to know that I understand you and your love for him.”

The padre smiled and gave me his blessing. “And I understand your love for him, too,” he said.

I spent the rest of the day walking through the valley. I played in the snow, visited a village near Saint-Savin, had a sandwich, and watched some boys playing soccer.

At the church in the village, I lit a candle. I closed my eyes and repeated the invocations I had learned the previous night. Then, concentrating on a crucifix that hung behind the altar, I began to speak in tongues. Bit by bit, the gift took over. It was easier than I had thought.

Perhaps this all seems silly—murmuring things, saying words that have no meaning, that don't help us in our reasoning. But when we do this, the Holy Spirit is conversing with our souls, saying things the soul needs to hear.

When I felt that I was sufficiently purified, I closed my eyes and prayed.

Our Lady, give me back my faith. May I also serve as an instrument of your work. Give me the opportunity to learn through my love, because love has never kept anyone away from their dreams.

May I be a companion and ally of the man I love. May we accomplish everything we have to accomplish together.

When I returned to Saint-Savin, night had almost fallen. The car was parked in front of the house where we were staying.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Walking and praying,” I answered.

He embraced me.

“At first, I was afraid you had gone away. You are the most precious thing I have on this earth.”

“And you are for me,” I answered.

It was late when we stopped in a small village near San Martin de Unx. Crossing the Pyrenees had taken longer than we'd thought because of the rain and snow of the previous day.

“We need to find someplace that's open,” he said, climbing out of the car. “I'm hungry.”

I didn't move.

“Come on,” he insisted, opening my door.

“I want to ask you a questiona question I haven't asked since we found each other again.”

He became serious, and I laughed at his concern.

“Is it an important question?”

“Very important,” I answered, trying to look serious. “It's the following: where are we going?”

We both laughed.

“To Zaragoza,” he said, relieved.

I jumped out of the car, and we went looking for a restaurant that was open. It was going to be almost impossible at that hour of the night.

No, it's not impossible. The Other is no longer with me. Miracles do happen, I said to myself. “When do you have to be in Barcelona?” I asked him. He'd told me he had another conference there.

He didn't answer, and his expression turned serious. I shouldn't ask such questions, I thought. He may think I'm trying to control his life.

We walked along without speaking. In the village plaza, there was an illuminated sign: Mesón el Sol.

“It's open—let's have something to eat” was all he said.

The red peppers with anchovies were arranged on the plate in the shape of a star. On the side, some manchego cheese, in slices that were almost transparent. In the center of the table, a lighted candle and a half-full bottle of Rioja wine.

“This was a medieval wine cellar,” our waiter told us.

There was no one in the place at that time of night. He went off to make a telephone call. When he came back to the table, I wanted to ask him whom he had called—but this time I controlled myself.

“We're open until two-thirty in the morning,” the man said, “So if you like, we can bring you some more ham, cheese, and wine, and you can go out in the plaza. The wine will keep you warm.”

“We won't be here that long,” he answered. “We have to get to Zaragoza before dawn.”

The man returned to the bar, and we refilled our glasses. I felt the same sense of lightness I had experienced in Bilbao the smooth inebriation that helps us to say and hear things that are difficult.

''You're tired of driving, and we've been drinking,“ I said. ”Wouldn't it be better to stay the night? I saw an inn as we were driving."

He nodded in agreement.

“Look at this table,” he said. “The Japanese call it shibumi, the true sophistication of simple things. Instead, people fill their bank accounts with money and travel to expensive places in order to feel they're sophisticated.”

I had some more wine.

The inn. Another night at his side.

“It's strange to hear a seminarian speak of sophistication,” I said, trying to focus on something else.

"I learned about it at the seminary. The closer we get to God through our faith, the simpler He becomes. And the simpler He becomes, the greater is His presence.

“Christ learned about his mission while he was cutting wood and making chairs, beds, and cabinets. He came as a carpenter to show us that—no matter what we do—everything can lead us to the experience of God's love.”

He stopped suddenly.

“But I don't want to talk about that,” he said. “I want to talk about the other kind of love.”

He reached out to caress my face. The wine made things easier for him. And for me.

“Why did you stop so suddenly? Why don't you want to talk about God and the Virgin and the spiritual world?”

“I want to talk about the other kind of love,” he said again. “The love that a man and a woman share, and in which there are also miracles.”

I took his hands. He might know of the great mysteries of the Goddess, but he didn't know any more than I did about love—even though he had traveled much more than I had.

We held hands for a long time. I could see in his eyes the deep fears that true love tests us with. I could see that he was remembering the rejection of the night before, as well as the long time we had been separated, and his years in the monastery, searching for a world where such anxieties didn't intrude.

I could see in his eyes the thousands of times that he had imagined this moment and the scenes he had constructed about us. I wanted to say that yes, he was welcome, that my heart had won the battle. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and how badly I wanted him at that moment.

But I was silent. I witnessed, as if in a dream, his inner conflict. I could see that he was wondering whether I'd reject him again, that he was thinking about his fear of losing me, and about the hard words he had heard at other, similar times—because we all have such experiences, and they leave scars.

His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.

I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table.

“It's going to fall,” he said.

“Exactly. I want you to tip it over the edge.”

“Break the glass?”

Yes, break the glass. A simple gesture, but one that brings up fears we can't really understand. What's wrong with breaking an inexpensive glass, when everyone has done so unintentionally at some time in their life?

“Break the glass?” he repeated. “Why?”

“Well, I could give you lots of reasons,” I answered. “But actually, just to break it.”

"For you?

“No, of course not.”

He eyed the glass on the edge of the table—worried that it might fall.

It's a rite of passage, I wanted to say. It's something prohibited. Glasses are not purposely broken. In a restaurant or in our home, we're careful not to place glasses by the edge of a table. Our universe requires that we avoid letting glasses fall to the floor.

But when we break them by accident, we realize that it's not very serious. The waiter says, “It's nothing,” and when has anyone been charged for a broken glass? Breaking glasses is part of life and does no damage to us, to the restaurant, or to anyone else.

I bumped the table. The glass shook but didn't fall.

“Careful!” he said, instinctively.

“Break the glass,” I insisted.

Break the glass, I thought to myself, because it's a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that I have broken things within myself that were much more important than a glass, and I'm happy I did. Resolve your own internal battle, and break the glass.

Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passions of childhood are impossible, that we should not flee from priests, that people cannot perform miracles, and that no one leaves on a journey without knowing where they are going.

Break the glass, please—and free us from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for every thing, from doing only what others approve of.

“Break the glass,” I said again.

He stared at me. Then, slowly, he slid his hand along the tablecloth to the glass. And with a sudden movement, he pushed it to the floor.

The sound of the breaking glass caught the waiter's attention. Rather than apologize for having broken the glass, he looked at me, smiling—and I smiled back.

“Doesn't matter,” shouted the waiter.

But he wasn't listening. He had stood, seized my hair in his hands, and was kissing me.

I clutched at his hair, too, and squeezed him with all my strength, biting his lips and feeling his tongue move in my mouth. This was the kiss I had waited for so long—a kiss born by the rivers of our childhood, when we didn't yet know what love meant. A kiss that had been suspended in the air as we grew, that had traveled the world in the souvenir of a medal, and that had remained hidden behind piles of books. A kiss that had been lost so many times and now was found. In the moment of that kiss were years of searching, disillusionment, and impossible dreams.

I kissed him hard. The few people there in the bar must have been thinking that all they were seeing was just a kiss. They didn't know that this kiss stood for my whole life and his life, as well. The life of anyone who has waited, dreamed, and searched for their true path.

The moment of that kiss contained every happy moment I had ever lived.

He took off my clothes and entered me with strength, with fear, and with great desire. I ran my hands over his face, heard his moans, and thanked God that he was there inside me, making me feel as if it were the first time.

We made love all night long—our lovemaking blended with our sleeping and dreaming. I felt him inside me and embraced him to make sure that this was really happening, to make sure that he wouldn't disappear, like the knights who had once inhabited this old castle-hotel. The silent walls of stone seemed to be telling stories of damsels in distress, of fallen tears and endless days at the window, looking to the horizon, looking for a sign of hope.

But I would never go through that, I promised myself. I would never lose him. He would always be with me—because I had heard the tongues of the Holy Spirit as I looked at a crucifix behind an altar, and they had said that I would not be committing a sin.

I would be his companion, and together we would tame a world that was going to be created anew. We would talk about the Great Mother, we would fight at the side of Michael the Archangel, and we would experience together the agony and the ecstasy of pioneers. That's what the tongues had said to me—and because I had recovered my faith, I knew they were telling the truth.