“Child of mine”. These are the words I heard when I stopped to touch my forehead to the tree alongside the Chemin du Roy, the ancient and storied path up Saint-Baume mountain in the south of France.
This beautiful tree with the Vesica Piscis shaped knot in the side of it appeared out of nowhere, but the women guiding my pilgrimage were familiar with it and urged us to stop here. The words I heard were not audible, rather they came to mind in a way that I recognize as spirit speaking to me.
Several days later, I was sitting with my roommate on the hillside at our retreat centre, watching the sun come up over the beautiful valley in which the town of Antugnac nestles. The storied lavender fields of the Languedoc had already been harvested. The vineyards were ripe with fruit.
As the sun appeared over the horizon, I said to her “it feels like I lost a child here once”. She responded, “Have you lost a child?” A wave of grief came over me as I remembered the child I lost between my son and my daughter way back in 1982. I was confused. I’ve never forgotten that baby, but I don’t think about it often. Why would that memory come back in France of all places? The grief hung in the air, just out of reach, for the three weeks I was in France. Like a ripe pear hanging behind a veil.
Once back in BC, my heart longing for the land that felt like my spiritual home, I turned to Facebook to follow photos and impressions of countless other pilgrims. I loved seeing the familiar sights and hearing about other women’s experiences at these mystical sights. From time-to-time women spoke about the unborn children in connection with the cave at Saint Baume, our destination at the top of the Chemin du Roy.
Over several months, I had visions of living in that area of France during the time of the Cathars, a spiritual sect who believed themselves to be the spiritual descendants of Mary Magdalene and her mission in France.
The Cathars didn’t need fancy church buildings; they gathered in meadows, in caves or in fortresses provided by nobles in the area who protected them. They followed the Way of Love, learning to use their consciousness in ways they believed would ensure that when they passed this life they would ascend to the Source of all that is so they could carry out their healing work from beyond the veil. They believed the material world was essentially evil, and they wished to live in the higher world.
Their material world was influenced by evil forces. These gentle people were systematically exterminated in the 1300s by the RC church who saw them as a threat because their simple, community-minded way of life was so attractive to everyone, and the church’s fortunes dwindled.
During the visions, I interacted with two people who are in my life now who were my children during that lifetime. I felt the grief of losing them to the madness that the inquisition whipped up, dividing people against their own families so they turned against each other to save their own skins. I saw the young daughter with long blonde hair I lost at Montsegur.
I heard the loud voices in the street and the banging on the door while I hid in an upstairs room. They were coming for me and my kin. I felt scared and trapped as I understood that I had misplaced my trust in those who assured me that I would be safe.
Unless groups of Cathars sought refuge in a fortress, municipal authorities had no way of knowing who was a proper church-going Catholic and who was a Cathar. Who was “God’s own” and who was apparently not. This led to much confusion among the populace, not unlike our world now.
Today, Mary Magdalene is everywhere in southern France. Now that the Catholic church has acknowledged her as the chief apostle and given her a feast day, I expected I would be able to commune with her in the many churches we visited. There were statues, and some of the basilicas and churches were named for her (Saint Mary Magdalene) but I couldn’t kick the feeling that the RC church had hijacked my beloved Mary, minimized her, hidden her away and carried on as they have for centuries with their fancy robes and their golden communion goblets. I am tempted to apologize for my bitterness. Not yet.
It is said that those who feel a strong draw to a foreign land have likely had past lives there. Visiting Cathar Country, stained as it was by such a tragedy as the beginnings of the Inquisition, was a lot to process. I experienced grief, bitterness, and resentment but I also felt the most beautiful joy. Despite the flames that awaited them, the Cathars sang their way to their death, knowing without a doubt that they were going to a better place.
Today is July 22, Mary’s feast day and ironically the 810th anniversary of the Bezier massacre. This is the day the people of tiny St. Maximin carry her tiny skull in a golden case through the streets in a solemn procession, I choose to remember the place I felt her presence most. In the woods at Saint-Baume.
Ten months on, I think I finally understand what “child of mine” was all about.
Thank you for reading this post. My personal journey involves learning to speak my truth without too many filters 🙂
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Thanks for sharing ❤️