I feel very much like a pilgrim as I walk. I suppose it’s not surprising; everywhere I turn, symbols of faith dot this countryside. They’re like seeds on a strawberry. They seem to fall naturally into the landscape. Just here, on this little stretch of road, there are three stone crosses. I’m fascinated by how some look so old and worn, yet they continue to stand, unbroken. Not one has been run into by a car or beaten with a hammer. They’ve not been tagged with paint. In other areas, there are delicate metal ones, strands intertwined to form intricate patterns. All are beautiful, unbroken, with nothing overgrown.
It’s not something I’m used to, this care taken of symbols, care taken by the community. Because really, that’s the only way they would have survived so long. They’re all so different, each on a different pedestal. Some are of poured concrete. Some are stacked stone. They differ like their makers, their eras. Someone, sometime, brought chisels, grinding implements. They mixed mortar there by the road, or loaded a finished piece into a vehicle. Someone put muscle and sweat into the humble task of putting these symbols just here. I can see them, toiling in the heat and the dust. Can you?
(Wikimedia photo attributed to Romary through Creative Commons License)