Mission San Juan Capistrano… A historical Oasis
For the longest time, San Capistrano was just another innocuous Orange County exit off of interstate five. In fact, it was more of a line in a movie than anything else… “some place warm, a place where the beer flows like wine, where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of…” It is obvious to me now that the Farrelly brothers were poking fun at the real San Capistrano, but, in Capistrano, there are no salmon, but there are swallows, and wine too.
Mission San Juan Capistrano is the oldest vineyard and winery in the state of California with its roots stretching back to 1776. However, the vats have long run dry and the bare feet of native women and children have disappeared and been replaced with the polyurethane encased feet of tourists young and old – mostly old. But at the mission, old is the appeal.
It was as if Father Time had peeled the stucco from the walls himself. Underneath lay smoothed patches of brick. Others were over grown with layers of fragrant foliage. Monarch butterflies wafted by on the sweet odor of star jasmine and orange blossoms. The trees were alive with bees, their little hind legs caked with tufts of yellow pollen.
The trickle of one fountain concealed nearby conversation, and curious Koi peered from underneath the the sun soaked lily pads. It was an oasis concealed inside four foot thick walls. As I read the placards sprinkled across the grounds, I imagined that the Mission may be more serene now than it was before.
In its hay day, over a thousand people would gather for lunch within its walls, and outdoor boilers and ovens would have been bellowing away, but it is quiet now. Brookelynn walked ahead surveying old tanning vats and herb gardens. A hedge discreetly carved into a crucifix. Her beauty and demeanor, angelic. Her blonde hair and fair skin set in relief to the surroundings. She tread lightly.
It was quiet and contemplative, but if I tried – I could imagine it. You could almost hold on to the one gleeful shriek of a child and add to it. The mothers voices carrying after them, the creek of wooden wheels, a tolling bell.
We followed the veranda around the main courtyard. Brookelynn paused at a bench. Her long legs stretching into the sun underneath one of the sequential arches. I passed her and like celestial beings we orbited each other as we moved along, each of us stopping in our time.
Inevitably we fell into an open passageway. It was Serra’s Church. We were lead inside by alters of flickering red glass. Each candle silently spoke a prayer. It was humbling. A image of solemn Virgin Mary stood lit in the entry, and dark wooden pews knelt in rows before the gilded chancel wall.
I sat and ran my hand along the smooth wood. Edges round by countless hands. I thought I smelt Frankincense, or maybe just memories. Brookelynn sat next to me and we paused a minute. I did not know what I felt. Not about her, but the place. Reverence? Regret? Resentment? The chapel like the cave. Groups trickled in behind us, and the moment was over. I snapped a few photos as we departed.
Outside we made our way to the ruins, but we were stopped by the striking silhouette of four bells, their black bodies set against a swirling blue sky. Their silence natural and their stillness unsettling. I wanted to hear them. As we marveled, an old man volunteered to take a picture of us. We later realized he took a video. Both of us seemingly familiar, but awkward as we held our pose.
Around the other side the old chancel of the ruin still stood. The roof all but gone, and half the walls asunder. It was built in nine and gone in six. Like the saying goes – the best laid plans… It did not feel like we were in Southern California anymore. It did not even feel like it was 1776. The wall felt more reminiscent of Al-Khazneh in the ancient city of Petra, and if you had turned around you would have found the Jordanian desert stretching out before you. As I turned I found quit the opposite. There it was the garden.
We had arrived where we had begun, and when all was said and done there was no real urge to leave. I wanted to sit, but I wanted to go. I had improperly assumed it was a place to kill time, but instead a place to spend time – a place to return.
