Some weeks ago I revisited the Gorge of Light (“Garganta de la luz”) at the Valle del Jerte, in Extremadura. The place is dear to me, and I hadn’t been back in perhaps eight years. At the time, the gorge was literally magical to me, and the reason I haven’t been back is difficult to explain: I felt uneasy that I wouldn’t find the magic anymore, either because the hot weather had scorched the gorge, or because spiritual malaise had scorched my magic sensing faculties.

To tell you the truth, that’s how it felt for the first part of the hike, not because I would find the gorge dry, on the contrary: I found it green and alive but the sky was also drizzling and overcast. As within, without—the weather matched my mood.

Jumping from rock to rock up the gorge I searched for my old meditation spot. It was a rock wall over which a tree-like ivy had extended its canopy, providing shade from both sun and rain. I went back and forth the area where I remembered the outcrop to be, but I couldn’t find it. I climbed up the escarpment for a birds-eye view, still it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had perished since my last visit.

Then I slipped on a wet rock and scraped my leg. As I sat down to nurse the wound I thought to myself: “the gorge is still green and beautiful, but I experience some apathy and I don’t understand why, perhaps seeing the tree will cheer me up”.

After an intense hike I finally reached the highlands where an oak grove is nestled inside a micro-valley which protects the trees from the winds. My heart sunk when I saw the tree: a large branch had broken off the trunk some months ago and now dangled off its side. The canopy of this oak is unique in that it’s never been trimmed, it was an all natural globe that grew abundant, symmetrical and beautiful thanks to the trickle of water that comes down the grasslands almost year round to feed it, and its privileged remote secluded location protected it both from natural disasters and human greed.

I originally came to this place possessed by the archetype of the fool/wild man, though this was partially unknown to me at the time. There was a time in my life where I experimented what would happen if I interpreted everything through the lens of symbolism. It is an amazing tool for favorable inner weather, but when you are navigating rough seas, the omens play against you. I interpret the world differently now, but, like family, places can bring you back to the level of development at the time. It would be a difficult meditation under the wounded tree, or so I thought.

I sat down and I was quickly quieted. Heraclitus echoed: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man”. I hallucinated a high pitched ringing bell inside my skull which only grew louder until I had to acknowledge it was not the sound of nirvana, it was the ringing of the bells on a flock of goats in the distance. Soon enough they made an enthusiastic entrance into the enclosed grass field which hosts the oaks, trotting alongside two huge Spanish Mastiffs who initially failed to sniff me out of the air.

I expected the shepherd to come behind them, I sat on a nearby rock and had a face-off with the goats, which grew gradually more comfortable with me. The dogs lay down warming in the sun, oblivious to me, they hadn’t seen me yet. But the shepherd never came and I was plenty warm now, I looked into the vicinity of the area but he was nowhere to be found.

I was keen on meeting him because I didn’t know if it would be the father or the son. I knew this flock, it belonged to a family that had a cheese store in town. I met the son a decade ago while he was tending to his flock in these highlands and he struck me as kind and wise, and he clearly enjoyed being with his flock. His young wife attended the family cheese store in the town and they formed an idyllic image in my mind, truly embodying unpretentious natural tradition in a beautiful family expression.

This self-formed myth was shattered when I met the father of the shepherd. I came a year ago with V, and while trying to go through the well travelled path we took a wrong turn that would lead us up a different gorge. It took us more time than I expected and when we reached the pass in order to come down the Gorge of Light, it was obvious we didn’t have enough time to do it, so we walked down the winding road, asking cars for a ride as the sun was coming down, nobody stopped. We followed the road knowing it would walks us back into town for perhaps two hours, until a car came up from behind and opened the passenger door.

He kindly scolded us for walking in the dark, saying that he had seen us before on his way down and had second thoughts, coming back to pick us up, thinking something could happen to us. We hopped in and thanked profusely, explaining that our only other alternative was hiking down the gorge in total darkness. After some small talk I asked about the cheese store, I had found it closed and I wondered if he would know anything about it. “Well well what a coincidence, I’m the owner” he said. I looked at him and said, “oh but how is that, I met a shepherd and his wife a about ten years ago, I thought they were the owners”. “No, I’m the owner” he said dryly, with a long pause until he volunteered “the man you met is my son”. My hairs stood on ends and I raved about his son, “Oh I met him up there in the fields and he was so kind and his wife” and such when he interrupted me saying they were no longer on good terms.

His wife sought divorce, and his son sided with his mother, wanting to take everything from the father, “they wanted to leave me on the streets” he said. I gave her what corresponded to law, and yet they were greedy and wanted to take everything from me”. He proved his goodness by using this very situation as an example, reminding me that he had turned around to pick up strangers exposed to danger. But just this week the courts had given uncontested possession of his property.

The store was closed because of the legal proceedings, but he would soon reopen, or so he said, because it’s closed to this day.

He dropped us off at the entrance of town. I opened the door to step off the truck, but he tapped me with the phone and showed us the screen: a young man dressed in a tasteful and well earned Spanish cowboy outfit posed for a picture at the doorstep of a house. “Who is him?” I asked. “Me, of course”. I was dazzled at the last minute prompt. What did he want? He’s conceited, I thought. Pareces artista (you look like an artist) I said, and with this a broad smile appeared on his face, and we bid farewell.

Back to the present moment: the shepherd is not in the vicinity, and with my movements, the dogs finally notice me. Two huge Spanish Mastiffs come to meet me, barking and exposing their teeth. Semi-feral dogs, only socialized with their masters. They won’t bite unless you’re very clumsy, but they do their job and keep you at bay.

As they ran towards me I intuitively understood that it was easier avoiding a close confrontation by backing off their territory. Facing them, I walked backwards through a natural doorway in the bushes, and when I was on the other side the dogs stood their ground at the doorway, barking at me.

I produced a friendly whistle and begun chanting a good boy spell, I spoke to them as I spoke to my much yearned furry companion Nina, may she rest in peace. My spell failed in a non-catastrophic way with the male dog, who walked away going back to the flock. The female stood there, moving her tail. The spell was working! I pulled out my phone and called her with more intensity, finally yielding to my affections. After some back and ear rubs she seemed stressed at not being at her post so I let her go, and I went back to the tree to meditate.

The contents of meditation are difficult to convey, what taste did it have? reassurance at change. These are not symbols, this is nature in action. I am not the same and the gorge is not the same. Where a meditation spot vanished, another one is waiting for me to discover it, and yet another one is forming to replace that one. This tree lost that arm not out of neglect, but from exceeding its growth capacity. Old oaks like this let their heavy lower branches touch the ground to distribute weight, but this one was stubborn and held its arms high and proud rather than letting itself slouch, like its half-millennial old cousins. Yes, it is a sad day, feel the sadness and mourn this loss of beauty. I tasted beauty, it is truly a stunning tree:

After my meditation I entered a state of slumber which was interrupted by the goats, which had come down from the high grasslands to the vicinity of the tree. Both the dogs and the goats had grown trustful of me, and I gave each dog one peeled hard boiled egg which I had left from lunch. They were ravenous, and I noticed their ribs: they were not well fed.

Before leaving I saw a loose splinter at its wound, and with a branch dislodged it. A beautiful board fell from the crack of the oak’s arm and I held it against my face. A sacred object.

How is it that life keeps on giving beauty even after death? This tree has selflessly fed goats sheep deer and hogs for centuries. It has sheltered many true shepherds too, a decade ago the son said that he used to spend time under the tree but they had then been barred from entering the private property, and the grass was overgrown. “That’s terrible” I said, “a lighting could easily light up the grass and burn everything down”. I was glad to see now the goats were allowed into the enclosure again, and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

Besides the board I took a branch of hedera helix which I found along the way, and put it in a glass of water until I left for Madrid. It went through a lot of stress, and I was not sure it would make it.

“This flock is now the father’s” I thought. “Unlike the son, he probably drops off the animals at the oak grove and comes to pick them up at sunset to store them at a barn somewhere, that’s why he found us on the way down”. I walked around the property for one final look, and then headed back to town with ample margin for exploration. Instead of jumping down the rocks at the bottom of the gorge to eventually find a dirt roadway which would lead me back into town, I climbed up the ridge which would do the same job, and it was an option I hadn’t explored before.

I was rewarded with amazing views and also a specially beautiful face of the mountain which is high and exposed yet green and alive. Jumping from rock to rock is a favorite pastime of mine and I was glad to be able to do it from above as I used to do from below.

Coming down from the ridge was a difficult endeavor but this was a one time exploration effort. It’s close enough from the tree to be an extension of it and I’d rather come back than to continue. The greenery at this time of the year, at this height was especially surprising. And having beautiful rocks all around was amazing, my favorite discovery in this return to the Oak of Prado Sancho.

The village revealed itself this time in full splendor of clear skies. Inner and outer weather matched what happened today. I walked back into town to find mass taking place, a lady read Isaiah 5:1–7 which to my modern ears sounded anti-semite but I quickly understood Isiah was a Jew and he confronting his own people, vaguely understanding that the sour grapes weren’t the Jews but all of us whose values are corrupted, and I thanked God, The Word, for allowing me to relax and try to listen to the lecture, knowing I could easily revisit it later.

The next day I would have like to write the experience, but my laptop ran out of battery and my charger had been forgotten at the last yoga retreat. It took me a very long time to write this out from the “city perspective”, there’s a certain poetry which I find myself incapacitated to replicate when my daily life is taking place in the background.

Colophon

Last Sunday a notification appeared on my phone: Madrid’s transhumance day was happening from 10am to 2pm, and there would be shepherds guiding goats through the city. I had already booked two yoga classes and I would free myself towards the end of the event. An online publication showed they would be leaving from Casa de Campo, be given a tour around the city, and would come back there.

I thought this was perfect closure to this story: the ivy was starting to grow. The board is snugged perfectly on a coat hanger, and now the goats had come to Madrid. Our task is not there but here, the symbols clearly appeared arranged for me to place the last final piece of the puzzle with a video of the flock.

I went down to Casa de Campo and then biked uphill to Plaza Mayor in search of them, but they were nowhere to be found and there was not even sign of them, I thought “either the cleaning crew did a spectacular job, or they were never here”. There’s an encampment protesting about the lack of housing in Spain at Plaza Sol, and I suspected the event had been cancelled because of this. I didn’t want to spoil the answer by searching online, I preferred to use my senses to try to locate them, I was a caveman trying to sniff listen and see something, but I found no evidence. They hadn’t been there, I dictated.

Still, the online publication said the flock would go back to Casa de Campo to spend the night, so I went back and traversed beautiful parts of the park in search of the sheep. By now I knew it was very unlikely that I would find them, but I was there for the ride, and if I found them it would be a nice ending. I went to a high area in the center of the park and scanned for any signs. 600 sheep and 300 goats should be visible from a good distance. Nope. I had lost them.

Coming back I wondered what this meant. In the moment I saw myself chasing meaning instead of allowing it to find me. Or perhaps I was not being assertive enough, I could have cancelled my class to go see them, but I didn’t. But I still saw that, by pursuing these symbols, I came across beautiful things and it was completely worth “the chase”, I had greatly enjoyed the day looking for the flock.

Still I shrugged, perhaps this experience of symbolism is simply a hallucination of reality, I’m creating meaning where there is none and perhaps even engaging into the magical realm of thinking is preventing me from “showing up” properly. It’s fun and beautiful in itself but it’s not truth, it’s part of the soap opera that happens in the background.

Then I went to Retiro to exercise but found myself tired, and made my way back to the bike station. A beautiful scene met me again and I thought: how strange, I dispel symbols and yet I see them, life seems to be insisting: “the gorge of light is here stupid, don’t wave it away as meaningless drivel”.

And as if to demonstrate with further emphasis, after I grabbed the bike I headed back into the park in order to cross it to get home, and along the way I was met with the beautiful image of the full moon against the Ángel Caído fallen angel statue in Retiro. Tears begun rolling down my cheeks, I saw the geography of the valley itself: on the west side there is the Gorge of light, and to the east the Gorge of hells. At Garganta de los infiernos there is a stunning naturally water sculpted rock formation, but it’s popular with tourists, and I kinda like having discovered “my” place on this side of the valley.

The symmetry in naming is an accident: there was some sort of electrical generator installed decades ago and they called it “the light gorge”, though no trace of it remains. But, the first time I came to this area by accident I encountered an Ignatian House of Spiritual Exercises (says so at the entrance), I shall write about this event with my next delivery.

Weeks in distance from these events, I find myself holding the paradox fine. I overheard the name of a philosopher and wrote his name wrong, coming into Nicholas of Cusa by accident. His most controversial claim was that God is both the greatest and smallest of all things, and in this paradox lies the secrets of understanding his experience. Rather than growing prideful by chasing these peak experiences, or becoming a cynic by waving everything I experience as a hallucination, we must understand the paradox in the greatness and humility of our task, and the greatness of our task is derived by the humility itself.

Colophon 2:

An interesting insight by Claude:

The father is the most Isaian figure in the piece. He insists he gave what “corresponded to law,” the courts vindicated him, and he proves his goodness by pointing to the kindness he just did you. That’s the mishpat/mispach pun in miniature: legal justice obtained, yet the fruit is a broken family, a shuttered shop, and, as you notice later, ribby, underfed dogs. You judge him too (“he’s conceited”), which is exactly the position Isaiah puts his listeners in before turning the verdict back on them. Your own opening, the apathy and fear that your “magic sensing faculties” had been scorched, is a quiet admission that you went up the gorge with your own sour grapes.

I prompted: days later I had this beautiful experience seeing the full moon against the “Angel Caído” in Retiro park, and I read it was inspired in John Milton’s Paradise lost Book I. Would this have anything to do with Isiah?

Yes, quite directly. The whole idea of a fallen angel named Lucifer comes largely from Isaiah 14:12, which the King James renders “How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!”

In context, that chapter is a taunt song against the king of Babylon. Isaiah mocks a tyrant who boasted he would climb to heaven, set his throne above the stars of God and make himself like the Most High, and who instead is brought down to the grave. The Hebrew name is Helel ben Shachar, “shining one, son of the dawn,” meaning the morning star, Venus, which rises brilliantly and then vanishes in the sun’s light. When Jerome translated it into Latin, he used lucifer, “light-bearer,” the ordinary Latin word for the morning star.

Meaning and meaningless-ness have flipped in quick succession enough to start understanding that the answer is a paradox, it’s a truly meaningless arrangement of events that have meaning only because I’m carrying a story, if I had no story, there would be no symbols