A place after which nothing will be the same. Ode to Monsanto
Saw a boundless sky. Eagles flew, rulers of freedom in it, fluttered their wings and hovered high above me. I saw the air descending to Earth in fog, enveloping Serra Da Estrella, barely visible on the horizon. I saw myself in the reflection of the water that filled the niche of the medieval grave, carved in stone, built from eternity, for eternal peace. So painfully familiar to me. I saw the future touching the past, did not have fun and did not cry, just looked.
Old men on old photo prints, hands of workers, people who loved their land, knew its history, saw themselves in it not just as a part, but as a whole. Spirits are everywhere. They are in the silent silence of the alleys folded by a house of cards from huge boulders. They are in the distraught eyes of mountain goats galloping along the steep slopes of the mountain. And they are in me. In me, going to the castle of the great Order to the very top of Monsanto, in me climbing there alone, but with joy in my soul, because there is my home, the place where I have been many times, lost everything there, but also gained no less. Everything, from my little Portuguesa and her snow-white chintz dress, to the tears shed in prayers for the lost time. In the whirlpool of repetition, in this unity of the laws of the Lord, I am here. Glad. Calm. One.
XII. Portugal, Monsanto
The incessant gusts of cold, piercing to the bones wind screech for a second, more likely even ricocheting from the sharp corners of huge boulders, as if by the hands of long-disappeared giants neatly folded into logical formations. Over the castle, whose walls look like the mighty back of a bristling dragon, the banner of the Order rises. There is a clatter of hoofs and a wind blowing all four of their voices. The smoke of bonfires soars soaringly upward into the heights and breaks away from the Earth and starts a crazy dance.
This castle is special. Special for Portugal in general and for one great Portuguese in particular. His figure, slightly bent from the already bad habit of pain in his right shoulder, stands out menacingly at the highest point of the mountain. Guladim Paish peers closely at the horizon. Calm and confident, erecting the most impregnable castle of the country, a castle that is impossible to get close to, the citadel possessing the eyes of an eagle for tens of kilometers will not hide anything from its gaze.
Outside the castle walls, the Archangel Michael guards in his name a small church, around which the bodies of the deceased brothers and sisters rest in stones. All for real. The stone world, where people are born on a stone, live in a stone and go there too. Monsanto is a special place.
In one of our previous articles, we talked about how to perceive history correctly and how important it is for you to be able to feel. Dates, names, events — all this is certainly wonderful, but if you are not a historian, then take my word for it, all this is not useful to you. Another thing is important — to be able to hear the past. And Monsanto is the perfect place to learn this. Getting here you are immersed in absolute timelessness. Moreover, this happens without any help from the outside, the stone town and the magical Mountain themselves will do their job.
A strange black fountain with mysterious poems written on a stone above it, a house standing at the Tau crossroads, there lives a very old, but suspiciously alive old lady, who adorned the entrance of her home with Witch attributes and set her broom upside down in solidarity with those who knows. Sigils, once long ago hollowed out with a sharp object in huge boulders, are now hidden under a layer of green moss.
Take a look at the only souvenir shop and ask yourself why small rag dolls of women in dresses are so popular here, symbolizing a huge number of pagan concepts, from fertility and the cult of the Great Mother, to a later medieval amulets. A strange town, to this day keeping its secrets from the crowds of tourists and their noisy guides.
Monsanto demands silence from you. This place wants you to listen, listen not to anyone, but to yourself. How do you feel leaning against this stone? What do you see when at midnight you climb the path to the very top of the mountain, to the walls of an impregnable fortress? Do you feel that you are not alone? Remember, time does not exist, and this place is proof of this.
I often come to Monsanto. More often alone. I always walk during the day, early in the morning at dawn, at night when everyone is sleeping I go up with a small flashlight to the top. So I can connect with the place, which I then show to those who want to “see”. The guard between today and yesterday, the conductor from now to then, I am attentive to silence, intolerant of noise, the world around me is the world woven by me, but I am a reflection of It. As above so below, my friends, and this is from the ancient Tablets, those of the Emerald.
I saw strange shadows in an alley on a neighboring street. I looked into the eyes of an old man who measured his reamaining life in steps. I touched, literally touched the thick morning air hanging over the houses. Met dawn and kissed the sunset, breathing. I Loved. I Love. I will always Love until the end of Times. These are the feelings and thoughts this place evokes. And so I come back here again and again, in peace, in integrity, in balance.
