Memories of Mission San Luis Rey

And here are a few photos of the Mission San Luis Rey, located next to the 76 freeway near the city of Oceanside, CA. We used to frequent this mission when we were young, and spent many Easter holidays here in the 70s and 80s. It was the location where the entire family would reunite if it was a special occasion. Otherwise, we spent our time with our cousins in their apartment, or walked around the town where I would guide my cousins to the nearest pharmacy in my never-ending quest for comic books.

When we were young we were no different than other children raised in this country. We would conduct Easter egg hunts even though this custom was completely alien to our Mexican-born parents. The little kids would buy woven baskets with green-colored straw, and we would eagerly await the moment when the adults would venture out to the open area where there used to me more trees, and hide the chocolate treats. I still tease my brother and my cousin mercilessly about the fact that they allowed themselves to be photographed with their Easter baskets, thus subverting their future status as family patriarchs.

It fills me with a sense of unbearable nostalgia every time I am here. The place is lit gently by the coastal sun, and it is typically a lonely place. I took these photos yesterday, and I was surprised that no visitors seemed to be here during a long holiday weekend. I suppose modern sensibilities have changed, and families of all types prefer other places.

The fact that it is lonely contributes to the sense that it is populated by ghosts from our past. Yes, the native Americans lived here and built this mission, and Mexicans lived here and continue to live in this area. However, I am referring to more personal ghosts, those of our younger selves who have changed so dramatically but who can be vividly evoked from time to time.

We all had dreams, and we all thought of grandiose projects when we were young. But we also have these moments of unbearable beauty and innocence, and the regular trips of my childhood are examples of these. We would romp around the mission, having little respect for ceremony and, even after all these decades, I am unable to remember if I actually attended a church service here. We would venture into the ruins, and we imagined that we might be amateur archeologists, finding a hidden treasure. I think I actually looked for Native American arrowheads, or a sign of hidden passages or burial grounds. The site, of course, was only a laundry area for the resident population.

Ghosts also take the form of memories of loved ones. A few of them accompanied us here, and I will always treasure their memory. For example, my cousin Ruben came here to join us one year when he was living temporarily in this country. I will never understand why he chose to return to Mexico. I seem to remember that my grandmother came here with us as well, although my most piercing memories of her are associated with her house in Mexico. I imagine that, for a time, I am accompanied by them as well and the intervening years have disappeared. Time has reversed itself, and I am the lonely child I was back then, desperate for attention and affection.

The sunlight seems tinged with melancholy each time I visit this mission, and I felt like weeping when I saw the pain in the face of the statue of the Virgin Mary.

 

 

Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2011
Copyrights ORomero 2011