The Reluctant Pilgrim of Mont Saint-Michel

I had not made my way across Normandy that day in search of spiritual solace. By definition I am not a spiritual person, quite the opposite in fact. The rise of the lonely façade of the Mont up ahead did not particularly stir me.While unarguably beautiful, it was shrouded by a parade of tour buses and bobbing fanny packs that made me hesitate.Yet I rode my bike to the end of the Causeway breathing in the marshy salt air from the surrounding tidal flats. At the gate, I am welcomed by elderly women barking at each other vying for space in the queue to enter, groups of French school children herded by beleaguered teachers and people staring at maps in desperation. As the rare lone traveler, I dodge past all the groups.Moving quickly through the narrow packed alley that leads up the Mont to the monastery I feel the noise fall like a presence behind me.I climb the steps in bounds rising towards the sky and find myself suddenly before the main entrance and alone.The heavens seem suddenly much closer and present; a cerulean blue pressing down on me from above sheer stone drops.I stare straight up and marvel for a moment at the hands that built this enormity here, in what at the time must have felt like the middle of nowhere. I move on ignoring the planned stops and audio guides, willed upwards. For a moment I stop to catch my breath and look out onto the countryside below.The green fields, stone grey sea and sky seem to melt into one giant canvas that threatens to envelope me on this lonely rock.I stare out and above from a large window and suddenly I see what they saw.The pilgrims who came here,the hands that toiled to build a place closer to a God I do not know.I see their desire for something bigger than themselves and I feel my own.I lay my hand on the cold stone of the monastery and feel connected to the humanity of those before and to something bigger than myself.I realize that despite all my beliefs and modernity itself; magic is still to be found in this world.