Her name is Pura.

Yesterday , at 5am, I left my village and drove though the inky darkness with the  full moon beaming over the mountainside.  At 6.30am I arrived at my destination and for the next hour, sitting in my car, I waited and wondered. It was cold. It was still dark. What was going to happen?
Shadowy shapes occasionally  moved inside  other cars. Am I imagining this ?  The church clock chimed  raspingly every quarter of an  hour.   My name was written on a piece paper  pinned to  the brown  wooden door of the house behind me: Margarita 1. There were three other names before mine, and  six  after.

Every now and then, a vehicle swung round the side of the  church.  Dazzling headlights  momentarily disturbed the stillness  of waiting.  Turning 180 degrees the new arrivals  drew up behind me stopping beside the small ,two storied white house with 101 flowers pots outside.  In threes joined together,the chairs sat empty, impartial, and old. It is very unusual to come  alone I was told later.

Bargis. Photo by Merxe.

Gradually dawn peered around the far end of the tiny Andalusian village, a soft orange light, a mango mixed  with cream color.  It  swelled quickly over the  old  clock tower and  the empty vegetable patch below it,  revealing the beauty of  one of  many magical villages here in  southern Spain.

We are all here to see the curandera - the healer. She will open her  door at  7.30am,

her name is Pura.

'Miracles are not contrary to nature, but only contrary to what we know about nature.'

Saint Augustine.

I'm here to ask for a miracle.

New title  pic by Merxe Martin, others, by me .