The Hermit's Cave

by Sofia Schmidt (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Bulgaria

I was fighting to stay awake. We were rattling down a road that wound into the Rila Mountains just outside Sofia, Bulgaria, en route to the Rila Monastery, but the susurrus of snow falling and the van’s sway was rocking me to sleep. As the landscape grew around us –– the snow drifting deeper, the land and trees stretching up into the clouds –– our driver mentioned that we were also near a saint’s grave. In rough English, he explained that Saint Ivan Rilski was one of the most important orthodox saints, especially for Bulgarians, and there was a popular trail to reach his tomb. It was only a 15 minute detour; were we interested? We, the seven passengers, strangers all from the same hostel, eyed each other, trying to measure each other’s interest. One finally blurted, Scottish accented: “Why not? We’re here anyways!” Exactly my kind of attitude. The driver led us to the trail, surrounded by beautifully tall beech trees, a world untouched until he made the first footsteps that became our stepping stones. We slowly lost people from our party, who turned back to wait at the van as a 15 minute uphill stroll became a steep 30 minute climb in a blizzard. Time passed differently on the trail, the slowly falling snow and muffled world creating a small infinity, but eventually the driver pointed out a stone structure to us, mostly hidden in the snow –– a church, barely big enough to fit us all. This was St Ivan’s tomb, but the driver directed us to a cave in the rock immediately adjacent to the church, where St Ivan once lived as a hermit. A small icon of the saint, standing alone under its own shelter, marked a crack in the rock where a narrow and steep set of stairs began, curling into the massive rockface. In every crack where stone met stone, dozens of tightly folded papers were shoved in. These were prayers and wishes left by pilgrims, the driver explained, and he offered us some crumpled receipts and a pen from his pocket for our own prayers. I quickly scribbled something down, wadded it up and stuffed it into the stairs, leaving a little of my heart in the stone. I was holding my breath from a sense of wonder at this point: here I was, a place outside of time, protected by a blanket of snow, a sacred tomb, a mysterious cave. I’d never been particularly devout, but the spirituality of this space didn’t require a lifetime of knowledge about the church. I followed the driver up into the rock. It was cramped: the driver, a hefty Bulgarian man, much larger than myself, was carrying himself with ease, and yet I felt nervous navigating the tight space within the rock. I wasn’t holding my breath purely from wonder anymore –– I was surrounded by dense rock, and it hadn’t occurred to me until we too were in the rock, but there was absolutely no way for light to enter. We pulled out our phones, and as the LED flashlights surveyed the room they picked up on the ledge where St Ivan once slept, now covered in all manners of votive candles, well loved prayer cards, meticulously painted icons, nestled in a layer of sand and gravel. Light glinted back at us from the metal frames, the gilded haloes of the icons, the metal in the grit. To come here was starting to feel like an impromptu pilgrimage, culminating in an intimate space where one of the most holy Bulgarians once slept. Finally, a bit of light ahead from a slip in the rock above. Our driver explained that if you could climb up and through the hole it was a sign of purity. The watery light dissipated quickly, but it was a reminder that the outside world still existed. Leaving the cave felt like seeing the world with new eyes, breathing with new lungs. I took a breath from the world outside of the rock, now bigger for seeing something so small. We began our descent, on our way to see the main attraction of our journey, but my world was already changed.