21 Jan Via Michaelis Travelling on foot from the village of my birth to the Goetheanum – Michel Dongois
INTRO
By travelling alone on foot, a pilgrimage I have named Via Michaelis, from my birthplace, Culmont, in the Champagne region of France, to the Goetheanum, I made a dream come true – the dream of honouring my long-standing connection with anthroposophy.
TEXT
I arrived in Dornach with my backpack on September 29, after three weeks on the road, which included twelve days on foot through five French “départements” and three Swiss cantons. The distance separating the village of my birth from Dornach is approximately 200 kilometres. Since I was determined to avoid all main thoroughfares, I had traced out my own personal route of nearly 250 kilometres through villages and secondary departmental roads. I was, however, never far from national Route 19, which is the usual highway one takes to travel from Paris to Switzerland, nor far from the Paris-Basel railroad line. As a child, I would often dream of travelling these routes pointing eastward, the direction my aspirations seemed to want to lead me.
Rudolf Steiner stated that the Goetheanum was to be “a symbol for what must be accomplished in order to elevate mankind” (Social Impulses in the Light of Spiritual Science). A true crossroads, a place of blending, integration, harmonization. So, eastward bound was I! With, as my ultimate goal, the Statue of the Representative of Humanity! This sculpture depicts the confrontation of mankind with the two forces of evil that Rudolf Steiner named Lucifer and Ahriman; and yet it also reveals an alternative third path – the middle road – the one we can travel by choosing in freedom to establish an inner connection to Christ. Indeed, my pilgrimage was inwardly coloured by my quest to find that middle path. Therefore, along the way I strove to identify situations, inner or outer, that required me to recognize the point of balance, the moral attitude – sometimes quite subtle but always in a state of constant movement – that protects us from the two extremes.
Birth, Rebirth
As I set off, my backpack was light but my mind was cluttered. I had just completed a career of 42-years as a journalist, and this voyage was to mark my transition towards retirement. It was both a summing up of all that had made me who I am, and for which I had a deep feeling of gratitude towards life, and an opportunity to make a new start. Walking from my birthplace to a place of rebirth in the spirit of anthroposophy, which is in itself “a path of knowledge,” was for me a return to my spiritual source, a backwards journey along the golden thread of my life.
I had previously made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, and often wondered whether the place we reach at the end is not at the same time the place to which we were sent. We come away sensing how we can better accomplish our mission on earth, having come near once again to the spiritual forces that presided over our descent into the physical world. Was there not then a breath of “unbornness” floating over my journey? A voyage of intuition? These thoughts filled my mind as I set off on my Via Michaelis.
A long hike
For a while now, long hikes and their rituals have provided me schooling in self confidence and trust in life. How fulfilling to feel oneself in motion, every step creating a direct connection with the world! The key to a successful trek can be summed up in the hiker’s classic formula: “40% depends on the shoes and 60% on the morale.” The rest happens on the path itself – the people you meet and the world that opens up before you.
The weather was cooperative, bus shelters and farmer’s sheds providing shelter from the infrequent downpours. I went through nearly deserted villages, where many houses were for sale and could be purchased almost for the price of a car. In places, the land was left unattended. This certainly gave a welcome rest to nature, but also provided the Monsantos of this world with spaces to carry out their experiments, hidden from the eyes of civilisation. Very often the fruit trees were left abandoned, and from time to time I delighted in partaking of apples or plums which had fallen onto the side of the road. There were very few people outside, but somehow, just at the right time, I woud come across a lady to offer me water or a man to give me the directions I needed.
Le Corbusier
Wanting to live my journey as a fantasy, an impulse of the heart, I had not really planned the itinerary in detail, except for two main points of interest: the monastery of Sainte-Claire in Ronchamp, near Belfort, and the Benedictine abbey of Mariastein in Switzerland. I had made several reservations in monasteries, being fond of their welcoming discretion. Otherwise, I stayed in hotels or rooms in private dwellings.
So, there I was, climbing the ancient pilgrims’ path up the Ronchamp hill. Le Corbusier had ascended that same path in 1950 to rebuild the chapel, one of the 4000 religious buildings destroyed in France during the war. At the time, young and old had been at odds with one another: should the chapel be restored as it was originally or rebuilt in a modern style? Le Corbusier chose the new, moulding the concrete, his material of choice, to his will and also using light itself as an essential material in order to direct the visitor’s gaze towards the sky. “If the sun enters the house, some of it also enters your heart,” he said. The architect wanted the chapel to be a “place of silence, peace and inner joy.” But it had suffered greatly over time and was in dire need of repair. Would it become a museum, frozen in its status as an icon of 20th century architecture? The arrival of the Claris nuns brought a second wind to the hilltop, which, according to historical records, has been a place of Marian pilgrimage since the 11th century. The plans for their new monastery were designed by Renzo Piano (who designed the Pompidou centre for the arts and culture in Paris and the Shard in London). His intention was neither to impose his own will nor to become completely invisible in the presence of Le Corbusier’s creation. And, so as not to be disrespectful to Le Corbusier’s legacy, part of the monastery would be built underground, on the hillside, “remaining as close as possible to the earth yet receiving the light from above.” The nuns took up residence there in 2011.
Ineffable Space (L’Espace indicible)
According to Le Corbusier, when a work attains its maximum intensity, proportion and perfection, the space begins to emit light physically. In the architect’s own words: “These factors determine what I call ‘Ineffable space’ (l’espace indicible), meaning that it does not depend on its dimensions but rather on the ‘quality of perfection’; this is in the realm of the ineffable.” This radiating space is located at the very point where forces from the heights and the depths, lightness and heaviness, meet in harmony. And as I strolled about the hillside I wondered whether what pertains to architecture could also apply to human beings. How to find within ourselves the focal point of this light-radiating source which battles against the destructive centre that we all carry within ourselves, as Rudolf Steiner points out (Dornach, September 23, 1921)? Does this space also represent the delicate balance between the opposing forces?
Ronchamp is not far from Switzerland; I reached the border, which is barely recognizable, after having followed for a while the Zero Kilometre Circuit of the Western Front, a seven-kilometre stretch which still bears some vestiges of the three fronts of WWI (French, Swiss, German). I thought of how Rudolf Steiner and his coworkers had continued to erect the first Goetheanum while cannon fire could be heard in the vicinity. The Western Front contained a string of blockhouses stretching for over 750 kilometres from the Swiss border to the North Sea. The German soldiers jokingly referred to point zero as “The end of the Ostend-Switzerland metro line”.
Nicolas of Flüe
After a walk through a lovely natural landscape, I arrived at the Benedictine abbey which administers the Marian sanctuary of Mariastein. At the time of my arrival, the monastic community was hosting an exhibition celebrating the 600th anniversary of the birth of Nicholas of Flüe, patron saint of Switzerland (1417 – 1487). A truly universal man: peasant, counselor to princes and bishops, pilgrim, spiritual researcher, Saint Nicholas acted as mediator at the time when civil war was threatening the Swiss Confederation. He managed to convince the rural cantons to agree to integrate two urban cantons, Fribourg and Solothurn, where the abbey is located.
By applying his rule of life: obey one another, which sought to find solutions that would benefit all parties concerned, he initiated a new style of social relationships, both on the family level and the political level. This was in many ways a precursor to the civilizing role Switzerland would take on later (Red Cross, Société des Nations, Geneva Conference, direct democracy).
There are many who also credit Nicolas of Flüe for having saved Switzerland when, on May 10, 1940, the Nazis invaded three neutral countries – Belgium, Luxemburg, The Netherlands – on their way to France. They announced on May 12th that within 48 hours, there would be no neutral country remaining in Europe. Switzerland was expecting the Germans to attack during the night of May 14-15. But on the evening of May 13th, Whitsun Monday, 15 people saw appear in the sky at Waldenburg, not far from Mariastein, a glow of light in the shape of a hand which they interpreted as being the hand of Nicolas of Flüe, protecting Switzerland from the German onslaught. Was it merely a hand-shaped cloud? The Hand of Waldenburg remains a mystery, but the country was spared.
From Mariastein to the Goetheanum was then only a 5-hour walk. I must acknowledge my appreciation for Swiss ingenuity, which has created one of the world’s most clearly marked networks of pedestrian and hiking trails. The plentiful signage makes it easy to get from one location to another throughout the whole country. And the Swiss are about to apply this same knowhow to bike paths as well, in an effort to make travelling more human-friendly.
Empty space
I could already see the Goetheanum on the horizon. I reached the Haus Friedwart, where I was to stay. Since I had no expectations other than that of experiencing the road itself, I was happy to have reached my goal. For three days, I immersed myself in the spirit of the place, also exploring the surroundings – bordered on the north by freshly-plowed fields. I could sense a promise of sprouting seeds and hope for what the future would bring. I met several participants who had come to attend the Michaelmas Conference, which had as is theme: Impulses for the Future: the Goetheanum from 1917 to 2017. I managed to catch the last part of the plenary session. The discussion focussed on the fair price of goods and services and the urgent need to forge an economic future based on the principle of brotherhood. The discussion was also interspersed with talk of the immigrant crisis.
I was filled with delight to be at the Goetheanum for Michaelmas – indeed, I harbour a deep devotion for the archangel whose name I bear. And yet, there was an empty space; I felt as if I were in a state of becoming: this pilgrimage was nearing its conclusion, and now what? Is this then also part of the spirit of Michael, who summons us discretely while leaving us free? The statue of The Representative of Humanity, the “last station” on my journey, appeared to me as being the lamp in the sanctuary, urging me to awaken and to be present, ever mindful, and it seemed at the same time to be an agent of renewal for things to come.
Taking up my backpack once again, I returned to France within several hours, following the Birse river, which is a tributary of the Rhine. I found myself in Huningue, in Alsace, on the Passerelle des trois pays (Footbridge of Three Countries) that allows pedestrians and cyclists from France, Switzerland and Germany to cross the Rhine at that point. I then boarded the train to return to the village of my birth.
Resistance
Looking back, I am aware of having taken part in a major social movement, the pilgrimage movement, which provides a healthy counterbalance to the virtual reality so prevalent in today’s world. This activity includes researching the itineraries suggested by the European Council, the most famous of which, the road to Santiago de Compostela, gave the initial impulse for all the others in 1987. Since the term “spiritual” is no longer “politically correct,” the Council (with its 47 member nations) now uses the word “cultural” to designate these routes that 
helped forge the identity of Europe. It now recognizes 32 itineraries, many of which include sections to be explored on foot (Via Francigena, trails from Canterbury to Rome; the Saint-Martin of Tours itinerary; Transromanica – Romanesque heritage itineraries; European Mozart trails; the European road of Cistercian abbey trail; etc.)
The individuals who walk these trails are often at a crossroads in their personal lives – divorce, sickness, beginning or end of a career. By following one’s own path, reinforcing one’s own identity, one can connect with others and sense one’s true humanness, fighting all the while against being entirely caught up in the mechanisation of our modern world.
Michel Dongois
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