My feet are throwing a temper tantrum. Having been on the move for almost eleven hours, they are demanding a rest. So here I am, seated once again in a quiet corner of the Cathedral adjacent to the Zocalo. As I begin putting my thoughts to writing, a beautiful Mass is barely beginning, the organ is playing, a beautiful relaxing hymn being sung—the peaceful music could almost lull me off to sleep.
Outside, in contrast, the Electrical Workers Union is participating in a large, extremely noisy rally. Thousands of union workers are protesting in front of the Palacio Nacional. Speakers on a large stage are blaring out the voices of union leaders who are taking turns rallying the crowd. The echo of the crowd bounces through the acoustically vibrant interior of the Cathedral, but goes largely unnoticed.
Basilica De Guadalupe
Early this morning, I left my hotel at 6:30 a.m., wearing an off-white ankle-length dress. The outside air was brisk and cool, in the upper fifties, but the unusually cool fall temperatures did not seem to phase me. I was too excited to be concerned with weather.
The streets were nearly deserted as I walked the few blocks to the Zocalo subway station. As I neared the Palacio Nacional, small groups of workers were beginning to set up for some type of large event. I found out later that the large downtown square was the finish line for the Mexico City Marathon.
After descending a long flight of stairs into the subway station, I looked taking note that I was one of only a few people preparing to hop onto a train. The payment booth was not even open yet, and I was in a quandary. I had no way to purchase a ticket. With a puzzled look on my face, I approached to the uniformed guard at the turnstiles, asking for advice. Seeing my predicament, he smiled and told me to pass through without paying.
Seconds later, I was zooming down an underground tunnel, headed toward my first transfer station. In less than ten minutes I was leaving the subway station in a completely unfamiliar section of town. Taking inventory of the area, I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was. The sun was still below the horizon, the streets were dark and deserted. The only thing I knew for sure is that I was about a half mile from my destination.
I spied an elderly couple walking into the station and in my best Spanish, I kindly requested their help. Soon, I found myself on a small bus, winding through the local streets, turning here and there, seeming to travel much farther than I had expected.
“I would have never found this on my own.” I gratefully reflected.
There are actually three churches dedicated to Guadalupe, all located in the same area. The oldest and smallest is called “La Capilla del Cerrito”. It sits at the top of a small hill, overlooking the other two—a medium sized chapel, and the huge Basilica.
Grateful for having listened to Eduardo’s advice, I arrived an hour early—at 7:00 a.m. sharp. The skies were still dark as I set foot on a large open square between the lower two churches. I had just enough time to do a little site seeing.
Even at this early hour, a Sunday morning Mass was already in session, so I confined my exploration to the entryway, remaining silent and reverent as I observed the devoted worshipers in this massive sanctuary.
Forty five minutes later, having barely had enough time to taste the unique flavor of the two lower churches, I began to slowly climb the small hill toward the upper chapel, step after step after step. As usual, I was slightly preoccupied with not wanting to be late—and as usual, I had a long wait in front of me.
The view from the top was gorgeous. The skies were no longer dark; the new sun was beginning to shine its warm glow. The beautiful architecture of churches below provided an interesting contrast to the sky-scraper filled skyline just coming into view in the distance.
Casually scanning my immediate vicinity, scrutinizing the groups of early morning tourists, I noticed two ladies wearing mostly white. They were all bundled up, one in a thick sweater and the other in a winter coat. I actually felt quite warm, but must have looked strangely out of place in my sleeveless white dress and crocs. Having been so accustomed to the always warm and muggy climate of Cozumel, the fact that Mexico City might require a jacket and long pants never even crossed my mind—well actually, that is not quite true. At 10:00 p.m., on the night before I left, a little internal voice urged me to pack my hiking shoes and one pair of long jeans. Luckily, I paid attention.
My shyness is still firmly rooted in my behavior. For a short while, I remained in the background, simply observing. Gradually, a few others dressed in white reached the top of the stairs. As they began to congregate with each other, I slowly inched my way over to join them.
I couldn’t say exactly how it happened, I’m not even sure who made the first introduction, but soon, I was hugging and kissing one person after the other, introducing myself to anyone who seemed interested in knowing my name. The number of “people in white” continued to grow, until eventually, there were almost fifty of us.
Of the group, only two (Antonio and Anna Louisa) attempted to communicate with me in English; both of them seemed to already be expecting me. At the last minute, Eduardo sent off an email to one of his friends, asking her to look after me—I just love Eduardo.
Bless his heart, Antonio partially took me under his wing, but he spoke English with such a thick accent that I had an extremely difficult time understanding him. Anna Louisa spoke English a little better, but she was very busy running the event.
Everyone was extremely friendly, but about the only things I could do effectively were hug, kiss (on the right cheek), smile, and say my name—along with a few other basic greetings and facts. For some unknown reason, my brain’s language center seemed to be taking the day off. Any conversation that deviated from the basics seemed to sound like mere gibberish.
Most everyone seemed to know each other and all were Spanish speaking natives—except for me, that is. Ages varied, appearing to be evenly spread between twenty-something up to around sixty. Women outnumbered by men by about a two-to-one margin. Except for their white clothing, the group seemed to be a typical mixture of the local culture.
As I observed these beautiful people chatting in small groups while joyfully reuniting with old friends, my old and shy self was screaming “Run away Brenda … who do you think you are … you don’t fit in here.”
My confident self just glowed from the inside, silently observing, taking it all in.
Three women were busy in a corner, starting charcoal fires in small metal goblets, preparing to add copal incense for their cleansing ceremonies.
Others were adjusting clothing, removing conch shells from their bags, making last minute preparations of all types. Gradually, I noticed that most everyone had wrapped a small read scarf around their forehead, tied securely with a small knot at the back of their head. Some were also wearing similar red sashes around their waists.
Eduardo had given me a heads up to be prepared with a red scarf, but I had put off my search till the last minute. Last night as I returned to my hotel, I had still not found one, and had all but given up. Then, just a block from my hotel, I spied a fabric store. In desperation, I bought a small remnant piece of red cotton fabric.
I laughed as I struggled in my hotel room, attempting to tear off a three-inch strip. I was not prepared with scissors, and the fabric seemed to be extremely rip-resistant. Finally—after considerable snipping with fingernail clippers, combined with tugging, and pulling—I had succeeded in my goal. “This will have to do.” I told myself, as I looked at the sorry excuse for a scarf, torn fraying edges and all.
As I looked around in the crowd, self consciousness consumed me. Everyone else’s scarves were beautiful. “I can’t wear my ragged, fraying piece of fabric.” I chided myself, feeling embarrassed to even let people know I had brought it.
Only at the last minute did I overcome my shame. “Get over it already!” I told myself, as I removed my makeshift scarf that was secretly hidden in my purse.
“No one here will judge me,” I reassured myself, “and I really do want to wear this.” Soon, my scarf was proudly in place, underneath my bangs, wrapped around just above my ears, and tied in the back. Minutes later, my self-consciousness had all but evaporated.
Excitement flowed through my veins as the ceremony finally began. We all gathered at one end of the small open area in front of the Capilla Del Cerrito. With most of us forming a large circle, Anna Louisa and about ten others gathered in the center. The three women with the copal incense began to cleanse the energy of the conch shells carried by the remainder of those in the center.
Energy surged through my spine when the Conch Shell horns first sounded. The powerful trumpet-like sound vibrations literally made my soul dance. Reminding me somewhat of Eduardo’s pre-Temazcal ceremony, we took turns facing in each of the four compass directions. Being totally directionally challenged, and language deaf, I had no idea which way was north or what was being said—but I felt the incredible peaceful energy—and that was all I needed to be content and happy.
As I looked around, my awareness peaked when I realized I had switched from being a tourist to instead being the object of other tourists. A large crowd of camera-wielding people quickly gathered. Many were video taping, observing everything with deep reverence. My heart simply smiled at this realization.
As we finished our initial ceremonies, the group from the center of the circle placed red scarves on the ground by the chapel, and reverently placed their incense goblets and conch shells resting on these scarves.
Having no idea what to expect, I simply observed and followed suit. Soon, the women formed one line, the men forming another. Single file, we silently streamed into the small chapel, pausing before the Catholic alter, bowing on one knee for a moment of meditation, then returning to standing.
Then our movements reversed. Everyone slowly began to walk backwards, not turning around until our feet were once again secure on the outside walkway.
The silent procession began immediately. With fragrant copal incense and the powerful sound of conch shells leading the way, we began our “caminata”, gradually descending the seeming-endless steps back down to the Basilica.
Maintaining our two lines, women on the left, and men on the right, we slowly passed through the large square in front of this massive church. As we neared the steps leading into the street below, I noted with humble appreciation, the approach of one devout believer. A thirty something man was inching his way toward the Basilica, in an upright position, but crawling on his knees.
Plaza De Tres Culturas
Prior to my leaving Cozumel, Eduardo explained that there are two sacred roads in Mexico City—one being a sacred masculine path, the other being the path of the sacred feminine.
Today’s march followed the path of the sacred feminine, from the Basilica De Guadelupe to a place called Tlatelolco. For approximately ninety minutes, we walked in beautiful peaceful silence—except of course for the beautiful trumpet-like sounding of the conch shells.
Surrounded on all sides by busy, noisy, hurrying traffic, I simply ignored the ambient distractions. After crossing a few intersections, I quickly recognized a pattern. One woman and one man were assuming the role of traffic cops. As we approached each intersection, these two assumed a position in the middle of the street and began loudly sounding their shells, peacefully signaling oncoming traffic of our presence. As soon as we were all clear, they strolled back toward the front of the lines, only to repeat the process again, and again.
Amazingly enough, I only remember three intersections in our several mile walk where the street lights did not line up in our favor—and then there was the marathon.
As we neared our destination, the area of Tlatelolco, a policeman signaled for us to all wait. Seconds later, a large truck passed by. On the rear of the flatbed truck were five or six television cameras, aimed directly at a group of runners following immediately behind. Putting two and two together, I deduced that I was witnessing the frontrunners in a marathon—a group of five or six runners all keeping pace with each other. For the next minute or so, the officer allowed us to hurry across the street in small groups, so as to not interfere with other approaching runners.
Still in complete silence, our group followed a sign that pointed to a place called “Plaza de Las Tres Culturas” (plaza of the three cultures). For at least a quarter of a mile, our path led us down a quiet sidewalk, away from the main roads. Minutes later, we emerged into a large football-field size plaza. On the far side was an ancient-looking dark-grey stone church. How I wish I had the time to enter and explore.
In the foreground, a group of fifteen or twenty youth played some unknown game using an American football. Seeming strangely out of place, their field was not a soft one where they could safely tumble and fall—it was solid concrete.
Our leaders led us single file, up onto the concrete field. As soon as we passed by the football-playing-youth, our group turned across the plaza. First we veered left, for perhaps thirty or forty feet. Then, our leaders veered to the right for a similar distance. Continuing in this manner, we zigzagged all the way across the width of the plaza, at one point passing quite closely to a large stone marker. Etched in stone, the beautiful memorial began (in Spanish) with, “To our companions who fell on October 2nd, 1968, in this plaza.”
Suddenly, I realized that I was in the very plaza where Regina had been killed. A sense of humble reverence settled filtered through my being as I came to this somber awareness.
Once we reached the far edge of the plaza, we followed a short metal fence back to our left, passing by a few old ruins—ruins of what I am not quite sure. I only know that they are sacred, because as we passed by we were told to throw our flowers on top of one structure. Being somewhat confused until it was too late, my bouquet ended up about ten feet away. Smiling, I easily forgave myself for being a language-confused novice.
What happened next was somewhat of a repeat from our beginning. Standing in a large circle, the shell horns again sounded as we repeated our ceremonial acknowledgment of the north, south, east, and west. Then, we held hands as Anna Louisa led the group in a few songs. The tunes were beautiful, and others seemed familiar with the words, but with my brain still on language shutdown, I simply inhaled the energy of the experience.
Shortly before 11:00 a.m., the ceremony came to an incredibly loving conclusion. The circle somehow split into two, with each rotating in opposite directions. One by one, we took the right hand of the person in front of us and kissed them on the right cheek. Then we switched and hugged from our left side—heart to heart. Most people were saying things like “Gracias, thank you for being here.” So I replied with similar words.
I am an avid hugger—I can hug with the best of them—but I always respond to the cues of the person I am embracing. Many of this morning’s hugs were simply acts of goodwill, but four or five of them were deep, the kind I cherish. As our bodies embraced, I also felt our souls connecting, sharing loving energy, unspoken heartfelt conversations of, “I know you … I love you more than you could know … Thank you for being here.”
Twenty minutes later, after a few snacks and continued visiting (during which I mostly observed), a small group of us set out for the subway. Antonio was so gracious in asking if I wanted to tag along. Having no idea what was coming next, I was just along for the ride.
Casa De Regina
I did not realize it at first, but our next destination was the home where Regina had lived for much of the six months before her death. On the second floor of a secluded hideaway near the Bosque de Chapultepec, Regina’s small bedroom was the sight or our meditation. In one corner was her humble bed, the same one where she slept 41 years ago. Barely big enough for about eight people at a time, those of us that made the trek fit perfectly in the tiny room.
Antonio later told me that if larger groups come, they take turns entering the room. The only thing I knew for sure going in was that the schedule given to me by Eduardo indicated that the meditation began at 11:00 a.m. and ended at 5:00 p.m..
As we began, I was prepared to be there for the long haul—having no idea what it would be like to meditate for such an extended period of time. Sitting on a hardwood floor, my buttocks and knees were not at all content, but I knew that somehow I would survive.
After an undetermined amount of time (I really have no idea—my watch was out of sight), Antonio quietly stood up and left the room. Gradually, a few others began to do the same. Then, two new men entered and joined us.
Still wondering what was going on, I continued to meditate in silence, occasionally glancing around to see who was still there. When I realized it was just me and the two new men, I too decided to follow the others, thinking “Perhaps there is something else I am missing.”
An overwhelming sense of peace accompanied me as I found Antonio in the hall and began conversing. “This is a personal meditation, for as long or short as you like.” He filled me in.
As the others gradually began to leave, several hours before I had expected, I too decided that I could use some lunch and some time to write. Finding my own way back to the nearest subway station, I was soon back in my hotel room, changing into something much more comfortable and less conspicuous—I loved my white dress, but could not exactly imagine myself blending in.
Peace still resonated through my heart as I began my next adventure.
People People Everywhere
Stuffing my laptop into my backpack, I set off to find a quiet place to write about today’s experiences. As I entered the plaza, I was greeted by huge crowds, cheering on runners as they pushed toward the end of their exhausting marathon.
Many of the runners, having already completed the race, were stretched out on the ground in all manner of positions, many of them appearing to be in considerable states of exhaustion and pain. Sadly, I noticed one runner lying on a stretcher, being administered oxygen. How anyone could run for more than twenty six miles is still beyond my imagination.
Passing through the Zocalo, I headed south, considering the possibility of visiting the “Museo de Bellas Artes” (Museum of Beautiful Arts)—a place that both Eduardo and Marcelino had highly recommended.
As I strolled through the streets, barriers had been set up making them for foot traffic only. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were scattered on every block, with intermittent gatherings around street performers of various genres. There were break dancers, acrobatic rope jumpers, organ grinders, violin/cello players, mimes, clowns, and just about everything else.
Tugging at my heart strings, I also walked by countless beggars, mothers with small toddlers, people missing arms or legs, and others who were simply down on their luck.
As I neared the museum, the crowds simply expanded. A major art exhibit was in town, and a line of people extended outside for hundreds of feet. Passing on the museum, I opted to take a “casual” stroll through a large adjacent park.
Did I say casual? Everywhere I walked, there were people, rows of street vendors, loud rumblings of conflicting music, and boisterous talking.
The experience was fascinating, but I realized there was no way I would be writing in this park—mainly because there was no place to sit.
As I walked away, headed back toward the Zocalo, a powerful thought streamed through my consciousness. “One reason you are here, Brenda, is to learn how to find peace and quiet in the midst of seeming chaos.”
With that awareness implanted in my mind, I slowed down, took deeper breaths, and focused on the now. “I am one with all of this.” I reminded myself. “I can find deep peace in connecting with each and every soul here.”
Minutes later, a large parade approached from the south. Sitting on the curb to rest, I observed in amazement. The street in front of me was wide, perhaps one hundred and fifty feet or more. As the marching people neared, they were packed in from one side of the street to the other, shouting loud angry phrases in unison. Signs indicated that they were there in support of the Electrical Workers Union—protesting against the government.
Expecting the parade to end any minute, the angry marchers just kept coming. After thirty minutes I stood up and left, wondering if the end would ever arrive. There must have been many thousands of protestors—the same ones who ended up rallying in front of the Palacio Nacional a short while later.
By now, my feet were killing me, and my heart was eager to write. The Cathedral was calling my name again, not necessarily as a private place, but one where I could sit down, feel peace, and write—all at the same time.
As I made my way back through the unending hoards of people, peace was my constant companion. As I lovingly followed my heart, that short six blocks took me ninety minutes. First, another English student singled me out for a practice session. Almost immediately, a local man engaged me in a long drawn out request for assistance. As that conversation came to a conclusion, who should appear in this crowd of thousands but my new friend from yesterday: Marcelino.
Marcelino insisted on giving me a personal tour of a few local historical buildings before allowing me to continue my journey toward writing and rest.
As I complete my day, more than seventeen hours after it began, I am exhausted but energized at the same time. Who would have thought I could find so much peace in the midst of such seeming chaos.
Copyright © 2009 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved